The Last Lantern

In the autumn of 2014, my job as a quality auditor for a hospitality chain took me to a remote lodge nestled at the edge of a sprawling tiger reserve in central India. The property, named ‘Sal Grove,’ was a converted colonial-era forest rest house, surrounded by dense teak and sal trees. The nearest village was twenty kilometers away, and the only access was a winding, unpaved road that became a muddy mess after every rain. The lodge had a reputation among the staff for being ‘quiet’—which was corporate speak for ‘haunted,’ though management strictly forbade any such talk.

I arrived late in the evening, after a harrowing drive through the dark. The reception was manned by a single bellboy, an old man named Raghu, who took my bags with trembling hands. He led me to the main building, a long, low structure with a veranda that faced a vast, moonlit lawn. The lights inside flickered, and Raghu muttered an apology about ‘generator issues,’ even though the property had a backup. He gave me a key to Room 12, at the end of the corridor, and hastily retreated.

My room was spacious but spartan, with heavy wooden furniture and a musty smell. The windows looked out onto a dense thicket of trees that seemed to press against the glass. I unpacked and decided to grab a late dinner in the empty dining hall. The only other person there was the chef, a silent man who served me dal and rice without a word. As I ate, I noticed the lights outside dimming periodically, as if something was passing between the lamps and the building. I dismissed it as wildlife.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves or the distant cry of an animal. Around 2 AM, I heard a sound that made my blood run cold: a faint, rhythmic tapping on my door. It was slow, deliberate, like knuckles on wood. I sat up, heart pounding, listening. The tapping stopped, then resumed, this time accompanied by a low, guttural breath. I crept to the door and peered through the peephole—nothing. I opened the door a crack, and the corridor was empty, dimly lit by a single bulb at the far end. But as I closed the door, I saw a shadow dart across the floor at the end of the corridor, too fast for any animal.

The next morning, I mentioned the incident to the manager, a portly man named Mr. Iyer. He laughed nervously and said, ‘Probably a monkey or a civet. They roam freely here.’ But his eyes betrayed him—he glanced away and changed the subject. I decided to investigate on my own, and I began asking the staff discreetly. A young housekeeper, Meera, finally broke down and told me. She said that a few years ago, a guest had died in that room—a woman who had gone missing in the forest and was found days later, disoriented, with no memory of what happened. She passed away in her sleep a week later. Since then, guests have reported hearing tapping, or seeing a figure that vanished when approached. Management had tried everything—prayers, rituals, even sealing the room for a while—but the phenomena continued. Meera warned me not to sleep with the window open.

Intrigued and unsettled, I decided to test the story. That evening, I left a voice recorder running by my bed and set up my phone to record the door. Again, around 2 AM, the tapping came. This time, I opened the door quickly, and I saw a fleeting shape disappear around the corner, too quick to identify. My recorder picked up nothing but static, but my phone captured a curious thing: a faint, greenish glow emanating from the direction of the forest, just outside my window. I looked outside, and there it was—a small lantern swinging from a branch, though there was no breeze. It pulsed with a sickly light, and then went out.

I pulled on my jacket and went outside. The forest was pitch black, but I thought I saw a path leading to where the lantern had been. I walked, guided by my flashlight, until I reached a clearing. In the center stood an old, weathered stone well, overgrown with moss. On the edge hung a rusty oil lantern—the same one I’d seen from my window. It was cold, but the glass was still warm. A cold dread seized me as I realized something: the woman who died had been found near this very well, and the lantern was her last possession, left behind when she was rescued. The tapping on my door, the shadow, the lantern—it all pointed to a restless spirit trying to communicate.

I returned to my room, my mind racing. I didn’t sleep the rest of the night. In the morning, I told Mr. Iyer I was leaving early, citing a family emergency. As I packed, Meera handed me a small, folded paper. ‘From the well,’ she whispered. I opened it later in my car: a crude drawing of a woman with long hair, and the words ‘Help me.’ I never visited that place again, and I quit my job soon after. But sometimes, at night, I still see that swaying lantern, and I hear the tap-tap-tapping at my door, as if the forest itself is trying to remember me.