The Last Lantern

The rain had been falling since noon, a steady, mournful drumbeat on the tin roof of the old farmhouse. I was seventeen, and my grandmother, whom we called Lola Ising, had passed three days ago. Her wake was held in the front parlor, where the air was thick with the scent of lilies and damp earth. The whole family had rotated in shifts, murmuring prayers and sharing stories, but now, on the third night, most had gone home to rest. Only my cousin and I remained, along with the silent, waxen figure in the casket.

We were supposed to stay up for the final night, but the weight of impending graduation had loosened our sense of duty. We had sneaked out to the barn with some friends, sharing a bottle of cheap rum we’d bought from the town’s only sari-sari store. The laughter was forced, the jokes hollow, and when midnight struck, my cousin Ramil and I found ourselves walking back to the house, our footsteps sloshing in the mud. The house stood dark against the bruised sky, the porch light flickering like a dying firefly.

As we entered, the silence was heavier than the storm. We paused in the kitchen, dripping onto the floor. Ramil, trying to lighten the mood, said, ‘Remember the old stories about Lola? How she used to say the dead come back on the third night to say goodbye?’ I laughed, but it was thin. I decided to play a prank to settle my nerves. I crept to the wall switch, and with a theatrical flourish, I plunged the house into darkness. Ramil’s laugh echoed in the black, but then it stopped abruptly. I felt a cold draft, as if a door had opened somewhere. My skin prickled. I fumbled for the switch and flicked it on.

Light flooded the room. Ramil stood by the doorway, his face pale, his eyes wide. He wasn’t looking at me; he was looking past me, toward the corridor that led to the parlor. I turned, and my breath caught. The parlor door, which had been closed, now stood ajar, and a faint, flickering glow emitted from within—not the steady electric light, but the warm, wavering light of a kerosene lamp. The kind my grandmother used during power outages, the one she kept on the altar near the family photos. We had not lit it all week.

‘Did you…?’ I started, but Ramil shook his head, his mouth a tight line. We moved together, our steps hesitant, our hearts pounding in unison. As we approached, the glow seeped out, casting long shadows on the floor. Through the gap, I saw the casket, its lid still closed, but on the table beside it, the old brass lamp was lit, its flame dancing as if a breath had just passed over it. And then, I heard it: a soft, rhythmic creak, like floorboards settling, but with a rhythm too deliberate to be natural.

We entered the parlor, the air strangely warm. The lamp flickered, and for a moment, the shadows on the walls seemed to coalesce into a shape—a hunched figure, arms outstretched like a woman embracing a child. Ramil whispered, ‘Is that…?’ I couldn’t answer. The lamp blew out, plunging us into darkness. I fumbled for the wall switch, but when I pressed it, nothing happened. The power was out. A low, rasping sigh filled the room, and the curtains billowed as if a great gust had swept through, though the windows were shut.

Terror seized us. I grabbed Ramil’s arm, and we sprinted up the stairs, our footsteps thunderous on the wooden steps. We reached my room, slammed the door, and locked it. I threw my back against it, panting. Ramil was shaking. ‘She’s saying goodbye,’ he managed, his voice cracking. ‘You heard her, right?’ I had heard something, but I couldn’t put words to it.

Then, the wind began to howl outside, and I noticed the window was open. The curtains flapped wildly, and a cold gust hit us. I moved to shut it, but as I reached the frame, the wind stopped abruptly. The silence was absolute. I closed the window and turned around. The room was empty. Ramil was gone. The door was still locked from the inside. I called his name, but no answer. I felt a presence behind me, a warmth against my back, and a voice, soft and familiar, the way Lola Ising used to speak when she was soothing me from a nightmare, whispered, ‘Don’t be afraid. I’m just making sure you both said your goodbyes.’

I spun around, but there was nothing. And then, from outside, I heard Ramil’s voice, faint but clear, as if from far away: ‘Kuya, I’m in the parlor. Come down.’ I froze. The parlor was directly below, and he had been beside me seconds ago. I descended the stairs slowly, my hand on the rail. The front door was open, rain splashing inside. The parlor light was on now, harsh and electric. Ramil was standing over the casket, his back to me. He turned, and his face was calm, but his eyes were glassy. ‘She said she forgot to say goodbye to you,’ he said. ‘She’s waiting for you.’

I looked at the casket. The lid was open now. Inside was not my grandmother’s body, but a mirror reflecting my own face, aged, gaunt, and hollow-eyed. And behind my reflection, a dim silhouette that my mind refused to recognize. The mirror rippled, and I heard a voice, not in words but in pure feeling, say, ‘You never said goodbye, so I’m taking you with me.’ I tried to scream, but no sound came, and the mirror in the casket reached out, its edges dissolving into millions of tiny silver threads, wrapping around me, pulling me forward.

I woke up on the floor of my room, the morning sun streaming through the window. Ramil was asleep in the corner, curled up like a child. The house was quiet. The casket was closed, and the lamp on the altar was unlit. I never spoke of what happened that night, and neither did he. But sometimes, when the rain falls and the wind howls, I find myself staring at the family altar, and the lamp seems to flicker with no flame, and I know that some farewells are never truly said, and some souls choose not to leave at all.