The Last Lantern

I had always been the one in the family who felt things others couldn’t. Not ghosts, not spirits, but the weight of unspoken fears, the texture of a room’s mood. So when my grandmother, Amma, called from the old family home in Kodaikanal to say she couldn’t make the annual temple pilgrimage because my grandfather, Thatha, was too frail to be left alone, I felt a cold knot tighten in my chest. It wasn’t just disappointment; it was a sense of something wrong, something hidden beneath her gentle words.

I lived in Chennai, and the distance had never felt so vast. My father, a pragmatic man who believed in logic over premonitions, agreed to drive me up the winding hills to bring Thatha back to our city home. He said it was the least we could do, to let Amma have her trip. But as we climbed the ghats, the air grew thin and cool, and the jungle pressed in on both sides, thick with a silence that felt watchful.

The house itself was a relic, a colonial-era bungalow with creaking wooden floors and a veranda that overlooked a misty valley. Thatha sat in his usual chair, a thin blanket over his knees, his eyes milky with age. He smiled when he saw me, a warm, familiar smile that eased some of my unease. ‘You’ve come for me,’ he said, his voice a dry rustle. ‘Good. The hills are restless tonight.’

The drive back was uneventful, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were being followed. I kept glancing at the rearview mirror, expecting to see headlights, but the road behind was empty. Thatha dozed in the back seat, and my father hummed an old film song, oblivious to my growing dread.

At home, we settled Thatha into the guest room, which had a window facing the small garden my mother tended. That first night, I woke to a faint scratching sound, like dry leaves skittering across a floor. I listened, but it stopped. I chided myself for being jumpy, a city girl unused to the hill’s noises.

The next morning, Thatha was cheerful, chatting with my mother over breakfast. But when I brought him his afternoon tea, I noticed his hands trembled more than usual, and his gaze kept drifting to the window. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘in the hills, they light lanterns to guide the souls of the lost. But some souls don’t want to be found.’

That night, the scratching returned, louder this time, and it was coming from the hallway outside the guest room. I crept to the door and peered through the crack. The hallway was dark, but at the far end, near the staircase, I saw a faint, flickering glow, like a candle flame. It moved, unhurried, as if carried by someone unseen. I froze, my breath caught in my throat. The glow vanished, and the scratching ceased.

I told my father the next morning, but he dismissed it as a draft or maybe a rat. My mother, though, grew quiet and exchanged a look with Thatha that I couldn’t decipher. It was then that I started to notice things about Thatha, small impossible things. When he slept, his breathing would sometimes stop completely for a full minute before starting again. And once, when I touched his hand, it was cold, as if he’d been holding ice.

One evening, my father had to work late, and my mother went to a neighbor’s. Thatha and I were alone. He asked me to bring him the old brass lantern from the attic, the one that had belonged to his father. I found it, dusty and tarnished, and when I lit the candle inside, the flame burned with an eerie blue-white light. Thatha smiled and said, ‘Now we can see where they are.’

I asked him what he meant, but he only shook his head. The lantern’s flame flickered, and I could have sworn I saw shapes moving in the shadows cast on the wall—tall, thin figures that bent and swayed like grass in a wind. When I blinked, they were gone.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in my bed, listening to the house settle. At around 3 a.m., I heard a door creak open downstairs. It was the front door. I slipped out of bed and tiptoed to the top of the stairs. Below, in the dim glow of the nightlight, I saw Thatha standing at the threshold, dressed in his white nightclothes, the brass lantern in his hand. He was talking, but not to anyone I could see. His voice was low and melodic, as if he were singing a lullaby to a child.

‘Who are you talking to?’ I called out. He turned to face me, but his eyes didn’t focus on me; they looked past me, into the darkness behind. ‘I’m saying goodbye,’ he said, and then he stepped outside, closing the door behind him.

I ran downstairs, my heart pounding. I yanked the door open, but the porch was empty. The garden was still, bathed in moonlight. Panic seized me, and I ran out, calling his name. But there was no answer.

At the edge of the garden, where the lawn met the dense forest, I saw the faint glow of the lantern, bobbing among the trees. Without thinking, I ran after it, my bare feet slipping on the damp grass. The glow moved deeper into the woods, always staying just ahead. I called for Thatha, but the only response was the rustle of leaves.

Eventually, I found myself in a small clearing, where a circle of old stone lanterns stood, moss-covered and dark. At the center, Thatha’s brass lantern lay on the ground, its flame extinguished. But Thatha was nowhere.

I knelt and picked up the lantern. It was warm, as if just put down. Distant, I heard a sound that made my blood run cold: a faint, rhythmic ticking, like a clock, but wrong—soft and deliberate. It seemed to come from inside the lantern.

I don’t remember returning home. I found my parents frantic, having called the police. They searched the hills for days, but Thatha was never found. They concluded he must have wandered off and succumbed to the elements, but I knew better.

When they finally cleared his belongings, I found a diary in the attic. In it, Thatha had written about a promise he made long ago during a war, in a village far away. He had seen something unspeakable, and to save his own life, he had agreed to take the place of the dead, to become a lantern bearer for lost souls. But the time had come for him to fulfill his duty, and he had to go to the hill where the lantern always burns, to light the way for others.

The last entry read: ‘I hope she understands. I loved her.’ The handwriting stopped.

Now, sometimes, when the wind is just right, I think I hear that ticking sound again, coming from the forest near our home. I’ve never told anyone, but I go to the edge of the woods sometimes, carrying a lantern of my own. I don’t know if I’m waiting for Thatha to come back, or if I’m listening for the call. But part of me knows that one day, the lantern will light itself, and I will follow it into the dark, because maybe I was meant to carry it next.