The Last Lantern of Kudremukh

The memory of that week still clings to me like damp mist, even after all these years. It was during a break from my grueling urban routine that my friend Rohan suggested a getaway to the Kudremukh hills in Karnataka. I agreed, craving the cool air and quiet valleys. We planned a five-day trek, but Rohan had a detour in mind: a village called Kalasa, nestled near the forests, where his old school friend, Vikram, lived.

Vikram’s home was a weathered stone cottage on a steep slope, surrounded by dense, dark woods. The only access was a winding, narrow path that seemed to swallow the evening light. When we arrived, the sky was already bruised with twilight. Vikram, a lean man with eyes that seemed to hold secrets, welcomed us with a tight smile. His grandmother, a frail woman with parchment skin, sat by a low fire, her gaze fixed on the flames as if listening to something we couldn’t hear. The cottage had only two rooms, and the air was thick with the smell of woodsmoke and damp earth.

That first night, we played cards by the light of a single lantern. The wind howled around the corners of the house, and occasionally, a branch would scrape against the window like a fingernail. Vikram was quiet, but his grandmother suddenly spoke in a raspy voice, ‘You should not have come. The forest is restless tonight.’ We laughed nervously, but Rohan and I exchanged a glance. At 11pm, as we were about to sleep, the lantern flickered and died. Vikram laughed, saying, ‘The generator is old. I’ll fix it tomorrow.’ But I noticed his hands were shaking.

That night, I woke to a faint scratching sound from beneath the floorboards. It was rhythmic, like nails dragging across wood. I told myself it was rats, but the sound grew louder, more deliberate. I saw Rohan’s silhouette in the dim moonlight, sitting up in his bed, whispering, ‘Did you hear that?’ Before I could answer, the scratching stopped, and a deep, resonant hum filled the room, as if the very hill was humming. Then, as suddenly as it began, silence returned. We lay awake until dawn, listening to the wind.

Morning came with a pale sun that struggled to pierce the heavy canopy. Vikram offered to take us to a nearby waterfall, but as we walked, the forest seemed to change. The trees twisted in unnatural shapes, and the path we followed was not the one we had come on. Vikram’s grandmother had warned us to stay on the main track, but Vikram insisted he knew a shortcut. After an hour of walking, we realized we were lost. The air had grown cold, and the sounds of birds had ceased. Vikram’s face was pale. ‘This is not the way,’ he murmured.

We stumbled upon an old, abandoned shrine half-swallowed by moss. Its stone walls were covered with carvings of figures with elongated limbs and hollow eyes. In the center, a pedestal held a rusted iron bell. Vikram’s grandmother had spoken of a legend: a spirit called ‘The Lantern Bearer’ who haunted these woods, guiding lost souls to their doom. Vikram now told us that his village had a ritual to appease this spirit by lighting a lantern at the shrine every new moon. But the caretaker had died years ago, and no one had dared to come since. As we stared at the bell, a low hum began, vibrating through the ground, and the bell started to ring on its own, a single, mournful clang.

We ran blindly through the undergrowth, branches whipping our faces. The hill seemed to shift beneath our feet, and the sky darkened unnaturally. We broke into a clearing and saw the cottage ahead, but it looked different. The windows were dark, and the door was ajar. Inside, Vikram’s grandmother was standing at the hearth, her back to us. She turned slowly, and her eyes were no longer human. They were black, bottomless pits. She spoke in a voice that was not her own: ‘You have disturbed the Lantern Bearer. Now you must take the light.’

She gestured to a shelf where a small, brass lantern sat, its glass cracked and blackened. Vikram recoiled, shaking his head. ‘No, no, it’s a curse. Whoever lights it becomes the next bearer.’ But his grandmother advanced, and we could see that her feet did not touch the floor. She floated toward us, her mouth opening in a silent scream. We grabbed the lantern and fled into the night, but the forest was a maze. We stumbled for hours, the hum growing louder, until we collapsed at dawn on a highway, disoriented and covered in scratches. A truck driver found us and took us to a town. We never spoke of that night to anyone.

I still have the lantern. It sits on my desk at home, its glass repaired but its flame never lit. I’ve tried to throw it away, but it always reappears. And every night, at exactly 11pm, I hear that faint, rhythmic scratching from the closet, and I know the Lantern Bearer is still waiting for me to light it.