The Last Lantern of Luntian Ridge

My name is Mina Reyes, and I am twenty-three now, but this happened when I was six, during a summer in the province of Batangas. My parents and I lived in Quezon City, but every school break, we would visit my Lolo Tomas and Lola Ising in their remote nipa hut perched on the edge of Luntian Ridge. The ridge was a place where the forest swallowed the sky, and the only way up was a narrow, rocky path that even the most determined motorcycle couldn’t climb. We had to walk the last twenty minutes, through the thick, elephant-ear leaves and the constant chitter of insects.

Lolo Tomas was a quiet man, but he had a gentle smile that made me feel safe. He would take me on long walks along the ridge, pointing out birds and telling me the names of every plant. Our favorite spot was an old, twisted acacia tree that overlooked a valley of coconut palms. He called it his ‘thinking tree’, and we would sit under its shade, eating ripe mangoes he had hidden in his straw hat. ‘Mina,’ he would say, ‘this land remembers everything. You just have to watch and listen.’

It was a humid afternoon in late May when I first noticed something odd. Lolo had gone to the river to fetch water, and Lola was in the kitchen, pounding rice. I was playing with the chickens near the back of the house when I heard a soft, rhythmic tapping, like a branch knocking against a window. But the house had no window at the back, just a wall of woven bamboo. Curious, I crept around the side, and there, at the edge of the clearing, stood a figure. It was a girl about my age, wearing a white dress that seemed too clean for the dusty trail. Her hair was long and black, and her face was as pale as the belly of a frog. She didn’t move, just stared at me with eyes that seemed too big. I tried to call out to Lola, but my voice stuck in my throat. The girl smiled, but it was a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Then she turned and walked into the thick bushes, vanishing as if she had never been.

That evening, I told Lolo about the girl. He was slicing fish for dinner, but his hand stopped mid-air. He put down the knife and looked at me, his face serious. ‘Mina, did you see her clearly?’ he asked. I nodded. ‘She wore white, and her hair was long.’ Lolo sighed, and his eyes darted to the wall as if he expected someone to be listening. ‘That, my dear, is the Uwan. A spirit of the ridge. They only appear to children, and if you follow them, they’ll lead you to the bottomless pit behind the acacia tree. Many years ago, a girl named Rosa used to live on the next hill. She went to fetch water one day and never came back. They searched the whole forest, but they only found her small, muddy slipper near the pit. Since then, some say she still plays among the trees, but she’s not truly alive. She’s a hunger that pulls little ones to her.’ I felt a cold shiver run down my spine, but Lolo hugged me. ‘Don’t worry. As long as you stay close to the house and never go into the forest alone, she can’t touch you. And if you ever see her again, don’t look into her eyes, and don’t ever follow her.’

The next morning, I was in the garden picking string beans for lunch. I heard that same soft tapping, this time from the mango tree by the well. I turned, and there she was again, the girl in white, now standing among the weeds. She was holding out her hand, and in her palm was a small, white stone that seemed to glow faintly. I remembered Lolo’s warning and looked away, but my feet seemed to move on their own, taking a step toward her. I bit my lip hard, and the pain snapped me out of it. I ran into the house, slamming the door, and hid under the table until I heard Lola’s voice. Lolo was right; I had to be careful.

A few days later, my parents had to return to Manila for work, but they decided to leave me with my grandparents for another week. The night before they left, I had a dream. I was standing at the edge of the bottomless pit, and the girl was there, no longer in white but in a dress covered in green slime. Her eyes were black, and her mouth hung open as if she were screaming underwater. She reached out to me, and I woke up screaming. Lolo ran into my room and held me until I stopped shaking. ‘Mina, you must never go near that pit, not even in your dreams,’ he said. ‘She is strongest there.’

On the day of my parents’ departure, I walked them to the main road with Lolo. As we said goodbye, my mother hugged me tightly. ‘Be a good girl, and listen to Lolo and Lola.’ I promised I would. As they disappeared down the winding path, I looked back at the forest, and there she was, standing between two large ferns, watching me. I clutched Lolo’s hand, and he squeezed back. ‘She’s just curious,’ he said, but his voice was tense.

That afternoon, I decided to prove I wasn’t afraid. I was helping Lola wash clothes in the stream that ran behind the house, but we had to go back inside because it started to rain. The rain came down in sheets, and the wind howled through the trees. I was bored, so I wandered to the front porch. And there, on the steps, lay the white stone I had seen her holding. It was smooth, and it pulsed with a cold energy. I picked it up before I could stop myself. It felt like ice. I quickly dropped it, and it rolled down the steps, disappearing into the mud. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about the stone, and the image of the girl’s hand holding it out to me.

The next morning, the rain had stopped, and the forest was dripping. Lolo had gone to a neighboring village to trade vegetables, so it was just Lola and me. I decided to go to the outhouse, which was a small wooden shed about fifty meters from the house, half-hidden by banana plants. The path was slippery, and I held onto the bamboo railing. As I came back, I heard a faint whimper, like a child crying. It was coming from the direction of the acacia tree. I knew I shouldn’t go, but the sound was so pitiful that my heart ached. I took a few steps, and the crying grew louder. I saw a flash of white between the trees. I stopped. ‘I’m not going to follow you,’ I said out loud. The crying stopped. The silence was worse. Then I heard a voice, soft and sweet, like bells. ‘Mina… come play with me.’ It was the girl’s voice. It sounded so friendly, so innocent. But I remembered Lolo’s words. I ran back to the house, my heart pounding.

When Lolo came home, I told him about the stone and the voice. He turned pale. ‘We must leave tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Before the moon rises, we go to the city.’ But the universe had other plans. That evening, Lolo developed a high fever. He was shivering and muttering in his sleep. Lola said it was a bad fever, and we couldn’t travel. She made him an herbal tea and bathed his forehead. I sat at his bedside, holding his hand. He opened his eyes for a moment. ‘Mina, the lantern,’ he whispered. ‘The old lantern in the storeroom. Bring it to the front of the house tonight, and light it.’ I was confused, but I obeyed. I found a rusty, glass lantern covered in cobwebs. I cleaned it and took it to the porch. At dusk, I lit it, and the flame cast a warm, yellow glow that pushed back the deepening shadows.

Night fell, and the forest became a chorus of strange noises. Lola fell asleep beside Lolo, exhausted. I was alone on the porch, watching the lantern. The wind died, and the trees seemed to lean in. Then I saw her. She was at the edge of the clearing, not in white, but in a tattered, gray dress. She looked thin, and her skin was almost translucent. She was holding the white stone again. She didn’t say anything, just stared at the lantern. I remembered a story Lolo once told me about lanterns and spirits. A lantern’s flame was a foolhardy soul that could mock the dead, or it could be a beacon. I held my breath. The girl took a step forward, then another. She stopped just outside the circle of light. She looked at me with those dark, empty eyes, and then she opened her mouth. A wail came out, not a child’s cry, but the sound of wind through a cave, echoing. It hurt my ears, and the lantern flickered. I grabbed it with both hands, and the flame stabilized.

The girl lowered her head, and it seemed like she was crying. I don’t know why, but I felt a pang of pity. I said, ‘Go away. You’re not welcome here.’ She looked up, and a tear of black liquid ran down her cheek. Then she turned and walked back into the forest, dissolving like mist. The lantern flame dimmed, then sputtered out. Suddenly, the night was black again, and I was trembling.

The next day, Lolo’s fever broke. He was weak but able to sit up. He thanked me, saying the lantern had kept me safe. ‘She was trying to cross over,’ he said. ‘But the light confused her. It made her remember what she lost.’ We left the ridge within the week, and I never returned to that place. Years later, I learned that the mountain was developed, and the forest was cut down. The acacia tree and the pit are gone. But sometimes, in the deepest part of the night, I still hear that soft, rhythmic tapping, and I feel a cold stone in my palm. And I wonder if, wherever I am, she is still waiting, watching for a chance to take another child. But now, I know how to light the lantern.
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