The Paper Lantern

The night was thick with the hum of the house settling, a sound that had become familiar over the years since we moved into the old Victorian. My mother and I were the only ones awake, my father having turned in early for his shift at the mill. We decided to set up camp in my room, the glow of my laptop casting dancing shadows on the walls as we watched a series about coastal towns and their secrets.

It was around half past one when I felt my mother tense beside me. I turned to see her staring at the floor, her face pale. ‘What is it?’ I asked, my voice dropping to a whisper. She pointed without a word. On the hardwood, right at the foot of my bed, was a small origami crane, but it was made of what looked like black silk, absorbing the light.

We had never owned anything like that. I picked it up, expecting it to be light, but it was surprisingly heavy, as if filled with sand. The paper was warm to the touch. My mother shook her head. ‘Put it down, Lena,’ she said, her voice strained. I obeyed, placing it on my nightstand. We tried to continue watching, but our attention was fractured.

Then, we heard it—a soft tap at the window. My room faced the backyard, which was overgrown with weeds and a dying oak. The tap came again, more insistent. I drew the curtain aside, and there, perched on the sill, was another black crane, its beak tapping the glass. I froze. My mother came up behind me, and we both watched as the crane turned its head, as if gazing at us, then unfolded itself, transforming into a piece of paper with faint writing on it.

My mother pressed her face to the glass. ‘It says, “Let me in.”‘ She stepped back, pulling me with her. We didn’t open the window. Instead, we moved to the living room, trying to escape, but the lights flickered. Every time they dimmed, we saw more cranes—on the mantel, on the sofa cushions, even dangling from the ceiling fan like monstrous mobiles.

I grabbed my phone to call my father, but the screen showed a black crane as the wallpaper, and the call button wouldn’t respond. I dropped it. My mother was at the front door, checking the lock, and I saw a shadow pass under the doorframe—a sliver of darkness that slid into the room like oil. She screamed, and I ran to her, but the shadow coalesced into a figure, tall and thin, with long arms ending in fingers like twisted roots.

It wore the skin of my father, but his eyes were voids. It spoke in his voice, but the words were borrowed. ‘The lantern needs fuel,’ it said. ‘You must provide the light.’ I looked around, and on the coffee table was a paper lantern, the kind you release at festivals, but it was black and covered in scripture-like symbols. The figure gestured, and the front door swung open, revealing a night that was wrong—stars arranged in patterns I didn’t recognize.

We ran, but not out. We ran upstairs, barricading ourselves in my parents’ bedroom. The cranes followed, sliding under the door. We could hear the figure shuffling outside, and then, a sharp knock. ‘Let me in,’ it said, in a melodic, almost gentle tone. My mother clutched a crucifix, but it did no good. The door began to splinter, and the room grew cold.

I spotted an old photo album on the shelf, and on a whim, I pulled out a picture of my grandmother, who had told me stories about the old country. In the photo, she was holding a paper lantern, and behind her was a figure that looked exactly like the one outside. I tore off a corner of the photo and threw it at the door. The paper caught fire, burning with a blue flame, and the figure outside let out a hiss. It retreated, and the cranes scattered.

When the sun finally crept through the curtains, we were alone. The lantern was gone, and the cranes had vanished. But on my nightstand, in place of the first crane, there was a note written in ink that looked like dried blood: ‘The lantern is patient. It feeds on memory.’

We never spoke of that night, and we sold the house a month later. But sometimes, when I close my eyes, I see that figure wearing my father’s face, and I wonder if it found another family to haunt—another home where the lights flicker and paper creatures tap at the windows, waiting for their lantern to be lit again.