The Paper Lantern Festival

In the autumn of 2019, I was housesitting for my aunt in the sleepy town of Millbrook. She had a two-story Victorian with a clawfoot tub, a luxury I didn’t have in my cramped city studio. My aunt was on a month-long cruise, and I had the place to myself. The first week was blissful silence. On the second Friday, I decided to indulge in a long soak.

I filled the tub with steaming water, adding a handful of lavender salts. The bathroom was a relic of another era: flaking paint, a cracked mirror, and a window overlooking the overgrown backyard. I slipped into the water and let my mind drift. The only light came from a flickering candle on the windowsill. I was staring at the ceiling, tracing the water stains, when a shadow crossed the far wall—a dark, human-shaped form that moved with unnatural speed, slipping behind the toilet and vanishing. My heart lurched. I sat up, splashing water, and strained to see. The room was still. The window was closed, the curtain unmoving. I told myself it was a trick of the candlelight, but the unease lingered.

I finished my bath quickly and wrapped myself in a towel. As I reached for the doorknob, I noticed a faint, warm odor—like burnt sugar and cloves. I dismissed it and went to bed, but sleep was elusive. The next morning, I mentioned the shadow to a neighbor, old Mr. Hargrove, who was tending his roses. He frowned and said, ‘That house has always had its quirks. They say a family died there in the ’50s—a fire. But you’re not the first to see things. My wife saw a woman in a yellow dress in that bathroom once. She never went back in.’ I laughed nervously, but his words stuck with me.

A week later, I had a second encounter. It was past midnight, and I was brushing my teeth, the bathroom lit only by the nightlight. My reflection wavered in the cracked mirror, and behind it, a face emerged—a woman with hollow eyes and a gaping mouth, her skin like charred paper. She pressed against the glass, and I felt a cold breath on my neck. I spun around, but nothing was there. The candle I had lit earlier flickered and died. Then, from the corner, came a whispering voice, barely audible: ‘We’re waiting.’ I fled to the living room and didn’t sleep that night.

I called my aunt the next day, hoping for reassurance. She said, ‘Oh, I meant to tell you about the ghosts. They’ve been there for years. They’re harmless, I think. They just want to be remembered. Their names were Alice and Edgar. They died in a fire during the Paper Lantern Festival. They were trying to light a lantern, but the oil spilled. The poor things. They might be stuck.’ My blood ran cold. How could she have known? I hadn’t mentioned the shadow or the woman. I asked her why she didn’t warn me, and she said, ‘I didn’t want to scare you. And they’re not dangerous—they just like the bathroom because of the bathtub. They used to bathe their daughter there.’

That evening, I gathered my courage and went back to the bathroom. I filled the tub again and sat on the edge. I spoke aloud, ‘I know you’re here. I’m sorry about what happened. Is there something you need?’ The air grew still. The candle flame bent toward the window, as if a breeze had passed. A soft cry echoed, like a child’s, and then a whisper: ‘Her locket. We need her locket.’ I looked around, and my eyes caught a glint on the windowsill—a tarnished silver locket, half hidden behind the drape. I picked it up. It was cold and heavy. I opened it, and inside was a faded photograph of a young girl with a gap-toothed smile. The locket’s chain was broken.

I placed the locket on the floor and said, ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t know where the daughter is. Maybe this will help you rest.’ The candle flickered once, and the presence seemed to recede. That night, I dreamed of a woman and a man in period clothing, standing in a field of paper lanterns. They smiled, and then they faded into starlight. I woke with a sense of peace.

The next morning, I packed my things and left. I never stayed in that house again. But sometimes, at dusk, I catch the faint scent of burnt sugar and cloves, and I wonder if they found what they were looking for. I still have the locket. I keep it in a drawer, wrapped in a velvet cloth. I don’t know why I kept it, but it feels like a promise—that even the restless dead deserve a little compassion.