The Path of the Red Lanterns

It was the fourth time I’d joined a group hike, and unlike my previous solo ventures, this one was a crowd: sixteen of us, with me as the only woman. The others were a mix of veterans I’d met on other trails and a few newcomers. We’d chosen the Twin Peaks in the northern part of the country, a pair of mountains that were joined by a saddle, known locally as the ‘Gateway of Echoes.’ The locals told tales of weird lights and sounds, but we were a seasoned bunch, and we laughed them off.

Our guide, an old man named Mang Lito, insisted we carry red lanterns. ‘They keep away the spirits that wander the dark,’ he said, his eyes serious. I thought it was superstition, but I complied, as did the others, mostly to humor him. We started our ascent at dawn, the trail winding through dense forest that smelled of damp earth and pine. By midday, we hit the saddle, a narrow ridge with sheer drops on either side. The wind howled, and the clouds seemed to drape the peaks in a gray shroud.

As the afternoon wore on, the sky darkened prematurely. Mang Lito grew anxious, muttering that we must reach the summit before dusk. We quickened our pace, but the trail became treacherous, slick with rain that began to fall. One of the newbies, a guy named Marco, slipped and twisted his ankle. We had to stop to treat it, losing precious time. By the time we moved again, the sun had dipped behind the peaks, and the forest turned eerily silent.

The lanterns came out. We lit them, casting a warm glow that barely pushed back the encroaching night. That’s when the first strange thing happened: the lanterns flickered in unison, as if a collective breath had blown them. Then, ahead of us, we saw another red light, bobbing in the distance. ‘Another hiker?’ someone asked. But Mang Lito’s face went pale. ‘We are the only ones on this mountain today,’ he whispered.

We decided to keep moving, assuming it was a trick of the light. But the light grew larger, and suddenly we heard a sound—a low, guttural hum that seemed to vibrate through the ground. It was coming from the direction of the light. Mang Lito gestured for us to stop. ‘Do not approach,’ he said. ‘That is the guardian of the saddle. It does not like intruders after dark.’

But Marco, maybe trying to be brave, took a step forward, his lantern raised. The hum intensified, and the light ahead began to pulsate, growing brighter and redder. Then, from the darkness, a figure emerged—not human, but something that shimmered like heat haze, with long, thin limbs and a head too large for its body. It let out a scream that was more like a broken radio static, and the sound made my ears bleed. I doubled over, clutching my head, and when I looked up, the figure was gone, but so was Marco.

Panic erupted. We scattered, running blindly in the dark, our lanterns swinging wildly. I found myself separated from the group, alone in the blackness. I called out names, but only the hum answered. I stumbled down a slope, losing my footing, and tumbled into a hollow. When I looked up, I saw a clearing filled with hundreds of red lanterns, swaying as if hung on invisible threads. In the center was a stone altar, and on it lay Marco, motionless.

I crept closer, my heart pounding. As I neared, I saw that Marco’s eyes were open, but they were milky white, and his mouth was open in a silent scream. The humming was now a chorus, seeming to come from the lanterns themselves. I reached out to touch him, and as my fingers grazed his skin, I felt a cold jolt, and a flood of images surged into my mind—memories of a hiker who had died here decades ago, his body never found, and how his spirit had been bound to this place, forcing it to take other hikers as replacements.

The lanterns flared, and the figure reappeared, now standing behind Marco. Its head tilted, and it reached out a hand that was too long, its fingers tapering to points. I screamed and ran, not caring where I went. I crashed through underbrush, branches cutting my face, until I burst out onto a trail. I kept running until I saw lights: a search party, led by Mang Lito, who had somehow escaped.

They found me, but when they went back to the clearing, it was empty—no lanterns, no altar, no Marco. The search went on for days, but nothing was found. The official report said he fell into a ravine, but I knew the truth.

I never hiked again. But sometimes, at night, I see a red light bobbing in the darkness outside my window, and I hear that low, guttural hum, and I know that the guardian of the saddle still watches, waiting for the next group of hikers to stray too close after dark.