The Red Lantern Code

My first posting after joining the railway service took me to a remote signal cabin in the Nilgiri foothills, a place called Kattukuppai. The company provided quarters were in a sprawling, two-storied colonial bungalow named ‘The Tamarind Lodge,’ which had been converted into a mess for seven of us. The building sat on a tea estate, and the nearest house was nearly a kilometer away. The layout was peculiar: a long central corridor divided the bungalow into two halves. The front half had the main entrance, a large sitting room, and a small bedroom that I occupied. The back half had the dining hall, kitchen, and three more bedrooms. The only source of recreation was an old radio in the front sitting room, which I could listen to late at night, after my seniors had retired for the day, being the junior-most technician.

My first strange experience occurred during the second week. I had returned from my night shift at the signal station and, unable to sleep, I sat in the sitting room, tuning the radio to distant stations. The rain was drumming on the tin roof, and the wind howled through the casuarina trees outside. At around 2 AM, I heard a faint tapping sound from the back of the house, near the dining room. At first, I dismissed it as a loose window, but then I heard a distinct pattern: three taps, pause, two taps, pause, three taps. I crept down the corridor, my torch beam cutting through the darkness. The tapping grew louder as I approached the kitchen, and I realized it was coming from the pantry door. I swung the door open, and the tapping stopped. The room was empty, but on the floor lay a single red lantern, its glass cracked, and the flame extinguished. I knew that no one had placed it there. When I returned to the sitting room, the radio was off, but I distinctly remembered leaving it on. That night, I didn’t sleep.

The second experience happened three weeks later. I had to work the midnight shift, so I slept through the evening. I woke at 11:30 PM and, realizing I was late, rushed to the bathroom. As I passed the dining room, I noticed the red lantern was back, hanging from a hook on the wall, its glass clean and a burning candle inside. It cast an eerie glow over the dining table. I had not placed it there, and none of my colleagues had mentioned it. I ran to my post, my mind racing. That night, while monitoring the signals, I received a telegraph message from the stationmaster at the next station, asking if everything was alright. I replied that it was, but I had a creeping feeling. At the end of my shift, as I walked back to the bungalow, I saw the red lantern hanging outside the main gate, swaying gently despite the still air. I pushed open the gate, and the lantern was gone. When I entered the house, I found it in the pantry again, unlit.

I confided in my senior, a man named Krishnan, who had been there for years. He laughed and said, ‘Ah, you’ve seen the red lantern. That’s just Natesan, the old signalman who died in the derailment of 1965. He was a stickler for protocol. He’s probably just checking if you’re following the lamp code.’ I asked what the code was. Krishnan explained: ‘Three flashes for danger, two for caution, three for all clear. He’s tapping that code to tell you he’s still keeping watch.’ I didn’t know whether to be comforted or terrified. But from that night on, I never saw the lantern again. Yet, I always make sure to leave a small oil lamp burning near the pantry door before I go to bed, just in case he wants to send a message.