The Red Lantern Gate

My grandmother’s house stood on Jasmine Hill, a sprawling estate of manicured lawns and ancient banyan trees, crowned by a crumbling Victorian manor with peeling white paint and a slate roof that sagged like a tired spine. The land had been in our family for generations, but during the war, it was commandeered by the Imperial Army as a regional headquarters. They gave us three days to pack, a courtesy I suspect was extended because my Great-Aunt Lin, the eldest and most beautiful of my grandmother’s sisters, had caught the eye of a high-ranking officer. My cousin Wei is the product of that entanglement.

The house itself was a labyrinth of dark corridors and high-ceilinged rooms that held the musty scent of dust and old secrets. After the war, my grandmother reclaimed it, and it became the gathering place for all family celebrations. But I never felt at ease there. The air was always a few degrees colder inside, and the floorboards creaked as if the house itself was holding its breath. My grandmother dismissed my unease as childish fancy, but I noticed she never entered the study at the end of the east wing, and that the servants were forbidden from opening the heavy oak door that led to the cellar.

The only remnant of the occupation was a red paper lantern that hung by the main gate. It was said to have belonged to the officers’ quarters, and my grandmother kept it as a symbol of our supposed ‘protection’. But the lantern was never lit. When I asked why, my mother would change the subject, and my grandmother would stare at it with an unreadable expression. It was just a lantern, I told myself, but I always felt its gaze upon me, a baleful red glow even in the daylight, like a dreaming eye.

Years later, after my grandmother passed, I inherited the house. I had no siblings, and my parents had died in a car accident when I was young, so the property fell to me. I was a historian, and the house’s wartime past fascinated me. I decided to live there, to restore it, and perhaps uncover its secrets. The first night, I lit a candle in the grand ballroom, where my grandmother used to host dances. The shadows danced wildly, and I swore I heard the faint strains of a waltz, but when I turned off the music, silence returned. I chalked it up to an old house’s moans.

One evening, I stumbled upon a locked drawer in my grandmother’s desk. After picking the lock, I found a bundle of letters and a photograph. The photograph was of a young woman in a silk cheongsam, her face half-turned, with a red lantern glowing in the background. On the back, in faded script, was the name ‘Yin’ and a date from 1943. The letters were written in Chinese, and I could barely decipher them. They were love letters from a Japanese officer to my great-aunt Lin, pleading with her to meet him in the study. The last letter was dated just before the troops left, and it read: ‘If you ever need me, light the lantern by the gate. I will find you.’

Intrigued, I decided to test it. I walked out to the gate at dusk, my heart pounding. The lantern was coated in grime, but I wiped it clean and lit the wick. A small flame sputtered to life, casting a sickly red glow. I waited, but nothing happened. I laughed at my foolishness and returned inside. But that night, I was awakened by a sound from the study. I crept to the door, which was ajar. Inside, I saw a figure in an officer’s uniform, hunched over the desk, writing with a fountain pen. It turned its head, and I saw it had no face, just a smooth, pale expanse. I screamed, and it vanished.

The next day, the lantern was lit again, though I had not touched it. I extinguished it, but when night fell, it burned on its own. And each night, the figure appeared, growing more distinct. Soon, I could make out the features of a young Japanese man, his eyes hollow, his lips moving as if speaking. I could not hear him, but I felt a pull. I began to leave the lantern burning, and the figure would sit in the study, staring at a spot on the wall where a painting had once hung. I took down the painting that now hung there, revealing a strange symbol scratched into the plaster. It matched one in the letters.

I researched the symbol and discovered it was a protective charm, meant to bind a spirit. It was a trap. My great-aunt had used it to keep the officer’s ghost from leaving the study. But the lantern was the key to releasing him. I had unwittingly freed him. Now, he was tethered to me, following me through the house. My mirror showed him standing behind me. My sleep was plagued with dreams of the war, of him dying in the study, not from battle, but from a broken heart. He had left instructions in the letters: ‘Do not light the lantern. If you do, you will be my keeper.’

I tried to destroy the lantern, but it would not break. I removed the symbol, but he remained. Frantic, I called in a priest, but he fled, screaming. I researched more and found a counter-ritual, requiring a personal item of the deceased, to release the soul properly. The letters were not enough. I needed something of his. I searched the house and found a hidden compartment in the study, containing a uniform and a diary. The diary was in Japanese, but I could translate it with effort. It described his love for Lin and his despair when she rejected him. The final entry said: ‘I am dying, but my heart will remain here forever. If someone finds this, please bury me properly. Take my bones to the banyan tree, where we first met, and speak my name three times: Kaito.’

I searched the grounds and found under the banyan tree a shallow grave. Inside were the bones of a man, still wrapped in a tattered officer’s coat. I reburied him in a proper coffin, beneath a new stone with his name and dates. Then, at the base of the tree, I spoke his name three times. A chill wind blew, and the lantern extinguished on its own and fell to the ground, shattering into red fragments. The house felt lighter. I never saw the ghost again.

Now, I keep the house, but I no longer sleep there. Sometimes, at dusk, I walk to the gate and look at the spot where the lantern hung. I see the faint outline of a man and a woman standing together under the banyan tree, smiling. I think they are finally at peace. But I cannot shake the feeling that I am being watched. Perhaps it is just my imagination. But when I go out at night, I always glance at the gate, and sometimes, just sometimes, I see a faint red glow, as if a lantern is burning there, waiting to be lit again.