The Red Lantern of Koteshwar

In the summer of 2007, just after our tenth-grade board exams, a group of us—Arjun, Dev, Manav, and I—huddled on the rooftop of Arjun’s house, the heat of the day giving way to a cooler breeze. We were plotting our usual mischief—maybe stealing mangoes from the orchard down the lane or pulling the tail of the temple priest’s cow—when the talk turned to the supernatural. Dev, ever the skeptic, dismissed it all as village superstition, but Arjun, always eager to prove a point, brought up the old road near Koteshwar. That two-kilometer stretch of unpaved dirt, flanked by a vast, murky pond on one side and endless farmland on the other, was forbidden after dark. Our families had warned us since childhood: never travel that road after sunset. Murders, robberies, accidents—it was a place where blood had soaked into the soil. The locals said that at midnight, if you listened closely, you could hear the cries of the victims. We’d always believed it, but that night, with Arjun’s taunts and Dev’s challenge, we decided to prove our bravery. A dare was born: we would walk that road at midnight and bring back a token from the infamous banyan tree at its midpoint, where, it was said, the last murder had occurred.

At 11:30 PM, we slipped out of our homes, flashlights in hand, and met at the edge of the road. The moon was new, and the darkness was absolute, only the faint glow of distant village lights behind us. The air was heavy with the smell of damp earth and rotting vegetation from the pond. As we started walking, our footsteps crunching on the gravel, the silence felt oppressive. Even the crickets seemed to hold their breath. We joked nervously, but our voices were hollow. After about ten minutes, we reached the banyan tree. Its massive roots snaked across the ground like grasping fingers. At its base, we found a small, neglected shrine, covered in moss and faded orange cloth. Manav, ever the practical one, took out his pocketknife and carved a small cross into the bark, claiming it as our token. Just as we turned to leave, a flicker of light caught our eyes. Down the road, at the far end, a small, glowing dot appeared—like a lantern, but hovering at head height. It moved slowly, swaying as if carried by an invisible person.

We froze. The light came closer, and we could make out the shape of a figure beneath it—a woman in a white saree, her face obscured. She was floating, her feet not touching the ground. A cold wave of terror washed over us. We wanted to run, but our legs were like lead. The figure stopped about ten yards away. It raised one arm, pointing at the banyan tree, and then at us. A voice, like the rustling of dry leaves, whispered, ‘You should not have come.’ Then the lantern flickered out, and the figure vanished into the darkness. We bolted, not stopping until we reached the main road, gasping for breath, our flashlights bouncing wildly. We didn’t speak of what we saw during the run back.

When we got home, we each swore to keep it secret, but the encounter had changed us. Over the next few days, I noticed that Arjun began staying up late, staring out his window in the direction of Koteshwar. He grew pale, and dark circles formed under his eyes. Manav, too, became withdrawn, and started carrying his mother’s old silver pendant, which he had never worn before. Dev, the skeptic, started going to the temple every evening and refused to walk anywhere after dusk. I felt an unease, as if something was watching me, a prickling at the back of my neck. Then, a week later, I had a terrible dream. I was back on that road, standing at the banyan tree, and the lantern was floating in front of me. The woman’s face was finally visible—it was my own, but with blank white eyes. I woke up screaming.

Soon after, Arjun stopped leaving his house altogether. He claimed he was sick, but I knew it was more. I visited him, and he looked at me with haunted eyes. ‘The lantern,’ he whispered. ‘It’s in my room every night. It follows me.’ He showed me a long, red scratch on his arm. ‘It did this when I tried to burn our token.’ I tried to comfort him, but I was terrified myself. I decided to go to the local priest, an old man who was said to have knowledge of such matters. He listened to my story, his face growing grim. He told us that the road was a burial ground for suicides and murder victims, and that the spirit of a woman who had been killed there centuries ago still sought revenge on trespassers. The token we took—the cross carved into the bark—had broken a seal, setting her free to follow us home. The only way to stop her was to return the cross and offer her a gift of honey and vermilion at the shrine, on the next new moon.

We had three days to wait. During that time, Manav fell into a deep depression, barely eating, and Dev started talking to himself. I was terrified, but I knew I had to be brave. On the night of the new moon, we gathered at Arjun’s house. Arjun was shaking, Manav was a shell, and Dev was glassy-eyed. We drove to the edge of the road, and as we stepped out, the air was colder than before, the silence deafening. We walked toward the banyan tree, our footsteps echoing in the emptiness. I carried a small clay pot of honey and a pouch of red vermilion, while Dev clutched a stick from the tree where Arjun had carved the cross. When we reached the shrine, we saw the lantern already there—burning with a pale blue flame. The woman’s silhouette stood beside it.

I stepped forward, my heart pounding. I placed the honey and vermilion at the base of the shrine, then took the stick and pressed it into the soft earth, whispering an apology. The lantern flickered, and the woman seemed to turn her head. Her voice came again, softer this time. ‘You brought it back.’ She paused. ‘But one of you is still marked.’ She raised her hand, pointing directly at Arjun. ‘He took a piece of my flesh.’ I looked at Arjun; he was trembling, his arm where the scratch was seemed to glow red. The woman’s form began to dissolve, but as she vanished, she said, ‘He must offer his blood to the earth, or I will take him.’ Then she was gone, leaving us alone in the pitch black.

We stumbled back to the car, and I drove in a daze. That night, we decided to follow her instructions. At the same spot, we had Arjun prick his finger with a pin and let a few drops of blood fall onto the ground. We drove away in silence, hoping it was over. But when we got back to Arjun’s house, his room was filled with the glow of the lantern. It hovered near the ceiling. Arjun screamed, ‘It didn’t work!’ He fell to his knees, and I saw the scratches spreading over his body. I had an idea—I remembered the priest said that iron repels her. I grabbed an iron rod from the garage and waved it at the lantern. It retreated, but it would not vanish. For hours, we fought, until dawn broke, and the lantern faded. Arjun was exhausted, but alive.

In the weeks that followed, Arjun moved to a new city with his family, and the haunting ceased. Manav and Dev gradually returned to normal, though they never spoke of the incident. I, however, still feel a chill when I pass by that road, and sometimes, at night, I see a faint red glow in the distance, as if the lantern is still out there, waiting for someone foolish enough to return. The priest says she is at peace now, but I am not so sure. The mark we left on that tree was more than just a cross; it was a bond to the other side. And I believe that one day, the lantern will find me again, and this time, she will not let go.