The Red Lantern of Pamplemousses

My family’s roots run deep in the volcanic soil of Mauritius, but I was born under grey English skies. When my great-uncle, the last of my father’s brothers, passed away, I inherited the family home in the highlands of Curepipe. The house, a colonial relic of timber and corrugated iron, had stood since my great-grandfather planted its first foundation stone in 1912. I had never set foot on the island until my uncle’s funeral, and the humid heat wrapped around me like a second skin as I stepped off the plane.

My father, now in his seventies, spoke little of his childhood. But one memory he shared was of my grandfather, his father, who spent his dying weeks in that very house, raving about a presence that loomed over him at night—a tall, dark figure with burning red eyes. The family blamed the fever, the delirium of a dying man. I had never believed it, not really. The funeral passed in a blur of mourning and reunions, and I found myself alone in the house, the only heir, tasked with sorting through generations of belongings.

The house was a time capsule. In my great-uncle’s bedroom, I found a battered trunk under the bed, locked with a rusted padlock. I forced it open with a crowbar and found old photographs, yellowed letters, and a small, wooden marionette with a cracked, painted face. Its eyes were chips of red glass, and as I lifted it, the strings tangled around my fingers. I felt a cold draft, though all windows were sealed, and the marionette’s head seemed to tilt on its own. I laughed at myself, attributing it to my frayed nerves, and placed it on the mantelpiece.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. The heat was oppressive, even with the ceiling fan whirring overhead. I tossed and turned, listening to the creaks of the old house. Around 2 a.m., I heard a rhythmic scratching coming from the walls, like nails dragging along wood. I rose, my heart hammering, and traced the sound to the hallway. There, the shadows seemed deeper, and the air was thick with the scent of cloves and sandalwood—an odd combination, unsettlingly familiar from the funeral incense. I walked toward the source, and the scratching stopped just as I reached the end of the corridor. I turned and saw, at the far end, a tall figure standing in the doorway of the guest room. It was impossible to make out details in the gloom, but I distinctly saw two red pinpricks of light where its eyes should be. I froze, and then I blinked, and it was gone.

I told myself it was a trick of the moonlight, an old house playing tricks. The next day, I decided to explore the grounds. The garden had gone wild, with mango trees and bougainvillea overtaking the paths. At the back, behind a tangle of vines, I discovered a small, stone well, its lip covered in moss. Curious, I peered in and saw only darkness. But as I leaned closer, I heard a faint whisper rising from the depths—a child’s voice, pleading, ‘Mama, it’s hot in here.’ I stumbled back, terror seizing me. I ran inside, but the whisper followed, echoing through the empty rooms.

That evening, I called my father, desperate for answers. I told him about the figure and the whispers. There was a long silence on the phone, then my father said, ‘Your grandfather had a younger brother who died at five, in that well. My father never told anyone, but I found a diary once. It said the boy’s spirit never rested.’ I hung up, my mind reeling. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed, watching the shadows, when the marionette on the mantelpiece in my room began to move. Its limbs twitched, and its red glass eyes glowed with an inner light. I felt an overwhelming urge to go to the well, a pull in my chest. I fought it, but my legs moved on their own, carrying me through the dark house and into the garden.

The night was moonless, and the well was a black maw. As I stood at its edge, I saw the tall figure behind me in the reflection of a broken window. Its eyes burned. I realized then that the figure was not a ghost but a guardian, a keeper of a restless soul. The whispering grew louder, and I saw a pale hand reaching up from the well, its fingers frail and pleading. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them again, the hand was gone.

I fled to the capital the next morning, booking a flight back to England. But as I waited at the airport, I felt a cold presence beside me. I looked over, and there was the tall figure, its red eyes fixed on me. It wore a colonial suit, a relic of a bygone era. It said nothing, but its mouth opened, and a hollow sound emerged, almost like a sigh. Then it faded, leaving me with a lingering chill.

I returned to England, but I couldn’t shake the experience. I still have the marionette; I couldn’t leave it behind, though I don’t know why. Sometimes, late at night, I hear the faint scratching in the walls of my London flat. And when I look into a mirror, for just a split second, I see the reflection of a boy with red glass eyes behind me. I’ve become a chronicler of the family curse, documenting every encounter, every whisper. And I’ve come to understand that the shadow man was never a monster but a warden, bound to the land, watching over the child’s ghost. And now, I fear, my presence has stirred them both, and they’ve found a new vessel in me.