The Roof Lantern

I was thirteen the summer my family moved to the outskirts of Mariveles, a town where the heat clung to your skin like a second layer, and the nights were so thick you could almost chew them. Our house was a squat, concrete box with a rusted tin roof, and to save on electricity, we kept the windows open at night, trusting the mountain breeze that never came. There were three windows in the main room where we slept: one on the east wall, facing our neighbor’s flat roof, and two on the south, both wide and low, just over four feet high. We slept on woven mats on the cool cement floor, my mother, my two sisters, and me, arranged in a row, our feet pointing east, toward the door. I was the one closest to the east window, the one that looked out onto the gray, cracked expanse of the neighbor’s roof, a few feet below our sill.

That night, the radio was on, tuned to a station that played old ballads, our shared lullaby. The static mixed with the crickets and the distant hum of a generator from a house down the hill. I dreamt of an insect, something huge and hard-shelled, biting my neck, its jaws sinking deep. I woke with a gasp, my hand flying to my throat. The room was dim, lit only by the moon’s pale glow coming through the open windows. The radio had gone soft, the station fading to a whisper. I turned my head to look out the east window, half-expecting to see a giant beetle on the sill.

That’s when I saw the lantern. At first, it was just a soft, yellowish glow hovering above the neighbor’s roof, about twenty feet away. I thought it was a firefly, but it was too steady, too bright. It bobbed slightly, as if carried by an unseen hand. I rubbed my eyes, thinking it was a trick of the light. When I looked again, it was closer, floating just above the edge of the roof, right at our window line. My heart started to pound. I wanted to wake my mother, but my voice was stuck in my throat.

The light moved to the window, and I saw what was holding it. A figure, or something like one, crouched on the roof, its body coiled like a spring. It was humanoid, but wrong. Its skin was the color of old ash, mottled and more like leather than flesh. Its head was too large, angled too sharply to one side, and its eyes, if it had any, were hidden in the light. But the worst part was its mouth, a wide, thin gash that stretched from ear to ear, and inside, instead of teeth, there were rows of tiny, glistening needles, like a lamprey’s maw. It was holding the lantern, but the lantern wasn’t a lantern at all—it was a small, pulsing sac, its own glow emanating from within, illuminating the creature’s twisted features.

I lay frozen, my hand still on my neck. The creature tilted its head, and the glint of the sac lit up the beads of sweat on my skin. It raised a long, spindly arm, and pointed one clawed finger at my neck, at the spot where I felt a sting. And then I realized: my dream wasn’t a dream. The bite was real. I could feel a warm trickle of blood running down my collarbone. The creature’s mouth opened wider, and a sound came out, a high, keening whistle that made my ears ring. It was the same sound the radio had made just before it died.

I don’t remember screaming. I don’t remember moving. All I remember is the next morning, waking up with my mother shaking me, asking why I was lying on the floor. The radio was off. My neck had a small, red welt, like an insect bite, but it was cold to the touch. When I looked out the east window, I saw a single, shriveled leaf on the neighbor’s roof, glowing faintly in the morning sun. It was the exact color of the creature’s skin.

I never told anyone what I saw. I convinced myself it was a dream, a fever from the heat. But sometimes, at night, I feel a tingle on my neck, and when I look out my window, I see a soft, yellow glow hovering just at the edge of the roof. And I know the thing has learned my routine. It’s waiting, with its lantern, for me to look again.