The String of Sunken Lanterns

It was a sweltering July weekend in our rented bungalow in the outskirts of Tucson, and my mom and her boyfriend had driven to Flagstaff to escape the heat, leaving me alone for two days. I was sixteen, and my best friend Leo came over to hang out. We had a solid plan: shred on our guitars, order a large pepperoni pizza, and then lose ourselves in the new racing game I’d just gotten for my PlayStation. The night started perfectly—the air was thick with the smell of dust and creosote, but inside, we had cold sodas and the promise of endless gaming.

We were deep into a heated race on the dusty canyon course when I first heard it: a low, resonant thump from somewhere in the house, like a heavy book falling from a shelf. I paused, looking at Leo. ‘Did you hear that?’ He shrugged, his eyes still glued to the screen. ‘Probably the AC kicking in,’ he said, and we resumed. The thumps continued, irregular and distant, but we ignored them, attributing them to the house settling or the old pipes. We were having too much fun to care.

Around eleven, we ordered pizza, and while we waited, we switched to acoustic guitars, strumming along to some Nirvana covers. That’s when the noises became more insistent—a series of sharp bangs from the kitchen, followed by a sound like dragging metal. Leo’s strumming faltered. ‘That’s not the AC,’ he said, his voice low. I laughed it off, even though a cold shiver ran down my spine. ‘Probably a raccoon in the trash,’ I said, even though the sounds were clearly from inside the house.

After the pizza arrived, we ate in the living room, our backs to the hallway that led to the bedrooms. The noises had stopped, and we joked about our overactive imaginations. But as we finished our second slice, I heard a distinct, wet slapping sound, like palm on tile, coming from the hallway. I turned, but saw nothing. Leo frowned. ‘Okay, that’s weird.’ We decided to investigate, grabbing a flashlight from the kitchen drawer.

We crept down the hallway, the air growing noticeably colder. The bathroom door at the end was ajar, and the slapping sound was coming from inside. We pushed the door open, and the flashlight beam revealed a trail of wet footprints leading from the bathtub to the sink. The shower curtain was drawn, and water was dripping from the ceiling, though no pipes ran above. Leo whispered, ‘I think we should get out of here.’ But I was frozen, staring at the mirror. Written in the condensation on the glass was a single word: ‘soon.’

We backed out, our hearts pounding. The footprints were gone, replaced by a puddle of dark water that was growing on the floor. We ran back to the living room, grabbed our jackets, and headed for the front door. But when we tried to open it, the knob wouldn’t turn. We were locked in. The phone was dead, and my cell had no signal. We were trapped with the dripping thing.

The sounds amplified—bangs from the walls, crashes from the kitchen, and a persistent, rhythmic tapping from the attic above. The lights flickered, and the TV turned on by itself, displaying static that slowly formed into the silhouette of a tall, wavering figure. Its head tilted, and a voice like water through gravel whispered, ‘You shouldn’t have played that game.’ I looked at the game case on the floor—the one I’d bought at a garage sale. I’d thought it was a quirky find, but now I remembered the previous owner had warned me, ‘It likes to play.’

The next thing I knew, we were in the basement, though we’d never gone down there. The lights were dim, and the floor was slick with moisture. A collection of old children’s toys sat in a corner, their glassy eyes staring at us. In the center of the room was a string of old paper lanterns, the kind people set afloat on water. They were unlit, but as we watched, each one flickered to life, one by one, glowing with a cold blue light. The water around our feet began to swirl, and a figure rose from the floor—a woman in a soaked dress, her hair covering her face. She pointed a dripping hand at us and said, ‘You will join the procession.’

We tried to run, but the basement stairs were gone. The room was flooding rapidly, and the lanterns started to float upward, bobbing on the rising water. They formed a line leading to a hidden door that appeared on the far wall. The woman gestured toward it, and we knew, with a primal certainty, that once we passed through, we’d never come back.

Just then, the sound of breaking glass came from above, and my mom’s boyfriend’s voice shouted, ‘Hey! The door’s jammed!’ The lights flickered back on, and the basement was empty—no water, no lanterns, no woman. We were standing in the middle of the room, shaking, as our rescuers came down and found us. They had returned early because a storm had forced their trip to be cut short. They never believed our story, but we knew it was real. The game was gone, and the house was sold a month later.

Months after, I found the game case in my old room, covered in dust. Inside was a note written in faded ink: ‘The lanterns wait. They are always waiting.’ Since then, I’ve seen that same string of sunken lanterns in my dreams, and sometimes, when I’m near water, I hear the faint sound of a woman’s voice, whispering, ‘Soon.’