The Yellow Lantern

The train from Guwahati had been a blur of chai and ticket checks, and the bus from Kalka had been a winding nightmare of hairpin bends. By the time we reached Kufri, a smaller hill station we’d chosen over the more crowded Shimla, my bones were rattling and my ears were popping. My boyfriend, Arjun, kept squeezing my hand and saying, ‘Almost there, Rhea.’ My friend, Meera, was already asleep, her head lolling against the window, while her brother, Karan, who had insisted on coming along as her chaperone, was reading a dog-eared murder mystery.

We’d booked a small guesthouse online, tempted by the price and the promise of a ‘panoramic view.’ The building was a colonial relic, all peeling paint and creaking wood, half-hidden by deodar trees. The man at the reception, a gaunt fellow with a nervous twitch, handed us our keys without meeting our eyes. ‘Dinner is at eight,’ he said, his voice barely a whisper. ‘In the dining hall. We only have one other party staying here now.’

We dumped our bags in our rooms. Mine and Arjun’s room had a window that looked out onto the hillside, but the glass was so grimy it was hard to see out. The room smelled of old dust and mothballs. ‘It’s fine,’ Arjun said, unpacking his camera. ‘It’s got character.’ Meera and Karan’s room was next door, and they knocked on our door, their faces scrunched up. ‘The wallpaper is peeling,’ Meera said. ‘And there’s a weird stain on the ceiling that looks like a face.’ Karan shrugged. ‘It’s cheap. Let’s just go see the mall road.’

We barely spent any time in the room. We walked to the famous ridge, which was less crowded than Shimla’s, with a few old colonial buildings and a church. The sun was setting, painting the snow-capped peaks in shades of orange and gold. We had a late lunch of momos at a tiny café, then walked back as the winter chill set in. By the time we returned, it was dark, and the guesthouse looked even more foreboding. The light above the entrance flickered, casting a yellow glow on the porch.

We decided to have dinner early. The dining hall was a large, drafty room with a long wooden table. At the far end sat an old couple, eating their soup in silence. They didn’t look up when we entered. We ordered from a small menu—simple fare—and while we waited, I tried to call the reception to ask for a room heater. The line crackled, and a voice I didn’t recognize said, ‘It will be delivered.’ A few minutes later, a boy of about sixteen, with a sallow complexion, brought in a kerosene heater. ‘Thank you,’ I said. He stared at me for a moment, then left.

As we ate, the power flickered. ‘Storm coming,’ Arjun said, but there was no sound of wind or rain outside. The silence was unnerving. The old couple finished their soup and left, their footsteps echoing in the empty hall. We were alone. Meera whispered, ‘Did you see the way that boy looked at us? Like he knew something.’ Karan told her to stop being dramatic.

Late that night, I woke up thirsty. Arjun was asleep, his face peaceful. The room was cold, the heater had died. I fumbled for the water bottle on the nightstand, but it was empty. I decided to go to the corridor to get some water from the tap. I opened the door and stepped into a narrow hallway lit by a single, naked bulb. The yellow lantern, as I thought of it, cast strange shadows along the peeling wallpaper. The floorboards groaned under my feet.

I found the bathroom at the end of the hall and filled my bottle. As I turned to go back, I noticed a door at the far end of the corridor that I hadn’t seen before—a heavy wooden door with a brass handle. It had a thin line of light underneath. I walked toward it, my heart beating fast. The door was slightly ajar. I pushed it open.

The room was large and almost empty. A single bed stood in the corner, its sheets rumpled. On a small table beside it, a lantern burned—a brass one with a glass chimney, casting a soft yellow glow. On the bed lay a woman in a white gown, her hair spread across the pillow. She was very still. I stepped closer. Her skin was pale, almost translucent. I could see the veins in her neck, but there was no heartbeat. Her eyes were open, staring at the ceiling.

I wanted to scream, but my throat was dry. I backed away, and as I did, the lantern flickered. The woman’s head turned slowly, and her eyes met mine. They were black, like two chips of obsidian. She smiled—a thin, knowing smile. ‘You’re new,’ she said in a voice that was both raspy and smooth. ‘They didn’t tell you about me, did they?’

I stumbled back into the hallway, slamming the door. I ran to my room and locked the door, my hands shaking. I woke Arjun, but he just mumbled and rolled over. I didn’t sleep that night.

The next morning, I told the others what I saw. They laughed at me, saying I’d had a nightmare. But the receptionist, hearing our chatter, looked at me with a strange intensity. He finally said, ‘You saw her, didn’t you? The lady in the white dress.’ I nodded. He sighed. ‘I thought so. She appears to new guests. Don’t worry, she won’t hurt you. She just wants company.’

‘Who is she?’ I asked. He leaned in, his voice low. ‘She was a bride, many years ago. Her husband left her at the altar, right here in this building. She died of a broken heart. Now she roams the corridors, looking for someone to tell her story to.’

I didn’t believe him, but I couldn’t shake the memory of her face. That evening, when I tried to call my mother from the phone in the lobby, the line was dead. I looked out the window and saw that the mist had rolled in, thick and white, obscuring everything except the silhouette of the old church. The guesthouse felt more isolated than ever.

That night, I woke to a sound—a faint melody, like a lullaby. It seemed to come from the corridor. I got up, despite my fear, and opened the door. The hallway was empty, but the yellow lantern at the end was burning brighter than before. I followed it, my bare feet cold on the wooden floor, until I reached the heavy door. This time, it was wide open.

The woman was sitting on the edge of the bed, her hands folded in her lap. ‘Come,’ she said, patting the space beside her. ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’

My body moved against my will. I sat down next to her. She took my hand. Her skin was cold, but not unpleasant. ‘I was so beautiful once,’ she said. ‘They said I was the most beautiful bride in Kufri. But he left me. He said he couldn’t marry a woman who was so pale, so lifeless. He said I was already dead to him.’

I wanted to pull away, but I was paralyzed. She turned to me, and her eyes were no longer black, but a deep, watery blue. ‘You’re like me, aren’t you? You feel too much.’ She reached up and touched my cheek. Her fingers left a trail of icy chills.

I woke up the next morning in my own bed, with Arjun shaking me. ‘You were screaming,’ he said. I looked in the mirror. There was a small bruise on my neck, shaped like a handprint.

We left the guesthouse that day. As we packed, the receptionist just nodded, as if expecting it. On our way out, I looked up at the window of the room where I’d seen her. She was there, watching me, her hand pressed against the glass. I turned away.

It’s been a year. I’ve moved to a new city, but I still think about her. Sometimes, at night, I hear the faint melody of that lullaby, and I smell the faint scent of mothballs and old wood. And when I look in the mirror, I sometimes catch a glimpse behind me—a woman with white dress and black eyes, smiling. She’s not done with me yet.