The Girl in the Lantern
The market opened only after the sun had bled out. No signs, no maps—just whispers and winding alleys. The traveler hadn’t meant to find it. He followed the music, a shrill and rattling tune, like windchimes made of teeth.
Stalls stretched into the shadows like twisted roots. Nothing here was labeled. No one spoke unless you did first. Strange clocks that ticked counterclockwise, cages with invisible birds, bottles with breath trapped inside. But it was the lantern that caught his eye.
It hung from a crooked nail on the back wall of an old vendor’s tent. Its glass was slightly smoked, its metal frame etched with symbols he couldn’t place. It wasn’t warm, yet it pulsed faintly, like something inside it breathed.
“How much?” the traveler asked.
The vendor, a man whose eyes never looked in the same direction, smiled with cracked lips. “No refunds. No returns. No forgetting.”
That should have been warning enough. But he paid.
The lantern did not light with flame, nor oil. There was no mechanism he could see. But when he touched its base and whispered “light,” it came alive.
And so did the girl.
She appeared behind the glass—pale, barefoot, wearing a long dress that never moved with the wind. Her hair hung wet against her cheeks, and her mouth never opened. She stared directly at him each time, and moved only to gesture: slow, precise movements of her arms, her fingers, her head.
The first night, she pointed to the map on his wall, then traced a path through the southern woods. Curious, he followed the next morning—and found an abandoned shack filled with antique coins buried beneath rotting boards.
The second time, she mimed tying something around her wrist, tapping three fingers to her pulse. That day, he tripped on a stone near a crumbling trail and would’ve fallen into a gully if not for the rope he’d tied to a nearby tree in advance, on instinct.
He began to trust her. Or at least rely on her.
Night after night, he would whisper “light,” and she would appear—silent, urgent, graceful. She never smiled. Never blinked. But she always helped.
Until the seventh night.
She appeared, as usual. But her gestures were strange. Less fluid. She raised one hand and pointed—not outward, not to the map, not to any item or direction. She pointed behind him.
He spun around. The room was empty. A draft crept beneath the door, but nothing more.
When he turned back to the lantern, she was still pointing. More forcefully now. Her eyes wide. Her mouth trembling though still closed.
He laughed uneasily and whispered, “Is this a joke?”
But she kept pointing.
The next night—again, the same gesture. Her finger trembling, jabbing the air behind him. He didn’t look this time. He turned off the lantern early and didn’t sleep.
Something was off.
The ninth night, her gestures changed again. She began scratching at the inside of the glass. Her mouth opened—finally—but no sound came. Her eyes flicked wildly. Her hand pounded the glass in sharp, rhythmic strikes. And then she pointed again.
Behind him.
He turned. Nothing. But something was wrong with the air. Heavy. Watchful.
On the tenth night, he brought a mirror. He held it up behind him as she pointed.
The mirror was empty.
No reflection.
Not his.
Not the room’s.
Only darkness. Deep and pressing.
He turned around again—and everything was as it had been. His reflection returned.
But the girl was now weeping inside the lantern. Her gestures were slow. Resigned. She pressed her palm to the glass. A goodbye.
The light faded on its own.
That was the last time he saw her.
After that, things began to vanish.
Small at first—his keys, a favorite pen, a slipper. But then the paintings lost their subjects. Faces faded from photographs. Pages in books turned blank.
Then, one morning, he looked into a mirror and saw a man he didn’t recognize. Same clothes. Same eyes. But not him.
He picked up the lantern. Cold. Empty.
No girl.
No light.
Just faint scratch marks on the inside of the glass.
Like fingernails.
Like someone trying to claw their way out.
He leaned closer.
His breath fogged the glass.
The scratches caught the light.
Wait—were they on the inside… or the outside?
Some lights guide you home. Others lead you into the dark.
Note:
Thank you for reading “The Girl in the Lantern”! This is a story in a series created for avid readers and English learners who want to enjoy captivating tales while practicing their language skills. Stay tuned for more stories and language tips to enhance your journey!
Explore more short stories in English and Spanish by visiting the section:
Short Stories / Cuentos Cortos
When the world feels dull, your mind restless, or your heart heavy, let a story be your escape. Just one page, one sentence, one word—and suddenly, you’re somewhere new, where imagination breathes life into the ordinary and turns the simplest moments into magic.
“Liked it? Smash that like button! 💥❤️”
The English Nook 
Leave a comment