The Girl Beneath the lantern Tree

The Lanterns Never Sleep The rain began before sunset. Dark clouds swallowed the sky above Ayanmo village, turning the narrow paths into rivers of mud and silence. The market women packed their baskets early, muttering prayers beneath their breath as thunder rolled through the distant hills. Children were called indoors before the evening drums could sound, and one by one, wooden doors shut against the coming storm. But beyond the village, where the forest stretched like an endless shadow, the lanterns were already glowing. Amara watched them from her bedroom window. Hundreds of tiny golden lights swayed beneath the branches of the great tree on the hill, flickering against the darkness like trapped stars. Even from far away, she could see them clearly through the rain. The Lantern Tree. The villagers feared it more than death itself. Amara pressed her forehead gently against the cool window glass. Her reflection stared back at her faintly — dark eyes, tired face, and long braids hanging over her shoulders. At seventeen, she already looked older than most girls her age. Grief had a way of aging people before their time. Behind her, the house creaked softly as the storm grew stronger. “Amara,” her grandmother called from downstairs. “Close that window before the rain enters the room.” Amara did not answer immediately. Her eyes remained fixed on the lanterns dancing in the distance. Sometimes she wondered if one of them belonged to her mother. A sharp crack of thunder shook the room. Finally, she pulled the wooden window shut and turned away. The sound of rain pounding against the roof filled the silence around her. She hated rainy nights. Rainy nights reminded her of the night her mother disappeared. Three years ago. Three years, yet the memory remained alive inside her like an open wound. Her mother had left the house after midnight, barefoot and silent, carrying an old lantern in her hand. Amara remembered waking briefly to the sound of humming — a soft melody drifting through the hallway. At first she thought it was part of a dream. But when she opened her eyes, she saw her mother standing by the door. There had been tears in her eyes. “Go back to sleep, my moonlight,” her mother had whispered gently. Those were the last words Amara ever heard from her. By morning, she was gone. No footprints. No body. No explanation. Only the Lantern Tree glowing in the distance beneath the storm. The villagers searched for two days before giving up. Some claimed the forest spirits had taken her. Others believed she had gone mad with grief after Amara’s younger brother died years earlier. But none of the explanations felt true. Her mother would never leave willingly. Not without saying goodbye. “Amara!” This time her grandmother’s voice sounded impatient. Amara sighed and left her room. The staircase groaned beneath her feet as she descended into the small living room below. The house smelled of firewood, herbs, and old memories. Rain leaked through a crack in the ceiling into a metal bowl placed carefully beneath it. Her grandmother sat near the fireplace, wrapped in a faded wrapper cloth, sorting bitter leaves into a basket. “You spend too much time staring at that tree,” the old woman said quietly without looking up. Amara folded her arms. “Maybe because nobody tells me the truth about it.” A shadow crossed her grandmother’s face. “There is no truth to tell.” “That’s a lie.” The room fell silent except for the rain. Her grandmother slowly lifted her eyes. Though old age had weakened her body, there was still sharpness in her gaze. “You sound more like your mother every day,” she murmured. Amara’s chest tightened. “Then maybe tell me what happened to her.” The old woman returned her attention to the leaves. “Some things are better left buried.” “That tree has something to do with her disappearance.” “Enough.” The word snapped through the room like breaking wood. Amara flinched. Her grandmother rarely raised her voice. The old woman sighed heavily afterward, rubbing her tired eyes. “Child… there are things in this world that should not be searched for. Darkness survives because people feed it attention.” “But what if the darkness already found us?” No answer came. Outside, the storm roared louder. Then suddenly— Knock. Knock. Knock. Three slow knocks echoed from the front door. Both women froze. Amara glanced toward the entrance. “Who would come here in this weather?” Her grandmother’s expression had turned pale. Another knock sounded. Slow. Heavy. Deliberate. The old woman stood carefully from her chair. “Stay here.” But Amara followed anyway. Together they approached the door while thunder growled overhead. Rainwater slid beneath the wooden frame onto the floorboards. Her grandmother hesitated before unlatching the door. It creaked open. No one stood outside. Only darkness and falling rain. Amara frowned. “There’s nobody—” Then she noticed it. A lantern. It sat quietly on the doorstep, glowing with soft golden light despite the storm. Water touched its surface but the flame inside did not flicker. Amara’s breath caught in her throat. Her grandmother staggered backward immediately. “No,” the old woman whispered fearfully. “No, no, no…” “What is it?” “Close the door.” “But—” “Close it!” Amara quickly obeyed. Her heart pounded violently as the latch clicked shut again. “What’s wrong with the lantern?” Her grandmother stared at the door as though something terrible waited on the other side. Finally, she spoke. “When the lanterns begin appearing,” she whispered, “it means the tree is hungry again.” The fire suddenly went out. Darkness swallowed the room. Amara gasped softly. For one terrible moment, silence filled the house completely. Then, from somewhere far beyond the rain and thunder, she heard it. Singing. A woman’s voice drifting through the storm. Soft. Gentle. Familiar. The same lullaby her mother used to sing. Amara’s blood turned cold. Because the voice was coming from the direction of the Lantern Tree.