The Red Lantern on Mulberry Lane

I only wanted coin for noodles, yeah? So when Auntie Lek at the hostel says, “Boy, you strong arms—come hang lantern, one night, pay good,” I follow. We zip down alley smell like star anise and wet rat, stop at shop so old the sign wood look like it forgot its own name. She hand me a crate of paper lanterns, each red like fresh cut thumb. “Hang one every ten step,” she say, “no more, no less. And don’t talk to nobody, even if they talk first.”

I laugh, ‘course. Ghost story for tourists, right? But the wage is five hundred baht, so I zip it. Street is Mulberry Lane, narrow, twist, nobody live there except cat look like it seen too many life. I start hang. One, two, three… at seven I hear footstep behind. I turn—nobody. Just fog crawl outta drain like cheap vape. I keep go.

Lantern eight, I feel tap on shoulder. Cold, like fridge door. Voice whisper, “Trade coat, brother? Mine hole.” I remember Auntie, keep mouth shut. I hang lantern nine. The fog thicken, turn sweet, like flower funeral. I see shape ahead: dude in old Chinese long shirt, face white powder, smile too wide. He hold out hand, got nail so long they curl back like gift ribbon. “Light for me?” he ask. I shake head, point at lantern already swing above. He frown, then—poof—turn to bat of paper ash. I nearly soil shorts.

Reach end of lane, crate empty. I cheer inside, turn back. But the lanterns I just hang—every single one go black, like someone blow candle inside. Dark, dark, dark all way home. And the fog follow, whisper, “Skin… borrow…” I leg it.

Back at shop, Auntie Lek bolt door, face sweat. “You hear them?” she ask. I nod. She pull my shirt, see bruise handprint on chest, purple like dragon fruit. “They tag you,” she say. “Midnight, they come finish bargain.” I beg fix. She sigh, open drawer, take out tiny jade pig on string. “Pig keep greedy spirit busy. Wear, don’t look back, run till rooster shout.” I thank, but she add, “If pig crack, you already rent.”

I sprint hostel, dive bunk, clutch jade pig. Midnight hit, air go fridge. I hear knock—no, not knock, scratch like cat want in. Pig warm, then hot. I shut eye, count sheep, count baht, count ex-girlfriend mistake. Pig so hot it burn palm. I peek: crack line crawl across jade like spider web. Crap.

Window slide open by itself. Fog pour in, make shape of woman, hair long like noodle, face blank as plate. She float close, sniff my neck. “Smell foreign,” she giggle. “Good suitcase.” She reach—then stop, stare at pig. She hungry, but she also confused, like menu in English. While she think, I remember Auntie: “Greedy spirit love bargain.” I blurt, “I give you better skin, round eye, tall nose, Instagram! But you gotta gimme wish first.”

She tilt head. Deal spirit love deal. “Wish,” she hiss. I say, “I wanna forget this night, wake up in airport, flight home free, wallet fat.” She smile, snap fingers—dark.

I wake sunshine, birds sing, suitcase pack. I’m at gate, ticket say London, departure one hour. Wallet stuffed pink baht. I cheer, order latte. But when hand change, barista flinch. I look down: my arm got bruise handprint, still purple. And jade pig in pocket—whole again, but inside tiny fog swirl. I hear far giggle: “Suitcase… later…”

Plane lift, I swear I see red lantern swing under wing, light black like dead star. I learn: in Chinatown, bargain never close—just delay. And the dead patient like Uber in rain.