So I was skint in Guangzhou, right? My hostel kicked me out cos my card decided to nap, and the only gig going was this flyer taped to a lamppost: “Night helper, cash nightly, no questions.” The number led me to Uncle Wah, a skinny dude in a sleeveless vest who spoke English like he chewed it first. He shoved a bamboo pole and a crate of red paper lanterns at me. “Just hang these along Moongut Alley before three a.m.,” he said. “Don’t let the candles go out, and don’t look back once you’re done.” Then he pressed two crumpled hundreds into my hand and vanished. Sounded dodgy, but rent is rent.
Moongut Alley is one of those skinny gaps between tenements that tourists never see. Wires sag like spaghetti, and the air smells of wet concrete and chrysanthemums. I started stringing the lanterns, lighting the little tea candles inside. They looked cute, actually—cheap paper, gold tassels, the whole Chinatown vibe. I was humming some dumb pop song when the first lantern sputtered. Wind? Nah, the flame bent sideways like someone cupped it. I heard a giggle, high and dry, like rice crackers crunching. No one behind me, just shadows doing shadow stuff.
Old habit, I took a selfie with the lanterns for Insta. Big mistake. In the pic there’s this chick in a high-collared qipao standing two steps back, hair over her face. I swear she wasn’t there when I clicked. My armpits went instant monsoon. I told myself it’s a filter glitch, deleted it, kept working. Every time I pegged a new lantern, the alley felt longer, like someone stretched it like taffy. The end should’ve been ten meters, but it melted into black fog. My phone clock jumped from 2:17 to 2:50. Time pulled a fast one.
At the last lantern the candle refused to catch. Match after match died, heads snapping off. Behind me, footsteps—bare feet slapping stone. I spun, pole raised like I’m Donatello. Empty. Then I felt breath on my neck, cold as fridge gas. A voice, soft but echoey: “You forgot mine.” I turned again and there she is, selfie girl, face still hidden under a waterfall of hair. Her hand stretched out, palm up, skin grey like wet ash. She held a tiny lantern, palm-sized, made of white paper. White, at a Chinese fest? That’s the color for funerals, genius.
My legs were spaghetti, but Uncle Wah’s words rang: don’t let the candles go out. If I take her lantern, I gotta light it. If I don’t, maybe she’ll get creative with my organs. I grabbed it—paper ice-cold—and struck a fresh match. The moment the flame touched the wick, her hair parted. No face, just a smooth stretch of skin where eyes and mouth should be, like someone erased it with an undo button. She tilted, happy I guess, and glided backward into the dark. The white lantern stayed floating mid-air, joining the red parade like a ghost bride.
I sprinted, pole clattering behind me. The alley finally ended, spitting me onto the bright main road. Sky was still night, but the city noise—scooters, neon—felt like a safety blanket. Uncle Wah waited by a 7-Eleven, smoking. He didn’t ask why I looked like I’d showered in terror. Just counted more bills into my hand. “Tomorrow same time,” he said. I shook my head so hard my brain rattled. He smiled, no warmth. “She picked you, kid. You hang the lanterns, she stays happy. Stop coming, she’ll come looking. And she hates backpacks.”
I left Guangzhou at dawn, train to Kunming, didn’t care where. The whole ride I kept checking photos. Every single one—platform, window, toilet mirror—had that white lantern hovering behind me, candle burning blue. Even now, months later, when I close my eyes I see it: a dot of pale fire drifting closer each night. Sometimes I smell chrysanthemums in my room though I never bought flowers. So if you’re ever in Canton and see red lanterns lining some forgotten alley, keep walking. The candles aren’t for tourists, and the girl with no face hates to be kept waiting.