The Red Paper Lantern

So, like, I’d been crashing in China for three weeks straight, eating jianbing off street carts and pretending my Mandarin was “fluent enough.” The old lady who ran the guesthouse, Mrs. Deng, wore jade earrings the size of pistachios and kept warning me, “Foreign boy, don’t open the window after twelve, okay?” I laughed, ‘cause, you know, grandmas plus superstition equals free entertainment.

First night, I’m editing photos when the bulb flickers. I hear this creak—like bamboo under fat panda—and there it is: a red paper lantern bobbing outside my third-floor window. No string, no stick, just floating like a drunk firefly. My brain goes, “Cool drone, bro,” so I grab my selfie stick and slide the sash up. Cold air whooshes in, smells of incense and wet concrete. The lantern stops swinging, tilts toward me, and the paper wrinkles into what I swear is a smile. Then—poof—it burns out, ash drifting like black snow. My Wi-Fi dies at the same second. Coincidence, right?

Next morning, Mrs. Deng slams my breakfast tray down so hard the soy milk jumps. “You looked,” she hisses. I play dumb, stuffing a baozi in my mouth. She points at the window where a faint red outline stains the wood. “She chooses you now.” I almost choke on pork fumes. “She who?” Mrs. Deng just mutters “Hungry ghost, month seven, calendar wrong,” and waddles off. Google later tells me it’s still Ghost Month—when the gates of hell pop open like a convenience-store fridge. Tourist tip: read the lunar calendar, kids.

Second night, I’m ready. I’ve got holy water (okay, bottled Evian, but I crossed myself with it), a flashlight, and Death Metal queued to scare any spectral grandma. 12:01 a.m., the lantern’s back, brighter, dripping wax that never hits the ground. I crank Slayer, flash the beam, yell “Leave me alone, I’m Lutheran!” The lantern splits—yeah, splits—into two, then four, until nine of them circle my room like demonic disco lights. Temperature drops faster than my ex’s reply time. My phone buzzes with texts from… my own number: “LET ME IN.” Ever tried blocking yourself? Spoiler: doesn’t work.

I nope out of there, sprint down the corridor, but every step feels uphill. The hallway stretches, Warhol-style, dozens of doors painted with red upside-down fu symbols. Behind each, someone knocks in Morse that spells “L-E-O.” My name, over and over. I pee a little—don’t judge. At the stairwell, Mrs. Deng stands upside-down on the ceiling, hair dangling like seaweed. “Pay the price,” she whispers, voice echoing inside my skull. Price for what? I didn’t even bargain for souvenirs yet.

Somehow I tumble outside into the hutong. It’s dead quiet, shops shuttered, stray cats frozen mid-fight. The red lantern waits at the alley mouth, now the size of a person. Paper peels back revealing… me. A translucent Leo clone, eyes black sockets, wearing the same crumpled T-shirt but soaked in something darker. He lifts a hand; I feel my own arm rise against my will. Bro, I’m a puppet with Wi-Fi. He opens his mouth—inside, endless scrolling Chinese characters. My legs walk toward him while my brain screams “Ctrl-Z! Ctrl-Z!”

Just as our fingers almost touch, an old guy bursts out of nowhere, banging a wok with a ladle. It’s Mr. Zhou, the drunkard who sells stinky tofu at noon. He chants something—sounds like bad karaoke—and throws a handful of copper coins at the ghost-me. The thing shrieks, paper skin catching real fire. Wind spins up, carrying the smell of tofu and sulfur. Shadow Leo crumbles into ash that spells “THANK YOU” before blowing away. My knees buckle; Zhou catches me like I’m a sack of dumplings.

He walks me back to the guesthouse, real casual, lighting a cigarette off the still-glowing wok. “Your ghost born from your loneliness,” he says in broken English. “You miss home, he grow strong.” Great, I’m haunted by my own inner emo. Zhou hands me a tiny paper rooster, tells me to pin it above the door and call Mom more often. “Ghosts hate dial tones,” he jokes, but his eyes serious.

Third night, no lantern. I Skype Mom, show her the Great Wall pics, even sing happy birthday off-key. Mrs. Deng brings extra dumplings, says the red stain on the window faded. I keep the rooster talisman, though—cheap souvenir beats existential twin any day. Checked out next morning, backpack lighter, heart heavier but in a good way. As the taxi pulls off, I see Zhou flipping tofu, giving me a thumbs-up. Somewhere in the alley, a fresh red lantern flickers, but it’s not following me anymore. Guess even ghosts gotta respect a guy who finally calls his mom.