Mustafa’s Lantern | Paranormal Story

Paranormal Story Summary: A young man exploring an abandoned old village at night is lured into a swamp by the ghost of his deceased mother. He is saved by a boy who drowned in the dam lake years ago.

I’ve loved doing this since my childhood. Besides the feeling of my arm, stuck out of the car window, being caressed by the wind’s power, feeling the wind’s immense might gave a distinct pleasure. My cousin was driving the car, and while he was focused on the road, I thought about the wind again. The importance in our lives of this air current, which we cannot see but feel all around us… This power, which felt like a gentle caress with a light breeze, could uproot mountains when angered. But now, it was like giving our souls a massage.

As we entered this village road, my cousin warned, “Pull your arm in, it’ll hit something.” I was aware too; we were about to arrive at the end of our three-and-a-half-hour journey. We had set off from Istanbul in the morning, heading to the village with the intention of visiting our aunt, but our main destination was our highland pasture (yayla). Before going to the yayla, we wanted to stay one night in the village to see our aunt.

I have always loved many aspects of these village roads. Firstly, the air here is clean, high in oxygen. Then, you get closer to nature. If you pay a little attention and if you’re lucky, you might see a hawk perched on a tree branch, or notice a hedgehog trying to hide by the roadside. Sometimes, you can even stop at the fountains built for charity and taste the ice-cold water flowing from the mountain. Ultimately, I love village roads, even if I occasionally encounter rough patches… Seeing the neighboring village, the clearest sign that we were approaching our own, I said to my cousin, “We’re close.” “Look, Kuyumcular Village. It won’t take ten minutes to get there,” my cousin replied.

I intended to continue the conversation. “Do you know the legend here?”

“What legend?”

I pointed with my finger. “Look, look, do you see that ruined house right there?”

“Which one, man? They all look like ruins to me.”

“Look, the two-story one.”

My cousin gave a look indicating he understood. I continued speaking:

“Years ago, various accidents happened to the people in that house. Eventually, the household members, and even the neighbors close to the house, evacuated the area and moved to the city.”

“So?” my cousin asked.

“This caught my attention: Years later, the sons of the owner of this house tried to demolish it and build a better one in its place, but they couldn’t succeed.”

“Why? Because they weren’t available (müsait değillermiş – a pun on ‘suitable/available’ and ‘haunted’),” he cracked a joke and started laughing.

“Dude, get lost, you idiot!” Shaking off the effect of his awful joke, I tried to be serious again. “Okay okay, seriously. They couldn’t get the house demolished, because they wouldn’t allow it.”

“Who? The villagers?”

“No, no, man! It was the jinn who wouldn’t allow it.”

My cousin knew me well enough to know I wasn’t joking when I used the word ‘jinn’ in a sentence.

“What do you mean?”

“Literally jinn, man. Every time they tried to demolish the house, something went wrong. Either the tools broke down, or they had accidents, or even the parts they managed to demolish, they found them intact the next day as if nothing had been done.”

There was a few seconds of silence between us. It was clear my cousin was pondering what I had told him. Then he asked in an excited voice:

“So what happened in the end?”

“Nothing. As far as I know, the sons gave up trying, but no one has even gone near that house since.”

As I said this, I looked at the area where the house was located one last time. Indeed, in the village layout, the situation of this house looked strange. It and its surroundings looked like a burnt, blackened area in the middle of a forested space. While the other houses in the vicinity were built close to each other, the area around that house remained deserted.

“Here’s our village!” I was startled by my cousin’s voice. We had indeed arrived at the village and were approaching our aunt’s house. This was a village in Central Anatolia, considered one of the larger ones. Actually, our original village was further down; when the state built a dam near the old village, the villagers had to move the village upwards. The Old Village, near the dam and lower down, was left in ruins.

The real purpose of this little trip was this Old Village. For some time, I had dedicated myself to observing our ‘neighbors’ whom we couldn’t see or hear but shared the same world with. While many people hesitated even to mention their names, I was determined to learn even their shoe sizes if they wore any. The Old Village attracted my attention in this regard, as I was aware that abandoned places were eventually claimed by these ‘friends’.

Our visit was a surprise for our aunt; we hadn’t informed her. But she was used to guests arriving, especially during this period when highlanders flocked to the village. She welcomed us with her usual hospitality. She practically forced the classic village ayran (yogurt drink) and gözleme (flatbread) down our throats at lunchtime. For village folk, feeding and watering their guests is a matter of honor. Our aunt had lost her husband three years ago. Her children lived in the city and wanted to take their mother with them, but my aunt wasn’t keen on it. She was a village woman through and through, and perhaps she didn’t leave the house left by her husband because it was a trust, or maybe just because she loved the village, who knows?

Although we didn’t have many common topics to talk about, the time passed without us even noticing. After the afternoon prayer time, my cousin and I went out to wander around the village. We visited a few acquaintances we knew. With the evening call to prayer, we returned to our aunt’s house. While my aunt was busy preparing dinner for us, I finally spilled the beans to my cousin:

“Let’s go down to the Old Village after dinner.”

He narrowed his eyes slightly. “The Old Village? At this hour? Actually, it’s the perfect time… Are you crazy?” I’d say, but… You’re definitely crazy! Sit where you are,” my cousin snapped. According to him, going down to the Old Village in the dark of night was nothing short of madness. Even though I tried to persuade him again after dinner, I couldn’t convince him. My aunt, who overheard me wanting to go to the Old Village, also objected.

Still, I was determined. We were leaving the village early tomorrow, and tonight I had to explore the atmosphere of that village, no matter what. When I got up, my aunt, realizing she couldn’t dissuade me, handed me an old flashlight with one hand while giving a very serious warning with the other:

“My child, don’t stray from the path. Look, come back immediately, and always recite prayers, okay? Don’t wander around there without prayers.”

Actually, the place I wanted to see in the Old Village was my late grandfather’s house. In this village, ‘grandfather’ meant the grandmother’s husband. I was curious about the state of my grandparents’ village house, or rather, whether there were ‘any occupants’ inside. I hadn’t quite figured out why my curiosity peaked during this specific period. According to my relatives who knew about this interest, mine was an unnecessary and dangerous field of interest. Although I didn’t agree with them on the ‘unnecessary’ part, we were on the same page about it being dangerous. Sometimes I felt like shouting back at people’s reproaches of “Aren’t you scared at all?”: “Wouldn’t I be scared? To the core! But they are scared too.” Whatever happened, when two beings afraid of each other met, two outcomes were possible: they either become enemies or friends.

Walking with these thoughts in my head, I realized I was right at the entrance of the Old Village. As I continued my way amidst the howling sounds of dogs, I noticed a white shimmer coming from straight ahead, and fear began to course through my veins. I slowed my steps. Meanwhile, the shimmer intensified. What I thought was a shimmer was a light, moving up and down. I stopped walking, but the light didn’t stop; it approached, closer and closer… When I finally recognized it clearly, I realized there were tears of fear in my eyes. I quickly wiped my tears, as I didn’t want the child coming towards me to see me like this.

Yes, it was a child coming. Approximately 13-14 years old, swinging a flashlight in his hand as he walked towards me.

“Selamünaleyküm (Peace be upon you),” I called out to the child. With a sincere smile on his face, he replied:

“Ve aleykümselam (And upon you be peace), brother. What brings you here?”

“Nothing, just heading this way,” I said. The smile on his face widened.

“Are you from around here? Are you Kemal uncle’s son?”

“I am. Do you know me?”

“Not me, but my father knows you. He said when you used to come to our village as kids, you’d go swimming in the dam lake. We even have pictures of you.”

“Whose son are you?” I asked him curiously.

“I’m İsmail’s son from the Ölmezler family. My name is Mustafa.”

İsmail from Ölmezler… I remembered him immediately. He was my closest friend in the village we visited almost every summer during childhood. We did everything together back then; we’d sneakily pick fruit from people’s orchards together, and together we’d chase lizards in the village with slingshot-like sticks. Sometimes we’d go down to the dam and swim in the lake for hours. I asked the boy joyfully:

“How’s your father doing?”

“He’s fine, what can he do? Sitting at home. What are you doing on this side anyway? This is the Old Village, nobody comes here.”

“Just wandering around. Say hello to your father, young man,” I said and started walking again. After leaving the boy a few steps behind, I glanced back and realized he was already gone.

I continued on my way. Soon, I was right in front of my grandfather’s house. The garden fence had long since collapsed. The courtyard of the ruined house was covered with numerous wild weeds, the path was indistinguishable, but I entered it anyway. It was a two-story wooden house. When I checked the door, I saw it was tightly shut. As I scanned the surroundings of the house with my flashlight beam, the other door came to mind. Houses of this type used to have a section called ‘yüklük’ (storage room), which was accessed through another door. The other door was on the side. I headed towards it. Where the door should have been, I noticed a tattered piece of plastic sheeting, riddled with holes, swaying and occasionally glinting. Apparently, the door had long been removed and replaced with this plastic sheet, but that too was in pieces.

The moment I stepped inside, a chilling sensation enveloped me. My hair stood on end, and a cold sweat ran down my spine to my neck. The name for this reaction my body gave was, in short, ‘fear’. It was impossible for a person not to be scared in such a place at such an hour. Aware that the occasional rustling sounds I thought I heard were coming from insects or rodent-like animals scurrying around, I slowly headed towards the stairs leading to the upper floor. As far as I remembered, my grandparents usually lived upstairs, using the ground floor for daily chores and receiving guests. I climbed the stairs very cautiously, as I didn’t want to get injured by stepping on a potentially collapsing step.

When I finally reached the upper floor, I saw that two of the three room doors were open, but one was closed. After quickly scanning the open rooms with my flashlight, I came to the closed door. When I pointed the flashlight at the door threshold, I noticed shadows emanating from it. As if someone inside was swaying in place, the shadows moved vaguely. My volcano of fear started erupting lava again. “I wonder,” I thought to myself, “are these the shadows of the trees in the garden swaying in the wind?”

I opened the door, not really expecting it to open. At first, I saw nothing. Then I saw everything. My mother was rolling out dough with a rolling pin on a low table set on the floor. Right next to her, my grandmother was sitting, shaping the dough she had rolled out. When they saw me, they both frowned. I had never seen my mother look so young before. Besides, it had been years since I lost her. Or had it not? Was my mother alive?

“What’s with those trousers?” the one who called out was my mother; it was definitely her voice. She had gotten up and was coming towards me. I was frozen on the spot. As she scolded me, I just stared at her in astonishment. How beautiful she was, and how much I had missed her.

Then I saw my grandmother move too. She stood up and called out to my mother:

“Where are you taking him? Leave him there!”

It was the first time I had ever seen my grandmother standing, because she was paralyzed. I never remembered her walking, but now she was both walking around the room and scolding my mother.

Suddenly, I found myself outside. My mother was gliding ahead of me. Then she stopped.

“Come! Look over there, walk now!”

The place she pointed to was a reed bed where the dam lake and the stream met. The villagers called these areas ‘swamps’.

“Come on, walk!”

I wasn’t going to disobey my mother. She was going, and I was going too. With every step, I sank a little deeper into the mud. As I moved forward, I found the willpower to stop for a moment and looked back. I realized that the beautiful woman wasn’t actually that beautiful. As I stopped, she spread her arms to her sides and swayed strangely; as if there were no bones in her arms, they swung formlessly. While swinging her arms, she shouted even louder:

“Don’t stop, go!”

For some reason, I started walking again. Something was wrong, I could feel it, but I couldn’t stop myself. I was almost waist-deep in water and mud, struggling to walk. Then I heard another voice inside my head. At first, I couldn’t understand it, I focused a bit more. The voice wasn’t coming from inside my head, but from behind me. But the one behind was my mother, yet this voice didn’t belong to her. I turned back with difficulty. This time, the one I saw wasn’t my mother. She was gone, replaced by Mustafa; my friend İsmail’s son, Mustafa.

“Brother, come!” he yelled.

I started to come around, my consciousness slowly returning. For God’s sake, what was I doing in this swamp? I started walking backward. Mustafa guided me with the light from his flashlight. When I finally reached him, I felt I had regained full control of my mind.

“Come on, brother, come! What are you doing here? Trying to kill yourself?”

I couldn’t say anything. He didn’t speak either. Then we quickly walked out of the Old Village. He accompanied me all the way to my aunt’s house. I tried to explain the state of my clothes to the people at home with one-word sentences: “I fell, slipped,” and such.

After showering and changing my clothes, I went to the room I was sharing with my cousin. I brought up the subject with him. I didn’t tell him everything, in fact, I barely told him anything. I just said, “I got lost while walking in the Old Village and fell into the swamp.”

“So, how did you find your way back?” he asked, and I mentioned Mustafa.

“Which Mustafa?”

“You know him too. İsmail from the Ölmezler family, his son Mustafa.”

My cousin sat up uneasily in bed. “Are you kidding me, man? İsmail’s son died years ago!”

“What?”

“Mustafa, I’m telling you! That kid drowned in the dam years ago! Don’t you know?”

For a few seconds, I felt like my tongue was tied; I didn’t know what to say. My cousin continued:

“You must have mixed up the names. It must be some other kid.”

‘Another kid? What other kid would know about the photograph taken with his father, cousin?’ I thought to myself. I didn’t want to prolong the conversation. “May God grant peace,” I said and turned my back.

I didn’t blink even once until morning. Because whenever I closed my eyes, the image of that thing disguised as my mother in the swamp came vividly to life. I was the one who walked into danger, the responsibility was mine, but still, the Lord had shown mercy.

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