The Ghost Light of Penang Hill

“Do you see that?” Mei whispered, tugging Anna’s sleeve so hard Anna nearly dropped her flashlight.

Anna blinked. “See what?”

“There!” Mei pointed into the thick mist curling around the jungle path like smoke from a dragon’s breath. A soft, golden light bobbed between the trees—faint, flickering, moving on its own .

“It’s… a lantern,” said Lily N, stepping closer, her voice hushed. “But who would be up here at midnight?”

“No one,” Eddy said, adjusting his glasses. “No one is up here. Except us.”

And that was true. The six of them—Mei, Anna, Lily N, Eddy, Bell, and little Emma—had sneaked out after bedtime, lured by stories of the mysterious Ghost Light said to dance through the trails of Penang Hill every full moon. Most kids laughed it off. But Mei had seen it before. Three nights ago. And tonight, it was back.

The lantern glowed brighter as it drifted deeper into the forest, swaying gently as if held by invisible hands.

“I don’t think it wants to hurt us,” Mei said softly. “It feels… sad.”

Emma clutched her stuffed monkey, Pye. “Maybe it’s lost?”

“Or waiting,” Lily X added, appearing suddenly from behind a tree, making everyone jump. She always seemed to appear out of nowhere. “My grandma used to say the hill remembers everything.”

Eddy pulled out his notebook. “Okay, mystery mode: activated. First clue—light appears only on foggy nights. Second clue—only certain people can see it. Third clue…” He looked at Mei. “You’re the only one who sees it clearly.”

Mei swallowed. That part scared her. Her grandmother had once told her about seeing a light too—long ago, when she was a girl. But no one believed her then. Now, Grandma was gone, and all Mei had left was her old leather journal, tucked under her pillow every night.

“We should follow it,” Bell said bravely, though her voice trembled.

So they did.

Step by careful step, they followed the ghostly glow along the winding trail, past twisted banyan roots and vines that hung like curtains. Fireflies winked above them, and the air smelled of damp earth and wild jasmine. The lantern led them not down the main path, but to a hidden fork covered in ferns—a trail no map showed.

“This wasn’t here yesterday,” Anna murmured.

“It wasn’t supposed to be found,” Lily X said mysteriously.

At the end of the overgrown path stood an old stone bench, half-buried in moss. Carved into its side were two names: Amah & Liang . Beneath it, wrapped in oilcloth, was another journal—older than Mei’s, its pages brittle and faded.

Mei’s hands shook as she opened it. Inside were sketches of the hill, notes in delicate handwriting, and a story:

“Every full moon, I light the lantern and wait. He promised he’d return from the sea. But the ship never came. Still, I come. Because hope is a light no storm can blow out.”

A single dried orchid rested between the pages.

“She waited,” Mei breathed. “For years.”

“The light isn’t a ghost,” Eddy realized. “It’s a memory. A promise.”

Just then, the lantern floated down and hovered beside the bench. The flame didn’t flicker in the wind—it pulsed, warm and gentle, like a heartbeat.

Emma stepped forward, holding out Pye. “Are you lonely?” she asked softly.

The light dimmed, then brightened again, like a nod.

Mei wiped her eyes. “Grandma saw you too. She wrote about you in her journal. You weren’t forgotten.”

A breeze stirred the trees. The lantern rose slowly, circling the children once, brushing their cheeks with warmth. Then, with a final soft glow, it floated upward—up through the branches, into the silver moonlight—and vanished.

Silence settled over the hill, peaceful now.

Back at the guesthouse, Mei opened her grandmother’s journal to a blank page. She began to write:

“Today, we met the light. And we told her she was remembered.”

She added drawings of her friends, of the hidden trail, of the stone bench. When she finished, she tucked both journals under her pillow.

That night, as she fell asleep, she thought she heard a whisper on the wind: Thank you.

And somewhere, high on the hill, a single firefly glowed gold—just for a second—before blinking out like a star going home.