The Clockwork Lantern

September 17, 2014

by Broderick

Five years ago, the office decided on a team-building excursion to the old mining town of Blackwood Falls. Our guide, a gaunt man named Mr. Thorne, led us through the cobbled streets, his lantern casting long, swaying shadows. We were a group of thirty, eager for a ghost tour, and I, along with two others, carried brand-new cameras.

As we passed the derelict chapel, Mr. Thorne recounted the tale of a bride who vanished on her wedding night, her phantom sobs heard from the bell tower. I raised my camera to capture the moonlit spire, but the screen flickered and went dark. A cold dread settled in my stomach as I checked the battery—fully charged. Two others, a woman named Sarah and a man named David, reported the same malfunction. Mr. Thorne chuckled, ‘The old town has a way of rejecting certain eyes.’

We continued to the abandoned mine shaft, its gaping mouth swallowed by ferns. Mr. Thorne warned us not to touch the rusted machinery. But my curiosity got the better of me, and I brushed a finger against a lever. A low hum vibrated through the ground, and the lantern in Mr. Thorne’s hand flickered violently. He stared at me with a look of pure terror, then whispered, ‘You shouldn’t have done that.’ The tour ended abruptly, and we were escorted back to the bus, a palpable tension among us.

Days later, I developed a recurring dream: a winding staircase descending into darkness, lit by a single, swaying lantern. At the bottom, a door with intricate carvings of clocks and gears. I always reached for the handle, but I woke up drenched in sweat. The dreams became more vivid, and soon I could hear the ticking of a clock even during the day.

I returned to Blackwood Falls alone, determined to find answers. The town was eerily quiet, and Mr. Thorne was nowhere to be found. I wandered to the mine shaft, now covered in a thick, unnatural mist. The lever I had touched was warm, and as I pulled it, the ground trembled. The mine entrance opened into a tunnel I’d never seen before, illuminated by a faint, sickly glow.

I walked for what felt like hours, the walls lined with portraits of people I somehow recognized—my coworkers, my family, myself, all with hollow, black eyes. At the end, I found the door from my dreams. The carvings moved, the clock hands spinning backward. I pushed it open and entered a vast chamber filled with ticking clocks of every size, each one set to a different time. In the center, on a pedestal, was a lantern—my own lantern, the one I’d carried as a child.

I picked it up, and the room went silent. The clocks stopped, their hands pointing to the moment I’d touched the lever. Then, a voice, dry as bone, echoed from the lantern: ‘You’ve come to take my place.’ I looked into the glass, and saw the reflection of Mr. Thorne, but his eyes were missing. I screamed, and the sound was swallowed by the ticking that resumed, louder and faster.

I woke up in my bed, my body covered in a fine, black dust. Months have passed, and now I hear the ticking from my own room. I’ve become the keeper of the clockwork lantern, guarding the door to that chamber. The door only appears when I’m alone, and I know that in five years, I’ll be the guide leading a tour through Blackwood Falls, waiting for someone else to touch the lever—so I can finally be free.

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