The Drowned Lantern

My earliest memory of the lake house is the smell of rotting wood and the constant whisper of waves against the dock. I was eight when my parents gave me the attic room, a cramped space with a slanted ceiling and a single dormer window that faced the water. I loved it, despite the way the floorboards creaked at night and the way the wind moaned through the gaps. My sisters, twins named Elsie and Mabel, had to share a room below, and I relished the solitude.

One afternoon, I was sent to gather the scattered croquet balls from the overgrown lawn that sloped down to the shore. The sun was low, casting long shadows, and I remember the chill that came off the lake even in July. As I straightened up, I saw a girl standing in my window. She wore a faded yellow sundress, and her hair was a wild tangle of black. She was just a silhouette against the glass, but I could see her hand pressing against the pane, as if she were trying to push through. I assumed it was Elsie, playing a trick on me, though it wouldn’t be like her to wear such a dress. I called out, but she ducked away, and the curtain swayed.

I trudged upstairs, ready to scold my sisters, but the door to my room was locked, as always, and when I unlocked it, the room was empty. Nothing was disturbed. The window was shut tight from the inside. I felt a phantom itch at the back of my neck, but I shrugged it off. That night, I lay in bed, staring at the dark water through the glass, and I could swear I saw a light bobbing on the surface, like a lantern in a rowboat. But there was no boat.

Years passed, and the image of that girl faded, replaced by school and chores and the slow decay of the house. But when I was sixteen, my friend Julia started talking about a presence that followed her. She called it ‘the Lantern Man’, because she said she always saw a glowing light before he appeared. She claimed he whispered to her in a voice that sounded like waves, telling her to come down to the lake. I tried to dismiss it, but she grew thin, her eyes hollowed by sleepless nights. One evening, she pointed at the lake and said, ‘He’s waiting for me.’ I slapped her to snap her out of it, but she just smiled, a smile that was not her own.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I went to the attic window and looked out. The lake was calm, but on the shore, just where the lawn met the water, a figure stood. It was too tall, and its face was a blur, but it held a lantern that flickered with a cold blue light. And next to it, a smaller figure, a child in a yellow dress. My breath caught. I ran downstairs, but the stairs seemed to stretch, and the hallway was longer than I remembered. The door to my parents’ room was ajar, but the room was empty. The house was silent, save for the creaking of the wood, and I felt a presence behind me, not hostile, but patient.

I turned slowly. The attic stairs led up to a dark doorway, and from it spilled a faint, watery light. I climbed, my heart pounding. At the top, the door to my old room was open, and the lantern light from outside cast long, shifting shadows. I entered, and the girl in the yellow dress was standing by the window, her back to me. She turned, and her face was blank, like a doll’s, but her eyes were twin pools of the lake’s dark water. She pointed to the shore, where the tall figure now stood, its lantern raised. In a voice that rustled like reeds, she said, ‘He’s been waiting for you, too.’

The light outside flared, and I felt a pull, a gentle tug toward the window. The glass was cold, and the lake seemed to breathe, its waves forming a path of silver. I looked down at my hands, and they were the hands of a child. I was eight again, and the girl was holding out her hand to me. ‘Come,’ she said, ‘it’s time to sleep.’ I took her hand, and the world tilted. The attic, the house, the lawn—all dissolved into a watery blur. I felt myself sinking, but it was peaceful, like being cradled in a giant’s palm. And then I saw the bottom of the lake, littered with old toys and bones.

I woke on the shore, coughing water, my parents and sisters leaning over me. They said I had sleepwalked and fallen in. But as they helped me inside, I looked back at the lake, and I saw the girl and the tall figure standing at the water’s edge, watching me. The girl raised a hand to wave, and then they were gone. I never spoke of it, but often, when I look out at the lake, I see that lantern light, bobbing on the waves, waiting for the day I’ll return.

Now, I’m an old man, and my grandchildren play on that same shore. But I’ve never let them near the water after dark. And I always keep the attic window shuttered, because I know she’s still there, the girl in the yellow dress, and she’s never stopped waiting.