The Face in the Lantern Light

The cobblestone streets of Savannah were slick with a recent rain, and the iron lampposts cast a sickly amber glow that seemed to stretch our shadows into long, grasping fingers. My wife, Clara, and I had come to celebrate our fifth anniversary, trading the familiar hum of our suburban life for the historic district’s antique charm. We’d booked a walking tour of the old city, promising tales of Civil War generals and antebellum grandeur, but the flier in our hotel lobby promised something more: the Midnight Lantern Tour of the Devereaux House, a mansion with a reputation for a violent past.

As we waited outside the wrought-iron gates, the tour guide, a gaunt man named Silas with a voice like gravel, regaled us with stories of the house’s former owner, a merchant named Alistair Devereaux, who had disappeared under mysterious circumstances in 1888. My digital camera, a recent purchase, hung around my neck, and I snapped a few pictures of the mansion’s facade, its windows dark and empty, the porch columns like rib bones.

Clara stood in front of the gate, laughing as I framed the shot, the lantern light catching the auburn highlights in her hair. I took two photos in quick succession, the flash illuminating the shadows for a split second. When I reviewed them on the camera’s small screen, my breath caught in my throat. In the first photo, just above Clara’s left shoulder, floating in the air about a foot from her head, was a face. It was a man’s face, gaunt and pale, with hollow cheeks and eyes that seemed to be staring directly at the lens. His mouth was open as if in a silent scream, and he wore a high-collared coat that looked like it belonged to another century.

I blinked, zooming in on the image. The face was unmistakable, not a smudge or a light anomaly, but a distinct visage with clear features. Clara, noticing my sudden stillness, peered at the camera. Her smile faded. ‘What is that?’ she whispered.

I took another picture of the same spot, but the face was gone. The empty air was just that—empty. I showed the photo to Silas, who had just called our group to enter the house. He studied it, his face unreadable, then handed it back. ‘You’ve captured a resident,’ he said, his voice low. ‘The house has many. That would be Mr. Devereaux himself, I’d guess. He doesn’t like it when people stand where his daughter used to play.’ He paused, ‘He’s probably just curious. But be careful not to invite him home with you.’

The tour took us through the mansion’s decaying rooms. Dust motes danced in the lantern light, and the floors creaked beneath our feet. I felt a cold spot in the upstairs hallway, and my camera battery, which had been fully charged, dropped to fifty percent for no reason. Clara gripped my arm, her eyes darting to every shadow. We finished the tour quickly, eager to leave the oppressive atmosphere behind.

Back at our hotel, I couldn’t shake the image. I uploaded the photo to my laptop, zooming in further. The face was now even clearer. There was a small scar above the left eyebrow, and the coat had brass buttons. I showed it to Clara, who shuddered. ‘It’s not me,’ she said. ‘It’s not anyone we know.’

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept seeing the face in my mind, the silent scream, the hollow eyes. I got up to get a glass of water and passed by the window of our hotel room. The street below was empty, but for a moment, I thought I saw a figure standing under the lamppost across the street, a tall man in a high-collared coat. When I blinked, he was gone.

The next morning, we decided to leave early. As we packed, Clara noticed something on the dresser. A small, brass button. It had four holes, just like the ones on the coat in the photo. I hadn’t seen it before. It wasn’t ours.

We returned home, but the memory lingered. I developed the film, even though the camera was digital, just to see if the face would appear in physical form. The prints came back, and in the one from the gate, the face was still there, fading slightly, but unmistakable. I researched the Devereaux House online and found old photographs of Alistair Devereaux. The man in my photo was him, I was sure of it.

But the strangest part came weeks later. We had put the brass button in a drawer, largely forgetting about it. One evening, as I was closing the drawer, I noticed something else—a small, folded piece of paper I hadn’t seen before. It was yellowed with age, and the handwriting was ornate. It read: ‘To the one who carries my image, you are now bound to my watch. I have been waiting for company. Do not think you can escape so easily.’

I laughed it off, but my hands were shaking. We moved to a new apartment, hoping to leave it behind. But sometimes, at night, I catch a glimpse of a tall man in a high-collared coat standing at the foot of our bed, his mouth open in a silent scream. And every time I look at the photo, the face seems a little closer, a little more defined, as if it’s waiting for the moment when it will step out of the frame and into our world.