The Hollow Lantern

The flyer was taped to the bulletin board at the gas station, the paper yellowed and curling at the edges. It advertised a ‘Public Paranormal Investigation’ at the Derelict Creamery, an old butter factory outside of Millbrook that had been abandoned since the 1980s. My wife, Clara, had seen a segment about the town’s ‘ghost hunting society’ on the local access channel and had been talking about it for weeks. I was skeptical, but she’d been through a rough patch lately, and I figured a night out might do her good. So I bought us tickets, even though the price was a bit steep for what I thought would be a bunch of people waving EMF meters around a dusty building.

The night of the investigation, we drove out past the edge of town, the gravel road crunching under the tires. The Creamery sat at the end of the lane, a hulking silhouette against the darkening sky. The parking lot was already half-full, and a cluster of people in dark jackets stood near the entrance, flashlights bobbing. We were greeted by a man named Gerald, who introduced himself as the lead investigator of the ‘Millbrook Spectral Society.’ He was all business, handing us waivers and a list of rules: no running, no shouting, and no touching anything. I noticed he didn’t say anything about the spirits being friendly. Clara squeezed my hand, excited, and I tightened my grip on my camera, hoping to get some fun shots of dust motes.

Inside, the Creamery was cavernous and cold, the air thick with the smell of rust and old grease. The main floor was lined with steel vats and pipes, all crusted with residue. The floor was slick in places, and our footsteps echoed eerily. Gerald led the group through a brief history: a worker had died in the 1970s when a vat of boiling milk had spilled, and there were rumors of a janitor who had vanished without a trace in 1983. ‘We’ve had reports of a man in overalls,’ Gerald said, ‘and sometimes the sound of a motor starting up. None of it is malevolent, just residual.’ He smiled, but the expression didn’t reach his eyes.

We were split into small groups and assigned to different areas. Clara and I were paired with a couple named the Morrows, who were seasoned ghost hunters with their own equipment. They set up a digital recorder in a corner and turned off their flashlights, telling us to just listen. The darkness was absolute, and the silence was oppressive. After a few minutes, a low hum started, a vibration that seemed to come from the floor itself. The Morrows exchanged a look. ‘That’s not the HVAC,’ the husband whispered. The hum grew louder, and I felt a cold spot on the back of my neck, like someone was breathing down my shirt. I raised my camera, and the LCD screen flickered, showing a static that formed shapes—not faces, but concentric circles, like ripples in water.

I lowered the camera, and the hum stopped abruptly. A voice, thin and reedy, drifted from the direction of the vats: ‘You shouldn’t have come.’ Clara grabbed my arm. The Morrows were already packing up their equipment, muttering about ‘negative energy.’ Gerald appeared from the gloom, his face pale. ‘Time to regroup,’ he said, but his voice was strained. We all gathered near the entrance, and Gerald was about to speak when the lights above flickered. The front door, which had been propped open with a doorstop, swung shut with a heavy clang. The sound was final, like a coffin lid.

Then, from the intercom system—which we’d been told was disconnected—came a burst of static, and a voice, distorted and warbling, said, ‘No one leaves until the butter is churned.’ The group erupted in nervous laughter, but it died quickly. The Morrows rushed to the door and tried to push it open, but it wouldn’t budge. We were trapped. The windows were barred, and the only other exit was a fire door that was rusted shut. I looked at Clara, and I saw pure terror in her eyes. This wasn’t a fun ghost hunt. This was a trap.

Over the next hour, we tried everything to get out. Phones had no signal. The intercom kept crackling, repeating that phrase about the butter. And then, one by one, the group members started to disappear. We’d count heads, and someone was missing. The Morrows vanished while we were searching the basement. Gerald was last seen heading toward the office. Clara and I huddled in a corner by the vats, the only two left. The hum returned, stronger now, and I could hear a rhythmic sloshing sound, like liquid being stirred. The vat beside me, which had been empty, was suddenly filled with a milky liquid, and the surface rippled as if something was moving beneath it.

I grabbed Clara’s hand and ran for the fire door, throwing my shoulder against it. It gave way with a groan, and we spilled out into the cool night air. We didn’t stop running until we reached the car. I fumbled for the keys, my hands shaking. As I started the engine, I looked back at the Creamery. The lights were on inside, casting a sickly glow, and I could see silhouettes moving past the windows—many of them, all walking in a slow, deliberate circle. The radio in the car crackled to life, and a voice that sounded like Gerald’s came through, but it was deeper, more guttural: ‘The butter is churned. The milk is sour. You’ll be back.’ We drove off, not speaking, the gravel spitting behind us.

We didn’t go home. We drove to the police station in Millbrook, but when we tried to report what happened, the officer on duty looked at us with a strange smile. ‘The Creamery? There was a fire there last night. No survivors. We can’t find any record of the Spectral Society, either.’ He tapped his pen on the desk. ‘You say you were there? You don’t look like you’ve been in a fire.’ I looked at Clara, and she was looking at me. I noticed that the skin on my arm was pale, almost translucent, and I could see the veins beneath, pulsing with a faint blue light. Clara’s hand, which was resting on the desk, was doing the same. The officer leaned forward, his eyes glinting. ‘Welcome to the night shift. You’ll get used to it.’ We stumbled out of the station, and outside, the streetlights flickered. In the reflection of the window, I saw not our faces, but the faces of the other missing people, all staring back at us with hollow eyes. The last thing I heard before the blackness took us was that same voice, whispering from the intercom: ‘No one leaves until the butter is churned.’