The Hollow Lantern Ritual

I never truly left the old farmhouse, even after I’d moved to the city. The gravel road that led to it felt like a vein leading back to a heart I couldn’t sever. But jobs, life, and the buzzing of the city had a way of thinning those visits until they were just memories. For two years, I hadn’t seen the place. So when I promised myself I’d be there for Halloween, I knew I had to keep it. The farmhouse sat at the end of a lane lined with ancient oaks, their branches heavy with orange and brown leaves. The porch sagged slightly, and the green shutters were faded, but it was still our home. Mom had kept it alive, and I could smell woodsmoke as I pulled up, a pot of chili bubbling on the stove inside. She met me at the door, her arms wide, and I sank into her embrace. ‘You look thin,’ she said, but her eyes were warm. ‘Come in, the pumpkins are ready to carve.’

That evening, we sat at the kitchen table, the smell of pumpkin guts mixing with the cinnamon candles she loved. We’d kept up the tradition every year, ever since the seance in 2001 went wrong. She’d told me the story a hundred times: how Madame M had summoned something that wasn’t a spirit, how the candles had blown out and the table had lifted off the floor, and how a cold breath had whispered her name. Since then, she’d turned the incident into a celebration, decorating the farmhouse like a shrine to the macabre. Jack-o’-lanterns lined the front walk, their faces carved with grins and snarls. Green string lights snaked along the gutters, and plastic tombstones dotted the yard under the swaying oaks. The local kids loved it, and a rumor had spread that pranksters who messed with our decorations found themselves followed by a silent figure all the way home. We never corrected that. It kept the vandals away.

This year, there was a new decoration. Mom had found an old iron lantern at the flea market a few weeks ago, its glass cloudy and rusted. She’d hung it from the gable over the front door, but it was too dim to light properly. ‘I thought we could burn a candle in it tonight,’ she said, as we carved our pumpkins. ‘For the ones who aren’t with us.’ I nodded, but a chill ran down my spine. The last time we’d tried to honor the unseen, it had called something through.

Around dusk, we placed the final pumpkin at the bottom of the steps. The yard looked magical – the green light made the tombstones look like they were glowing from within, and the orange flicker from the grinning faces danced across the grass. Trick-or-treaters came in waves, their costumes a blur of princesses and skeletons. Mom had made her famous hot cider, and I noticed she kept glancing at the iron lantern. ‘I think I’ll light it now,’ she said, and before I could protest, she was inside, returning with a match. She climbed a small stool and set the wick alight. The flame was small, a sickly yellow, but it cast an odd pattern through the rusted metal – it looked like a spiral, turning slowly. ‘That’s not possible,’ I said, but Mom just smiled. ‘It’s just the light through the imperfections,’ she said, but her voice was low.

As the night deepened, the trick-or-treaters thinned. We sat on the porch, sipping cider, watching the lantern. The spiral pattern on the ground seemed to pulse, and I realized the wind had died – the leaves hung still. ‘Mom, I think we should take that down,’ I said, but she shook her head. ‘It’s just for tonight. It’s a celebration.’ A shadow moved at the edge of the yard, beside the tallest tombstone. I stood, squinting. A figure stood there – tall, thin, wearing a dark coat. I thought it was just a prankster, but it didn’t move. ‘Hey!’ I called. No response. I walked down the steps, my boots crunching on the leaves. As I approached, the figure seemed to shift, and I saw that its face was blank – no features at all. It raised a hand, and the lantern behind me flickered. I ran back to the porch, but Mom was staring at the ground at her feet. The spiral pattern had expanded, now glowing faintly on the grass. ‘It’s coming,’ she whispered. ‘What’s coming?’ I asked, but she didn’t answer. The hooded figure took a step, then another, and it was coming toward the porch.

I pulled Mom inside and slammed the door, but the shadow was already through the keyhole. It seeped under the door, a dark mist that coalesced in the middle of the room. The fireplace flames turned green, and the temperature dropped. Mom was chanting something under her breath – it sounded like Latin, words I’d never heard her say. ‘I know what this is,’ she said, her eyes wide. ‘From the seance. I thought we’d sealed it, but the lantern – it’s a focus.’ The mist swirled, forming a face – gaunt, ancient, with hollow eyes. It spoke, and its voice was the rustle of dead leaves. ‘You called me. I am here.’

The lantern outside flared, and the spiral burned onto the windows. I grabbed a fire poker, but Mom stopped me. ‘No, you have to extinguish the lantern. It needs to be in the dark.’ I ran to the door, but the mist blocked me, a freezing hand pressing against my chest. I pushed through, feeling the cold bite into my flesh, and reached the porch. The lantern’s flame was bright now, almost white. I didn’t have a ladder, but I grabbed a chair and climbed, just as the lantern exploded. Glass showered down, and the flame disappeared. The spiral on the ground vanished, and I heard a high keening from inside. I rushed back in – Mom was on the floor, but she was conscious, gasping. The mist was gone, but the room felt empty.

We sat in silence for a long time. Mom finally spoke, her voice weak. ‘I found that lantern at an estate sale – it belonged to Madame M’s granddaughter. I didn’t know what it was.’ She coughed, and I helped her to the couch. ‘I think it’s okay now,’ she said, but I wasn’t sure. The house felt different – the walls seemed too close. We didn’t sleep that night; we just held each other until dawn. When light finally filtered through the windows, I looked outside – the pumpkins were all shattered, their faces missing. The tombstone where the figure had stood was overturned, and underneath it was a small, rusted lock. I picked it up, and it was warm.

I stayed for Thanksgiving, but we never lit the lantern again. But sometimes, at night, I hear a rustling outside, and when I look out the window, I see the spiral pattern etched faintly on the dead grass, as if it’s waiting. Mom says it’s just the wind, but I know better. That lantern was a door, and we cracked it open. We didn’t close it – we just turned off the light. But doors can be opened again, and I know that something is still out there, waiting for us to make a mistake. I’ve thought about moving back, to keep an eye on Mom, but I’m afraid that this house, with its beautiful autumn colors and its memories, has a price. And I’m not sure I’m ready to pay it.

Now, as Halloween approaches again, I call Mom every day. She says she’s fine, but she’s started leaving the porch light on all night, and she’s planted new flowers in the yard – black roses. I haven’t been back since, but I dream of that lantern, and in my dreams, it’s still burning, its flame never goes out. I know that one day, I’ll have to face it. But for now, I’m just trying to pretend that the rustling outside my window is just the wind, and that the cold breath on my neck is just the draft. I’m trying not to look too closely at the shadows, because I know that if I do, I’ll see the spiral, and I’ll have to go back.

This Halloween, I’ll be there. Because I can’t let Mom face it alone. And maybe, if we’re careful, we can close the door for good. But I’m not sure if you can close a door that was never meant to be opened. All I know is that the lantern is gone, but its light still lingers, and every year on Halloween, the spiral appears on the grass, just for a moment. And I know that we’re not the only ones who remember. We’re not the only ones waiting.