The Lantern at Fernhill Junction

In the autumn of 1987, I took a job as a junior clerk at the National Bank of Meridian, and was posted to the Fernhill branch, a sleepy outpost in the Blue Ridge foothills. I had just graduated, and the posting felt like an exile, but the mountains were a balm. I rented a small room in a boarding house run by a widow named Mrs. Holloway, and soon fell in with a group of fellow bachelors—surveyors, teachers, and a telegraph operator. On weekends, we borrowed each other’s bicycles and rode the winding roads, exploring the misty valleys and cascading waterfalls.

One Saturday, I borrowed a sturdy bicycle from my friend, Arthur, a surveyor who had grown up in these hills. I planned to ride to the village of Upper Fernhill to visit a colleague, and I left the boarding house at five in the evening. The sky was already turning amber, and a cool breeze carried the scent of pine and damp earth. The road snaked through dense woods, and I pedaled leisurely, enjoying the solitude.

At a place called Fernhill Junction, where the road forked toward the old guest house, I spotted a small tea stall—a rickety wooden shack with a corrugated tin roof, a kerosene lantern swinging from a pole. The stall was run by an old man with gnarled hands and a face like cracked leather. I had never seen him before, but he smiled toothlessly and poured me a steaming cup of tea. The brew was strong and sweet, and I lingered, watching the mist roll down the hills.

As I paid, the old man looked at me with watery eyes and said, ‘You shouldn’t be out here after dark, son. The lantern burns bright, but it don’t keep the hill folk away.’ He nodded toward a narrow dirt path that vanished into the trees. I shrugged it off, thinking it was just local superstition, and finished my tea. The sun was dipping behind the ridges, and I knew I had to hurry. I thanked him and pedaled on.

But the road seemed longer than I remembered. The trees grew thicker, and the light dimmed faster than it should have. I passed a sign that read ‘Upper Fernhill, 3 miles,’ but after riding for what felt like an hour, the sign appeared again. I shivered, and at the same moment, my bicycle chain slipped off. I dismounted to fix it, and that’s when I saw the lantern. It was the same lantern from the tea stall—or one identical—swinging from a branch ahead, just off the path. It cast a pale, sickly glow that made the shadows writhe.

Curious and unnerved, I approached. The path widened into a clearing, and in the center stood a small, abandoned cottage. The roof had caved in, and ivy crawled over the walls, but a single window glowed with a faint, flickering light. I thought I saw a figure inside—a woman in a shawl, maybe—and I called out, ‘Hello? Is anyone there?’ There was no answer, but the light moved, as if someone were walking toward the door.

I took a step back, and the chain on my bicycle rattled. The door creaked open slowly, and a woman emerged, holding a brass lantern. Her face was pale, her eyes dark hollows. She wore a faded floral dress, decades old. She smiled, but it was wrong—too wide, too many teeth. ‘You must be the new clerk from the bank,’ she said, her voice like dry leaves. ‘I’ve been waiting. Please, come in. I have something to show you.’

Something in my gut screamed danger, but my legs were rooted. The woman beckoned, and I found myself walking toward her, as if in a trance. Inside, the cottage was neat but old-fashioned, with a fireplace, a spinning wheel, and photographs on the mantel. The photographs were of people I didn’t recognize, but all had the same hollow eyes. She pointed to a framed picture on the wall: a group of people standing in front of the tea stall, and in the background, a woman who looked exactly like her.

‘That was taken in 1910,’ she said. ‘Do you see the lantern? It’s been mine for many years. It guides the lost souls home. You’re lost, aren’t you, dear?’ I shook my head, but my voice was gone. She stepped closer, and I saw that her feet were bare, and there was a faint, rotting smell. ‘Stay with me,’ she whispered. ‘The night is long, and the hills are hungry.’

I forced myself to move, to back toward the door. She didn’t follow, but as I stumbled outside, I heard her laugh—a dry, crackling sound. I grabbed my bicycle and pedaled as fast as I could, but the road was a nightmare. Branches clawed at my face, and I swear I saw the same tea stall twice more, with the old man standing there, shaking his head. Finally, I burst into the lights of Upper Fernhill, my heart pounding, my shirt soaked with sweat.

I told my friend what happened, but he just pat me on the back and said, ‘Old Mrs. Kettle? She’s been dead for twenty years. You must have hit your head on a tree root.’ I didn’t believe him. That night, I couldn’t sleep. In the morning, I rode back to the junction to find the tea stall, but it was gone, and the path was overgrown. There was no cottage, no lantern. But later, when I unpacked my bag, I found a photograph I had never seen before: a picture of me, standing in front of that same cottage, with the woman at my side, smiling. On the back was written, in fading ink: ‘Remember me.’

I left Fernhill soon after, but the photo haunts me still. Sometimes, in the deepest part of the night, I hear a faint, dry laugh, and I see the glow of a lantern swinging in the dark, just out of reach. I never drank tea again.