The Lantern at Larch Crossing

I’ve always prided myself on being a rational person. As a documentary photographer, my job is to capture reality, not to chase phantoms. So when my colleague, a folklorist named Elias, told me about the spectral figure that supposedly haunted the old iron bridge at Larch Crossing, I laughed. He described a woman in a long coat, holding a lantern, who would appear at dusk and vanish when approached. I chalked it up to local legend, the kind that small towns cling to. But Elias was persistent, and he knew I’d be passing near Larch Crossing on my way to a project in the northern territories. He gave me a photograph he’d found in the town’s archive—a faded image from the 1940s, purportedly showing the ghost. I studied it: a blurry shape, a faint glow, nothing conclusive. I stuffed it in my bag, more out of politeness than interest.

Larch Crossing is a dwindling village, barely a dot on the map. The bridge itself is a rusting iron structure, spanning a narrow, dark river called the Morrow. I arrived just before sunset, intending to photograph the bridge for its architectural decay. The air was damp and cold, carrying the scent of wet stone and decay. As I set up my tripod, I noticed an old woman at the bridge’s far end. She wore a heavy, dark coat, and held an old-fashioned lantern, its glass flickering with a warm, unnatural light. It was strange—the sun was still up, if barely. But what struck me more was her stillness. She didn’t seem to be looking at anything, just standing there, as if waiting. I raised my camera to take a shot, but when I looked through the viewfinder, she was gone.

I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature. I scanned the riverbanks, the trees, but there was no sign of her. I told myself it was a local playing a prank, or maybe my eyes playing tricks. I decided to cross the bridge to the other side, to investigate where she’d been. The iron planks groaned under my boots, and the river below seemed to swallow all sound. When I reached the spot, I found nothing—only a small, rusted oil lamp lying on the ground, its glass broken. I picked it up. It was warm, as if recently lit. I pocketed it, thinking I might use it for a prop in a photo. As I walked back, I noticed the photograph Elias had given me sticking out of my bag. I pulled it out and looked at it again. The blurry shape in the image—was it the same figure? I couldn’t be sure, but the glow in the photo matched the lantern I now held.

That night, I stayed in a small inn at the edge of the village. The innkeeper, a weathered man named Royce, asked about my day. I mentioned the woman on the bridge. His face turned pale. ‘You saw her?’ he asked. ‘You shouldn’t have taken her lantern.’ I laughed, but he was serious. He told me the legend: the woman was a ferryman’s wife, who drowned in the Morrow while waiting for her husband to return. Her lantern was said to guide lost souls across the river. But if someone took her lantern, she would follow them, seeking its return. I dismissed it as superstition, but I couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. That night, I dreamed of the woman, standing at the foot of my bed, her face hidden in the shadows, her hand reaching out.

I woke to find the lamp on my bedside table, its flame flickering without a source. I tried to blow it out, but the flame wouldn’t die. I threw it in my bag and left early, determined to put distance between myself and that place. But as I drove away, the lamp grew hotter, and I could swear I saw the woman in my rearview mirror, standing on the bridge, watching me. The farther I drove, the more uneasy I felt. I stopped at a diner for lunch, and when I opened my bag, the lamp was gone. But then I saw it—sitting on the counter next to me, as if it had been there all along. The waitress looked at it, then at me, and whispered, ‘You shouldn’t have taken that.’

I tried to leave the lamp behind, but every time I did, it reappeared. I began to see the woman in reflections—in shop windows, in the side mirror of my car, in the corner of my eye. She always held the lantern—or was it my lantern now? The more I tried to get rid of it, the more it clung to me. I became paranoid, losing sleep, my grip on reality fraying. I called Elias, who was horrified. ‘You have to return it,’ he said. ‘But to where? I’ve left Larch Crossing.’ ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said. ‘She’s tied to the lantern. You have to give it back to the river.’ So I drove back, the lamp burning in the passenger seat, my hands sweating on the wheel.

I reached the bridge at dusk, the sky bleeding orange and purple. The river was dark, almost black. I stood at the center of the bridge, the lantern in my hands. The flame was bright, almost blinding, and I could feel a presence behind me. I turned. She was there, closer than ever, her face still hidden, but I could see the outline of a hand reaching for the lantern. I took a step back, my heart pounding. ‘I’m sorry,’ I stammered. ‘I didn’t know.’ She didn’t speak, but the lantern’s flame swayed, as if in response. I held the lantern out, and she took it. Her fingers brushed mine—cold, like the river. She turned and walked toward the edge of the bridge, and as she reached the railing, she vanished, leaving only a faint glow on the water.

The lantern was gone. I stood there, my breath fogging in the cold air. I felt a sudden emptiness, as if something had been taken from me. I walked back to my car, my legs weak. I drove away, and for a while, I thought it was over. But weeks later, back in my apartment, I found a small, rusted lantern on my kitchen table. And in the reflection of the window, I saw a woman in a long coat standing behind me, waiting. She doesn’t want the lantern anymore. She wants company. And she’s patient.