The Lantern Between

April 1, 2026

by Jonas

In the small town of Maplehurst, Ontario, I lived in a creaky farmhouse that had been in my family for generations. My name is Alex, and I’ve always been fascinated by the paranormal, but my experiences were never scary—just odd. I took countless photos of my pets, hoping to catch something otherworldly, and occasionally I’d see faint orbs, especially at night.

My first dog, Biscuit, was a golden retriever who lived to a ripe old age. After he passed, I adopted a young, energetic border collie named Jasper. I loved taking pictures of them together. One evening, as they sat side by side on the porch, I snapped a photo. When I looked at the image, there was a small, glowing orb hovering right between them. It seemed to have a tiny smile, which gave me an uneasy chill. I shook it off, thinking it was a lens flare or dust.

I continued my routine, capturing occasional orbs in night shots, but nothing as clear as that one. Then, tragedy struck: Jasper developed a sudden illness and had to be put down at only eighteen months old. I was devastated, especially since I’d had him for just over a year. I buried him in the backyard under the old oak tree, next to Biscuit.

A few months later, I adopted a rescued husky named Luna. She was a sweet, gentle soul, and we quickly bonded. In the evenings, I’d sit on the porch with a camera, half-heartedly taking photos, mostly for the nostalgia. One night, I took a picture of Luna lying on the grass. When I checked the screen, there was a familiar orb—the same smiling one—floating just above her head. My heart raced. I called out, ‘Mom? Jasper?’ but there was no response, only the rustling of leaves.

I started noticing the orb more frequently, always appearing in photos taken near the old oak tree. It seemed to follow Luna, sometimes right next to her, sometimes in the background. I began to wonder if it was a spirit watching over us. One evening, I decided to set up a camera on a tripod and take a time-lapse of the yard. The next morning, I reviewed the footage. At 3:33 AM, a faint light appeared, growing brighter until it formed a small, humanoid shape. It looked like a little girl in a white dress, holding a lantern. She walked slowly toward the oak tree, then disappeared. I was stunned.

I dug through family records and discovered that a girl named Emily had lived on this land in the early 1900s. She had died of scarlet fever at age seven. Her family had buried her under the same oak tree. I felt compelled to photograph her grave, which was just a small, flat stone. That night, I took a picture of the grave. In the photo, the smiling orb was there, and alongside it, a larger, clearer orb of a woman. I knew it was my mom, who had passed away two years ago. I felt a warm presence, not fear.

I realized these orbs were not just random lights—they were the spirits of those I loved, showing their presence in the only way they could. I began to have conversations with the air, telling them I missed them. Luna would sometimes stare at the empty space and wag her tail.

One evening, I was sitting on the porch with Luna. I took a photo of her with my phone. When I looked at it, I saw three orbs: the smiling one, the larger woman-shaped one, and a small, dim one that I recognized as Jasper. They were all gathered around Luna, as if protecting her. I broke down crying, but not from fear—from gratitude. I realized that death doesn’t end love; it just changes its form.

I still take photos, but now I cherish each orb sighting as a visit from a loved one. I’ve stopped trying to explain them. Instead, I’ve made a scrapbook of the images, each one a snapshot of a spirit saying, ‘I’m still here.’ And every night, when I see the soft glow near the oak tree, I say, ‘Goodnight, Mom. Goodnight, Jasper.’ And I feel the warmth of their presence, like a lantern guiding me through the dark.

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