The Lantern by the Reeds

My aunt Mirela never spoke of the night she spent in the old mill house without a tremor in her voice. It was thirty years ago, in a small village nestled along the banks of the Somes River in Romania. She and her husband, a hydrologist, had taken residence in a dilapidated watermill, its wooden beams groaning with age. The place had no indoor plumbing, so every trip to the latrine was a journey into the dark. But Mirela, then young and fearless, didn’t mind. She found the setting picturesque: the river whispering beneath the window, the reeds swaying like specters in the breeze, and the distant Carpathian mountains a silent guardian.

One autumn night, five months pregnant with my cousin, the familiar pressure woke her. The clock on the nightstand read 2:00 AM. The moon was full, casting a silver patina over the yard. She slipped on her coat and rubber boots, deciding to take the path along the riverbank to the public outhouse, a five-minute walk. The village was dead asleep, not a single light in the windows. She felt a peculiar stillness in the air, as if the world held its breath. The only sound was the crunch of gravel under her feet and the occasional hoot of an owl.

Halfway there, she noticed a figure standing by the water’s edge, about a hundred meters ahead. A man. He was tall, shrouded in a long coat, and he held a lantern aloft, the glass throwing a sickly orange glow. He wasn’t moving, just staring at the river. Mirela’s heart skipped. She slowed, considering turning back, but the urgent need pressed her on. Perhaps he was a fisherman, or a night watchman. She kept walking, her eyes fixed on the ground, hoping to pass unnoticed.

As she drew closer, she saw that the lantern’s flame cast no reflection on the water. And the man’s clothes seemed to shift, not with the wind, but as if they were made of fog. A cold dread coiled in her stomach. She quickened her pace, but her footsteps became muffled, as if the path had swallowed her sound. She glanced up, and the man was now directly ahead, blocking her way. His face was pale, almost translucent, and his eyes were hollow pits of darkness. He did not blink.

‘Please, let me pass,’ she whispered, clutching her belly. The man tilted his head, and a sound like water gurgling through reeds emanated from his throat. He raised his arm, and the lantern swung, scattering shimmering light across the reeds. They seemed to lean toward her, their dry whispers filling the silence. Mirela felt a strange pull, as if the riverbank were tilting, drawing her to the water.

She forced herself to focus on her unborn child, on her husband sleeping back at the mill. She took a shaky step sideways, then another, moving around the figure. The man made no move to stop her, but as she passed, a frigid breath washed over her neck, and a voice like rustling dry leaves said, ‘Missed you.’ She broke into a run, the outhouse suddenly seeming miles away. She slammed the door, her heart pounding, and waited until dawn light seeped through the cracks.

When she finally emerged, the man was gone. But the river, which had always been a gentle friend, now seemed to watch her. She never again left the mill at night without a companion. When she told me this story, she always paused at the lantern. ‘It was the lantern,’ she’d say, ‘it didn’t flicker. Not once.’ And I knew she meant that the flame was not of this world. To this day, whenever reeds rustle by the river, I listen for a whisper of ‘missed you,’ and I pray it is the wind.