The Lantern Field

The night air was thick with the smell of wet hay and rust. Mara had spent the evening at Ellie’s farmhouse, their fingers tracing the faded letters on a wooden planchette that felt older than the town itself. They had asked it questions—silly things, mostly—but the last answer had made the candle gutter and Ellie’s face go pale. ‘Who is the third?’ the planchette had spelled. There were only two of them. Mara had laughed it off, but the unease clung to her like cobwebs.

By the time she stepped out, the moon was a sliver behind clouds, and the clock on Ellie’s mantel had chimed eleven. The half-mile walk home cut through the Lantern Field, a stretch of land where the town’s old carnival used to stand. The rides were gone, but rusted poles and a collapsed ticket booth still dotted the tall grass. Mara clutched the Ouija board under her arm, the wooden box smooth and cold. She took the path she always did, a narrow dirt trail that wound between the remnants of the fairway.

About five minutes in, she heard it: a soft, rhythmic padding on the dirt. She glanced to her right and saw a black dog—a lab, maybe—trotting beside her, its head low, its pace matching hers. Its eyes caught the dim light, but they didn’t reflect like they should. They were flat, like chips of dark glass. ‘Shoo,’ Mara said, waving her hand. ‘Go on.’ The dog didn’t flinch. It just stayed, a foot away, its breath a steady, wet sound.

Mara quickened her steps. The grass on either side seemed taller now, the shadows deeper. She could hear her own heartbeat. The dog’s steps quickened with hers, keeping perfect time. She tried to ignore it, focusing on the distant light from her porch—a yellow bulb that seemed impossibly far. The field felt larger than it should. She passed the old ticket booth, and for a moment she thought she saw a figure inside, but it was just a sack of torn canvas.

She started to run. The board under her arm bumped painfully against her ribs. The dog stayed with her, a black blur at her side. She could feel its warmth, its breath on her wrist. ‘Why won’t you leave?’ she gasped. The dog didn’t bark. It didn’t growl. It just ran.

Finally, she reached her front steps. Her hands shook as she fumbled for her key. The dog stopped, sitting down a few yards away, its eyes fixed on her. She unlocked the door and turned to look at it. The dog was gone. The street was empty. She scanned left and right—nothing. But as she stepped inside, she heard a sound from the box under her arm: a faint, rhythmic scratch, like a nail on wood.

She set the board on her kitchen table and opened it. The planchette was sliding across the board, all by itself, gliding in slow arcs. She watched, frozen, as it spelled a single word: ‘Home.’