The Lantern Game

In the autumn of 2015, I was living in the small town of Coldbrook, nestled in a valley where the sun disappeared behind the western ridge by late afternoon, leaving a long, eerie twilight. I was 52, a former Marine with a bum knee from a training accident, and I tried to stay in shape by power-walking around the gravel path at the town’s old fairgrounds, which had been converted into a park. The fairgrounds sat on the edge of a forest, and the main attraction was a large, rusted carousel that had been fenced off for years.

That evening, I took my eight-year-old stepson, Leo, with me. His mother, my wife, was working the night shift at the local clinic, and I thought the walk would tire him out. The park was empty, as usual. The sky was a deep violet, and the only light came from a single flickering lamppost near the entrance. The air smelled of damp leaves and something faintly metallic.

As we made our way around the track, Leo started pointing at the carousel. ‘Why is that horse glowing?’ he asked. I squinted, saw nothing, and told him it was probably just the sunset reflecting off the peeling paint. But then I noticed a small figure standing near the carousel, half-hidden behind the ticket booth. It was a girl, maybe nine years old, wearing an old-fashioned white dress and holding a lantern. The lantern cast a warm, honey-colored glow that seemed to cut through the dusk.

I called out, ‘Hey, are you lost?’ She didn’t respond. She just stood there, staring at us. Leo tugged my sleeve. ‘Who is she?’ I shrugged, but something felt wrong. The air grew colder, and my breath began to fog. The girl lifted the lantern and swung it slowly from side to side, like a signal. Then she turned and walked into the gap between the carousel and the woods, disappearing into the underbrush.

I told Leo to stay put, but he was already running after her. I shouted and limped after him, cursing my knee. The woods were dense, and the light from the girl’s lantern bobbed ahead, weaving between trees. I caught up to Leo, who was frozen at the edge of a clearing. In the center stood an old, mossy well, and the girl was standing beside it, now holding the lantern above her head. She spoke in a voice that didn’t sound like a child’s: ‘You shouldn’t have followed.’

Then she dropped the lantern into the well. There was a splash, and darkness engulfed us. I grabbed Leo’s hand and tried to pull him away, but the ground began to rumble. The well started to emit a low hum, and from its depths came the sound of many voices, whispering in unison. I felt a cold hand on my ankle, and I looked down to see a bony, translucent fingers wrapping around my leg. I kicked free, panic surging.

I scooped Leo into my arms and ran, but the forest seemed to have shifted. The path we came in on was gone, replaced by a wall of thorny brambles. The whispering grew louder, and I saw shapes moving in the darkness—tall, thin silhouettes that swayed like reeds. The girl appeared again, standing on a stump, her face now pale and streaked with mud. She smiled and said, ‘You can stay. We need company.’

I remembered the old story about Coldbrook: during the 1870s, a fire had burned down an orphanage on this land, killing dozens of children. Their remains were said to be buried near the fairgrounds, and some claimed their spirits still lingered, especially during the long dusk. The girl in the white dress was one of them—a spirit who lured others to join her in eternal wandering.

Desperate, I pulled out my phone. No signal. I yelled for help, but my voice echoed back at me, twisted. Then Leo, who had been silent, pointed past my shoulder. I turned to see a faint path opening through the brambles, illuminated by a shaft of moonlight. I ran toward it, feeling the cold recede, and burst out onto the park’s edge, collapsing on the grass. When I looked back, the forest was still, and the well was nowhere to be seen.

Leo was shaking in my arms. He whispered, ‘She said I could play the lantern game anytime I want.’ I clutched him tighter and didn’t sleep for a week. We moved away from Coldbrook a month later, but sometimes, in that fading light, I swear I see a flicker of honey-colored glow at the edge of our new town’s park, and I know she’s still waiting—for Leo, for me, for anyone who strays too close to the boundary between worlds.

I never went back to that park, and I never told anyone the full story. But if you ever hear a child humming a strange tune near a carousel in the dusk, leave. Don’t follow the light. Some games aren’t meant to be played.