The Lantern in the Attic

I was eleven when we moved into the old Harlow house on Cedar Lane, a rambling Victorian that had stood empty for nearly a decade. My father had inherited it from a distant uncle he’d never met, and we were too poor to turn down a free home, even one with peeling wallpaper and a yard overgrown with waist-high weeds. From the first night, I felt it—a prickling at the back of my neck, as if something was watching from the dark corners of my bedroom. I told myself it was just the unfamiliar house, the creaks and groans of an old structure settling, but the feeling never quite went away.

My room was at the end of the upstairs hallway, with a single window that looked over the tangled garden and the iron fence that bordered the property. At night, I would lie in bed and watch the shadows stretch across the ceiling, imagining faces in the water stains. Sometimes I would hear a soft tapping on the glass, but when I looked, there was nothing there. My little sister, Lily, who was only six, started sleeping with a nightlight, and even then she would sometimes crawl into my bed, saying she heard someone whispering her name. I told her it was just the wind, but I didn’t believe it myself.

One night, I woke to the sound of my closet door creaking open. I knew I had shut it firmly before bed—I always did, because the darkness inside seemed deeper than it should be. I lay frozen, listening to the slow, grating sound of wood against wood, and then a soft click as the latch settled. I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, and in the faint moonlight that filtered through the curtains, I saw something—a darker shape, a silhouette that was somehow not quite solid, standing in the doorway of the closet. It was tall, almost reaching the top of the frame, and it seemed to be looking at me, though it had no eyes. I squeezed my eyes shut and counted to a hundred, and when I opened them, the shape was gone, but the closet door stood open, and I could see the empty hangers swaying slightly as if something had brushed past them.

After that night, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the house was not just old, but haunted. I started hearing things—a faint scraping sound from the attic, just above my ceiling, like something being dragged across the floor. My parents dismissed it as rats or squirrels, but I knew better. I began to explore the house during the day, trying to find any explanation, and that’s when I discovered the hidden door at the back of the pantry that led to a narrow staircase going up to the attic. The door was locked with a heavy iron padlock, and the key was nowhere to be found. I asked my father about it, and he just shrugged, saying he’d never bothered with the attic; it was probably full of old junk. But I saw a flicker of unease in his eyes, as if he knew more than he was letting on.

My unease grew as the days passed. I started having nightmares—vivid, horrible dreams in which I was trapped in the attic, surrounded by old furniture and trunks, and a cold, suffocating presence was pressing down on me. I would wake up gasping, my sheets soaked with sweat, and I would hear that scraping sound above me, faint but distinct, as if the nightmare was bleeding into reality. I tried to tell my mother, but she just said I had an overactive imagination and that we should all get more sleep. But I knew I wasn’t imagining it, especially when I found a small, tarnished brass lantern in the garden, half-buried in the weeds. It was old and dusty, but when I cleaned it off, I saw that there was a candle stub inside, and the glass was cracked. I brought it inside and put it on my nightstand, thinking it might be a nice decoration, but that night, I woke to see it glowing with a cold, blue light, and I could swear I saw a figure standing behind it, holding it up as if to look at me.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I decided to find a copy of the key to the attic, or pick the lock myself. I waited until my parents were out—they had gone to a dinner party and left me and my sister with a babysitter, Mrs. Drumm, who spent most of the time watching TV in the living room. As soon as Lily was asleep, I crept downstairs with a paperclip and a screwdriver from the kitchen drawer. The padlock was old and rusty, and after a few minutes of fiddling, I managed to pop it open. The door creaked inward, revealing a dark, dusty staircase. I grabbed a flashlight from my room, and with my heart pounding, I climbed the stairs.

The attic was even more cluttered than I had imagined—old trunks, broken chairs, a spinning wheel, and stacks of moldering books. A thick layer of dust coated everything, and in the beam of the flashlight, I could see the swirling particles dancing in the air. At the far end of the attic, I saw a large, draped object covered by a moth-eaten canvas. I pulled the canvas aside, and there it was—a full-length mirror in an ornate wooden frame, the glass blackened with tarnish. It was then that I noticed the lantern I had found was sitting on a nearby table, and I could see my own reflection in the mirror, illuminated by the cold blue light that seemed to emanate from the lantern. But as I watched, my reflection changed. The figure in the mirror was no longer me, but a tall, gaunt man with hollow eyes, dressed in old-fashioned clothing. He pointed at me with a long, bony finger, and then he spoke, though his lips didn’t move—the words felt like they were inside my head.

‘I have been waiting for you,’ the figure said. ‘This is my house, and you are intruders. I need a new lantern bearer, and you will do.’

Panic seized me. I turned to run, but the door at the top of the attic stairs slammed shut, and I heard the click of a lock. I was trapped. The figure stepped out of the mirror, becoming solid, and as he approached, I could see that his body was made of smoke and shadow, and his eyes were like burning coals. He reached out and grabbed my arm, and his touch was like ice. ‘Join me,’ he hissed, and his hand felt tighter, pulling me toward the mirror. I could see the attic reflected in the glass, but it was empty, and I knew that if I went through, I would be lost.

In desperation, I remembered the lantern. It was still on the table, and without thinking, I grabbed it and threw it at the mirror. The glass shattered with a deafening crash, and the figure screamed—a high, piercing sound that seemed to shake the entire house. He faded, dissolving into the darkness, and the lock on the door clicked open. I scrambled down the stairs, out of the attic, and into the hallway, where I found my sister standing at the top of the stairs, crying. She said she had heard my screams. I hugged her and whispered that everything was okay, but I could still feel the cold touch on my arm, and I knew that whatever it was, it wasn’t gone, just waiting.

We moved out of the house a week later. My parents never learned the full story—I just said I had a bad feeling, and they found a new place quickly. But sometimes, in the quiet of night, I still hear a faint scraping sound above the ceiling, even in our new apartment. And sometimes, in the corner of my eye, I see a tall, dark figure holding a lantern, watching me from the edges of the dark. I know it will never truly leave me, and I keep that lantern buried in the bottom of my closet, wrapped in a cloth, hoping it stays there. But deep down, I know the lantern bearer was real, and that he might still be looking for a new one, and that I can never escape the attic of my mind.