The Lantern in the Brambles

The afternoon had settled over the old mill town like a gray blanket, muffling sound and color. My cousin Elsie, my brother Daniel, and I were making our way up the steep, tangled hillside behind St. Helen’s Chapel, our bicycles scraping past the dead stalks of cow parsley and the low, gnarled hawthorn bushes. The hill, known locally as the Plague Banks, was said to hold the unmarked remains of those who perished in the great sickness, and a heavy quiet lay over it, broken only by the rustle of dry grass and our own labored breathing.

We’d been told to stay off the Banks, but the boundary of the ‘no go’ zone had always been a dare, and the chapel’s spire, tilting slightly above the treeline, seemed to watch our progress. My hands were cold even inside my woolen gloves, and the bike frame was a chill against my thigh. As we neared the summit, I looked up from the tangle of briars and saw a figure: a man in a long black coat, his back to us, standing perfectly still about twenty yards ahead. At his feet, a large black dog, its coat glossy, sat without moving, its head pointed toward a cluster of thorn bushes. ‘Oh, it’s the minister,’ I whispered, my voice catching. ‘We shouldn’t be here.’

But Elsie, fierce and unbothered, said, ‘He hasn’t seen us. He’s just standing there. Probably looking at a rabbit hole.’ We pushed forward, our bikes groaning, until we were within ten yards. The man didn’t turn. The dog didn’t move. The only sound was the wind, which seemed to be coming from the earth itself, low and hollow. I noticed then that the minister’s coat was buttoned up to the collar, and his head was bowed as if in prayer. But there was something wrong about his stillness, the way his shoulders didn’t rise and fall with breath.

Daniel, always eager to break a spell, called out, ‘Afternoon, sir!’ The man turned slowly, and I saw his face. It was not a face I knew, but it was terribly familiar in a way that made my stomach drop. His skin was the color of old paper, stretched tight across his skull, and his eyes were black, like wet stones. He smiled, and his teeth were long and yellowed. The dog stood and began to walk toward us, but it didn’t make any sound, not a single footfall. I saw that its eyes were the same black stones.

We stumbled back, our bikes clattering to the ground. The minister took a step forward, and the grass around his feet seemed to wither and curl. ‘You shouldn’t be here,’ he said, his voice like dry leaves rubbing together. ‘This is a place of rest.’ He gestured with a thin hand toward the thorn bushes, and I saw, half-hidden, a rusted iron lantern. It had a flickering light inside, though there was no wind to move it. ‘He died with his lantern,’ the minister said, nodding at the dog. ‘A shepherd, long ago. The plague caught him, and he wouldn’t leave his flock. He’s been waiting for someone to take his place.’

The dog came closer, its head low. I wanted to run, but my legs were like lead. The minister reached into his coat and pulled out a small, tarnished key on a chain. ‘The hill is full of them,’ he said. ‘The unquiet. They come back, you see, because they never finished their work. They seek a lantern that will never be lit.’ He held out the key to me. ‘You can light it, if you wish. But once lit, it cannot be put out.’

Elsie grabbed my arm. ‘Don’t touch it,’ she hissed. The dog stopped, and its black-stone eyes fixed on me. I felt a chill that was not from the day, and I knew that if I took the key, something terrible would follow. I shook my head. The minister’s smile faded, and his mouth opened in a silent O. ‘Then you must leave, and never return,’ he said. ‘But the lantern will want its light. It will find a way.’

The wind rose, bending the grass, and the lantern’s flame guttered. In that moment, the man and dog seemed to blur, like a reflection in disturbed water. Daniel pulled me backward, and we ran, leaving our bikes behind, hurtling down the hill through the brambles, tearing our jackets, not stopping until we reached the canal path. When we looked back, the hillside was empty, but I thought I saw a flicker of light among the thorns.

We told no one, not even our parents. We retrieved our bikes the next day, finding them just where we’d left them, except the grass beneath them was brown and dead. I never went near the Banks again. But sometimes, at dusk, when the light is low, I see that man and his dog from the corner of my eye, standing at the edge of the woods, waiting. And I know the lantern is still there, in the brambles, waiting for someone brave enough to light it. I pray it never finds me.