The Lantern in the Cattails

My grandmother, Nana Iris, had a peculiar habit of pressing wildflowers between the pages of her Bible. But the one she warned me about most was the marsh marigold, which she called ‘the witch’s candle.’ She told me it grew where the drowned were buried, and its glow was the last thing they saw before the reeds pulled them under. I thought it was just a story to keep me from wandering into the Blackwater Fen after dusk. That was until the summer I turned seventeen, when I took a job as a night janitor at the Fenwick Library, a Victorian relic that sat on the edge of town, its back windows overlooking that same fen.

The last night of my shift, a Thursday, was stifling. The air was thick with humidity, and the old building’s radiators clanked even though it was July. I was finishing my rounds on the third floor, in the rare books section, when I noticed a light flickering out among the cattails below. It was a small, bluish-white flame, hovering just above the stagnant water, about a hundred yards out. I’d heard the stories, of course—ghost lights leading travelers to a watery grave, the spirits of unbaptized children trying to join the living. But seeing it was different. It pulsed, slow and rhythmic, like a heartbeat, and I felt a strange pull in my chest, a sudden desire to open the window and climb down.

I fought it. I remember Nana Iris’s voice in my head: ‘Never follow, child. It wants company.’ I grabbed my keys and hurried down the stairs, intending to leave through the front entrance. But as I reached the main floor, I saw the light through the tall reading room windows, bobbing just beyond the glass, as if it had moved to meet me. The pull grew stronger, and my legs moved without my permission, carrying me to the back door. I fumbled with the lock, my hands trembling, my mind screaming no, but my body driven by an unseen force. The door swung open, and the warm, putrid smell of the fen washed over me. The flame waited, bobbing gently, like it was greeting an old friend.

I stepped onto the wooden walkway that led into the marsh, my sneakers sinking into the wet planking. The flame retreated, keeping a precise distance, always leading me deeper. The cattails rose on either side, tall and dry, rustling with a sound like whispering. I could hear my grandmother’s stories more vividly now: ‘The flame is a soul that burned away its body. It wants to feel warm flesh again, so it tempts you until you’re up to your knees in water, then it swallows your own flame.’ I tried to stop, but my legs kept moving.

I waded into the dark water, the cold shocking my skin. The flame hovered ahead, just above the surface, reflecting in the black. Then it began to change. It grew, stretching into a column of white heat, and for a moment I thought I saw a face within it—a hollow, despairing face with empty eye sockets, its mouth open in a silent wail. The water around me began to churn, and I felt something brush against my ankles, like cold, stiff fingers. I looked down and saw pale hands rising from the murk, grasping at my legs. I screamed, but no sound came out. The flame descended, dipping into the water right in front of me, and the hands pulled harder.

I lost my footing and went under. The water was murky, but I could see the flame beneath me, no longer a ball but a trail of blue lights, like a path of will-o’-the-wisps leading down. I saw them then—the ones who had followed before. Dozens of figures, their skin gray and wrinkled, their eyes milky, all reaching for me, their mouths moving in silent, desperate pleas. They wanted what I had: the warmth of life, the breath in my lungs. I kicked and thrashed, but I was being dragged deeper. The last thing I saw was the face in the flame, now inches from mine, and it smiled a too-wide, toothless smile.

I woke up on the bank of the fen, the morning sun burning my eyes. My clothes were wet, and my skin was pale as parchment. I crawled to my feet and stumbled back to the library, where I found a security guard staring at me. He asked if I was alright, that I looked like I’d seen a ghost. I didn’t tell him the truth. I went home, and for a week I stayed in bed, shivering despite the summer heat. But I couldn’t shake the chill in my bones, a cold that seeped from my core. I felt a constant, nagging hunger, not for food, but for warmth, for the touch of another living thing. And at night, I’d see the flame outside my window, waiting.

One evening, I found a single marsh marigold on my pillow, its petals glowing faintly in the dusk. I remembered Nana Iris’s words, and I knew: I hadn’t escaped. A part of me had stayed in the water, and now the flame had a piece of my soul. It would keep calling, and eventually, I would follow again, and this time, I would become one of the silent ones, reaching for the next living soul who drew near the Blackwater Fen. I couldn’t let that happen. I took the flower, pressed it into a page of my grandmother’s old Bible, and I wrote a letter to my younger sister, warning her of the lantern in the cattails. Then I walked back to the fen, and I let the cold take me, hoping that my warning would be enough to save her.

Now I am the light. I hover above the water, and I see the living walk by, their curiosity piqued by my glow. I try to scream, to warn them, but my voice is only the crackle of a flame. And when they follow, I weep silently, for I know their fate all too well. The only comfort I have is that my sister never came to Fenwick. She read my letter, and she told others. But the flame is patient, and the fen is vast. There will always be another soul to lead astray, and I will be here, a warden and a prisoner, forever.

If you ever see a light bobbing over a quiet marsh at dusk, do not admire its beauty. Turn away, and walk quickly. And if you ever find a marsh marigold on your pillow, burn it, and pray you have not been marked. For the lantern is always watching, and it knows your name. The last thing you will feel is the warmth of the flame, and the cold embrace of the water, and the gentle pull of hands that were once just like yours.