The Lantern in the Cellar

It started three weeks after I moved into the old farmhouse, a place my great-aunt left me, though I’d never met her. The house sat at the end of a gravel road, surrounded by fields of dead corn, and the nearest neighbor was a mile away. I came for a fresh start, away from the city noise, but the silence here was worse. The first night, I found an old lantern in the cellar, covered in dust, its glass cracked but intact. I lit it out of curiosity, and the flame burned a strange blue, and I could have sworn I heard a whisper. But I dismissed it as the wind.

However, the occurrences escalated. The lantern would reignite on its own, even when I kept it unlit on a shelf. Doors in the house would creak open, and the cellar door, which I kept locked, would be ajar in the morning. I told myself it was the old house settling, but my dog, a husky named Max, refused to go near the cellar. He would growl and pace, his hackles raised. I chalked it up to mice or the dead animals in the walls.

But then, three nights ago, I was watching TV in the living room, the only room with a decent couch, and I had fallen into that half-sleep, a state between waking and dreaming, when I felt a cold draft from the cellar. The door was open. I got up to close it, but as I approached, I heard something from inside—a rhythmic scratch, like nails on stone. I switched on the light at the top of the stairs, and the scratching stopped. I called Max, but he just stood at the living room entrance, trembling. I descended a few steps, the old wood creaking, and I saw the lantern at the bottom, glowing with that eerie blue flame, even though I hadn’t lit it. As I reached for it, the flame flickered, and I saw a shape—a tall, slender figure, its head grazing the ceiling—standing in the shadows, just out of the light. It had no face, just a smooth, pale oval, and it was holding a lantern of its own, the same blue light. I froze, and then it tilted its head, as if acknowledging me, and then it turned and walked into the darkness, and the light vanished.

I scrambled up the stairs, slammed the door, and locked it, my heart hammering. Max was whimpering, and I let him onto the bed that night, something I never did. I didn’t sleep. But the next day, I found the cellar door open again, and on the top step, there was a small, old photograph. It was of my great-aunt, standing at the bottom of the cellar stairs, holding a lantern, and in the background, the same faceless figure loomed. On the back, in faded ink, it read, ‘He waits for the third.’

Now, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched. The lights flicker, and I hear footsteps in the cellar at night. Max won’t leave my side, but he stares at the cellar door with a fear I’ve never seen. And each night, the lantern in my room glows on its own, casting the shadow of that figure on the wall. I don’t know what it wants, but I think it’s leading me somewhere, maybe to the third thing—the third story, the third victim. I’m packing to leave, but every time I get near the door, I hear that scratching, and I can’t move. I’m trapped in this house with that thing, and I fear the lantern is already lit for me.