The Lantern in the Culvert

The summer of 2011 had been brutal. The air in Bakersfield hung thick and heavy, even at three in the morning, when I was walking home from my friend’s place across the railroad tracks. My curfew had been midnight, but Mom was passed out from her shift at the cannery, so I figured I could push it. The streets were dead, just the hum of the occasional distant truck on the 99 and the buzz of a streetlight.

My shortcut was the concrete culvert under the highway. It was a massive pipe, wide enough to walk through, but it was dark, damp, and smelled of mud and rot. I’d used it a hundred times, but that night, as I approached, I saw a flicker of light coming from inside. That was odd. No one ever lingered there.

I pulled out my phone, turning on the flashlight app. The beam cut through the black, and I saw the reflection of my own light off the wet walls, but there, deeper in, was a separate glow. A soft, pulsating orange, like heat shimmering off asphalt. My heart started pounding. My rational mind said it was probably a homeless guy with a lantern, but something felt wrong. The glow was too steady, too inviting.

Against my better judgment, I stepped inside. The air was cooler, and my footsteps echoed off the curved concrete. The glow grew stronger, revealing a figure hunched over a small, antique oil lantern. It was a man, but his skin was grayish, and he wore a tattered, water-stained coat. He didn’t look up as I approached, just stared into the flame.

‘Hey,’ I said, my voice shaky. ‘You okay?’

He lifted his head slowly, and when our eyes met, I saw that his eyes were not human. They were like polished obsidian, with no pupils. And in them, I saw the reflection of my own face, but twisted, terrified. He smiled, a wide, unnatural grin, and spoke in a voice that sounded like grinding stone.

‘You’re just in time,’ he said. ‘The lantern never stops burning, but it needs a new soul to keep going. You’ll do.’

He reached out a long, thin hand toward my chest. I tried to run, but my legs felt like lead. The light from the lantern grew blinding, and I felt a cold sensation seep into me. The last thing I saw was the man’s face, now calm and content, as he blew out the flame.

I woke up on the other side of the culvert, sitting on the bank of a dry irrigation ditch. My phone was dead, and the sky was just beginning to lighten. I stumbled home, and when I looked in the mirror, I saw that my eyes were normal, but for a split second, I thought I saw a flicker of orange deep within them.

Five years later, I still can’t look at a flame without feeling a pull, a hunger. And sometimes, when I’m alone at night, I hear a faint grinding voice on the wind, saying, ‘The lantern never stops burning. It’s your turn to keep it lit.’ I’ve never told anyone, but I know now that I never left that culvert. I’ve been carrying the lantern ever since, waiting for someone else to walk in, so I can pass it on. And last night, I saw a young man with a phone light, hovering at the entrance, and I smiled. It’s time.