The Lantern in the Fog

I’ve had my share of odd occurrences—the flickering lights, the cold spots, the feeling of being watched—but none of them prepared me for what happened that March. My friend Maya and I were sharing a bottle of cheap whiskey in our rented duplex, the kind with creaky floors and a history we didn’t bother to investigate. The fog had rolled in thick that night, obscuring the streetlights and making the world feel like a ghost of itself.

I excused myself to the bathroom, and on my way back, I decided to peek into my bedroom. For a week or so, I’d been bothered by something in my room—a pale, gaunt figure that I’d catch out of the corner of my eye, lurking by the closet. I’d convinced myself it was a trick of the light, a coat thrown over a chair. But that night, I swung the door open and saw it clearly: a tall, emaciated thing with milky white skin and hollow eyes, standing motionless inside my closet, its head tilted at an impossible angle. I didn’t scream at first; I just froze. Then I bolted.

The next thing I knew, I was outside in the fog, my lungs burning. Maya later told me that I ran out of the house screaming something about the ‘pale man’ and that I flagged down a car on the empty road. The driver, a middle-aged woman with a concerned face, said I was babbling about something being after me. I didn’t even remember her. After that, I took off running to the back of the house, where Maya found me hunched over, my head hanging low, my body trembling. She said I looked like a puppet with its strings cut. She grabbed my shoulder, and I collapsed into her.

The next few days were a blur. I refused to go back into that room, and eventually, I moved out. But the image of that pale figure stayed with me, and I started having nightmares—always of that thing, standing in a fog, holding a faintly glowing lantern. In the dreams, it would walk toward me, and I’d wake up gasping.

A month later, I received a letter from the new tenant. It was unsigned, but the handwriting was neat and deliberate. It said: ‘I found your lantern in the closet. I’m returning it to you. It’s not safe to keep it.’ Enclosed was a small, rusted lantern, the glass cracked, the interior stained with something dark. I never gave anyone a lantern, and I never owned one. I threw it in the dumpster behind my apartment.

But last night, I woke at 3 AM to a soft glow outside my window. The fog was thick, and in the middle of the street, I saw the pale figure again, holding that same lantern, its light pulsing like a heartbeat. It was facing my window. I pulled the blinds and hid under the covers, my heart hammering. I heard a scraping sound at my door, then a voice, soft and rasping: ‘You left this behind.’

I haven’t slept since. I’m writing this from a coffee shop at dawn, but the fog is still there, lingering at the edges of the city. And I swear, in the reflection of the window, I can see a distant glow, growing closer.