The Lantern in the Glacier

The last night of June, I lay in my bed, the ancient house creaking around me like a ship in a storm that never came. I was nineteen, home from university for the summer, and my insomnia had me prisoner again. At 2:00 a.m., the clock on my nightstand glowed green, and outside, the Arctic sun bled orange over the glacier that loomed beyond the village. Everyone else — my parents, my grandmother — was asleep, and the only other sound was the wind scraping snow against the frosted glass.

I closed my eyes, willing sleep to take me. Five minutes passed. Ten. Then, a flicker of light cut through the white curtains. It was not the sun. It was a thin, wavering beam, like a lantern swinging, and it cast long shadows across the snow. I sat up, heart pulsing. Our dog, a husky named Thor, was curled at my feet, and he raised his head, ears flat, a low growl rumbling in his chest. That was wrong. Thor never growled.

I slid out of bed and pressed my face against the cold glass, careful not to let my breath fog it. There, in the distance, two figures stood at the base of the glacier’s tongue, just beyond the fence line. They wore dark parkas, hoods up, but even in the dim light I could see they were not from our village. They were too still, too composed, as if they had been standing there for hours. And they were not looking at me. They were looking up at the sky, where a pale green aurora rippled, silent and patient.

Then one of them turned. All the way around, without moving their feet. And I saw that under the hood there was no face — just a smooth, bone-black void, like the space between stars. My breath caught. I stumbled back, knocking over a stack of books. When I looked again, they were closer. One of them raised an arm, and I realized they were pointing at my window. The other gestured, and a sound reached me, faint through the double-pane glass: a whisper, not in any language I had ever heard. It was like the hiss of steam on ice, sharp and sibilant, and it made my teeth ache.

I wanted to wake my father, but I couldn’t move. My legs had turned to stone. The whispers grew louder, and I began to make out a word, repeated over and over. ‘Ulloriarsuaq.’ It meant nothing, but it settled in my chest like a cold stone. Then another word. ‘Qimmeq.’ My dog. I looked down at Thor, and he was gone. The door to my room was open — I hadn’t heard it.

A wave of dread washed over me. I forced myself to the door and peered into the dark hallway. The whispers were coming from the kitchen now, the door at the far end slightly ajar, a sliver of pale light spilling onto the wooden floor. ‘Niagara.’ No, that was not right. ‘Nalunaarasuartaateara.’ The words were strings of impossible sounds, like a tongue that had never been meant for human mouths. I crept forward, my bare feet cold on the boards, and I saw a shadow move in the kitchen, tall and thin, stretching across the wall.

I reached the door and pushed it open. The kitchen was empty, but the back door stood wide open, snow blowing in. On the counter, a single candle flickered — my mother’s emergency candle, the one she swore would never burn out. And beside it, written in the frost on the window, was a message: ‘We are sorry. The dead are here. The angels are leaving.’

My blood turned to ice. I heard a crunch on the porch, and I looked out the open door. There they stood, face to face with me now, their faceless heads tilted as if examining a curiosity. One of them raised a hand, and in it was a lantern, old and brass, with a flame so pale it was almost white. It swung, and the light hit my face, and I saw… my own reflection in the glass. And behind me, standing in the kitchen doorway, was a figure — small, with fur, and eyes that glowed red. Thor.

But it was not Thor. It was something else, wearing his shape. It opened its mouth and spoke, and the voice was the whisper I had heard, but now clear and terrible, filling my head: ‘We have been waiting for you. The angels are gone. Come with us, before the glacier wakes.’

I wanted to run, but the snow had turned to a black muck that pulled at my feet. The faceless figures stepped aside, and I saw the glacier was moving, the ice cracking with a sound like a thousand bones breaking. The lantern swung, and I felt a tug at my soul, like a hook behind my ribs. I looked up at the sky, and the aurora was gone, replaced by a darkness that swallowed the stars.

And then I was outside, standing in the snow, the two figures on either side of me. The one with the lantern spoke again, their voice like gravel and frost: ‘You will help us. Or you will stay as we have stayed.’ I tried to scream, but no sound came out. The glacier opened, a jagged mouth of blue ice, and inside, I saw lights — thousands of lights, like a city buried frozen, and in each light, a face, frozen mid-scream.

I looked back at the house. My mother stood at the window, her face pale, her hand pressed against the glass. She was shouting something I couldn’t hear. She was too late. The lantern swung, the ice closed, and the last thing I saw was the light of dawn never coming. Now, they say I disappeared that night, but I did not. I am still here, in the place between the ice and the stars, and when you hear a whisper on the wind, and you see a lantern glow where no man should be, think of me. Because the angels have left, and the dead are listening.