The Lantern in the Gully

The town of Ashburn, nestled in the foothills of the Blue Ridge, was built on land that had been wild for centuries. Before the first settlers, it was a dense forest of oak and hemlock, crisscrossed by streams that ran cold and clear. Even after the houses came, the woods remembered. Deer still picked their way through backyards at dusk, and foxes barked in the night. My family moved into our house on Cedar Lane when I was two, and I grew up with the sound of the forest pressing in on all sides.

Our house was a modest two-story with a gabled roof, but the backyard opened onto a ravine that the locals called the Gully. The Gully was a tangle of ferns, fallen logs, and a small creek that only ran after heavy rain. We were warned not to go down there, but of course, that made it all the more enticing. I had an older sister, Margaret, and a younger brother, Tommy. Our first dog, a golden retriever named Copper, died of a sudden heart issue when I was five. I remember crying for days, and my parents tried to console me by promising a new puppy.

For my seventh birthday, they gave me a little black-and-white border collie mix I named Pixie. She was a bundle of energy, always sniffing at the edges of the yard, her nose pointing toward the Gully. I loved her more than anything.

My first experience happened when I was six, the summer before I got Pixie. I was playing alone in the backyard, building a fort out of lawn chairs and blankets. The sun was low, casting long shadows, and I had the strangest feeling that I was being watched. I turned around slowly, and there, at the edge of the Gully, stood a figure. It was tall and thin, wearing a long coat that seemed to absorb light, and in its hand, it held a lantern. The glass was old and grimy, but inside, the flame burned a sickly blue. I couldn’t see its face—just a hollow where a face should be. It didn’t move, didn’t blink. I was paralyzed with fear. After what felt like an eternity, the figure raised its free hand, as if beckoning, and then stepped backward into the dark of the Gully and vanished. I screamed, but when my mother came running out, I couldn’t find the words. I just pointed. She saw nothing and led me inside, chalking it up to an overactive imagination.

Years passed, and I tried to forget, but the image stayed with me. When Pixie came, she would sometimes stop at the same spot and growl low, her hackles raised, even though there was nothing there. I’d call her back, and she’d reluctantly follow, always looking over her shoulder.

The second incident happened when I was twelve. My friends and I dared each other to spend a night in the Gully, armed with flashlights and comic books. We set up a small tent near the dry creek bed, laughing nervously. As midnight approached, we heard a rustling in the undergrowth, like something large moving. We fell silent. Then we saw it—a light bobbing slowly through the trees, moving in our direction. It was the same blue glow, growing brighter. I grabbed my friends, and we scrambled out of the tent and ran, not stopping until we reached my backyard. The other two were pale, but they refused to talk about it. We never went near the Gully again.

My final experience came last winter, when I was in my mid-thirties. My parents had passed, and I inherited the house. I’d moved back in, hoping to find some peace. But the old fear had never left. One night, I woke to Pixie barking frantically—she was old now, but still alert. I went to the window and saw the blue light flickering at the edge of the Gully, just as it had so many years ago. This time, I didn’t just watch. I put on my coat and boots and grabbed a flashlight, though my hand shook. I crept down the slope, following the light. The air was bitter cold, and my breath fogged around me.

The light led me deeper into the Gully than I’d ever gone, past the old dead tree, to a spot where the ground had eroded, exposing a dark, narrow opening. The lantern sat on a rock just in front of it, its flame now steady and bright. I approached, and as I did, I heard a whimper. It came from inside the hole. My heart raced. I shone my flashlight in, and there, huddled on the dirt, was a small, shivering dog—a border collie, just like Pixie. It looked up at me with terrified eyes, and I knew I had to help. I reached in, and the dog curled into my arms. But as I lifted it, the lantern flame flickered, and the figure appeared beside me, its face now horribly clear—a gaping black void, but somehow subtly familiar. It spoke in a voice that was both distant and intimate, ‘You came back.’ I wanted to run, but I couldn’t move. The dog in my arms began to fade, turning to mist, and I dropped it. The figure reached out a cold, thin hand and touched my cheek. ‘I’ve been waiting for you to take my place,’ it said, and I felt the fog pull me down.

I woke up the next morning at the top of the Gully, covered in dirt, with no memory of how I’d gotten back. My house was empty; Pixie had died peacefully in her sleep during the night. But the lantern was on my kitchen table, its blue flame still burning. I tried to turn it off, but there was no switch, no wick to extinguish. Now, I see the figure everywhere—at the edge of my yard, in the reflection of windows, sometimes standing at the foot of my bed. It doesn’t speak anymore, but it gestures toward the Gully. And I know that one night, I’ll follow it down, and I’ll take the lantern, and I’ll wait for someone else to come.