The Lantern in the Hollow

In the years before the incident, I lived in a rented cottage at the edge of a woodland called the Hollow. The locals avoided it after dusk, muttering about a light that wandered between the trees. I dismissed it as folklore, a story for children. My own nights, however, had always been a theater of strange things. As a child, I’d seen shapes in the dark, but I learned to keep them at bay with the click of a lamp. In the cottage, the solitude sharpened my senses. I’d lie in bed, listening to the wind, waiting for the inevitable flicker at the edge of my vision.

The first encounter in the Hollow was not a spider but a shape like a man formed of condensation on the window. It pressed against the glass, featureless, and then dissolved when I blinked. I laughed it off, but my hands trembled. A week later, I woke to see a child—no taller than my knee—standing at the foot of my bed. It wore a hooded coat, and its face was a pale smear. It didn’t move, just watched, and when I reached for the lamp, the bulb exploded in a shower of sparks. The darkness felt heavy, and I lay still until dawn, my heart a drum.

I tried to rationalize: sleep deprivation, the creaks of an old house. But the visions grew bolder. One night, I saw a figure in the hallway, its silhouette framed by the dim glow of a streetlamp. It tilted its head, and I heard a sound like dry leaves scratching. I switched on the bedside lamp, and it vanished, but the light flickered erratically for days. I began to wonder if these were not hallucinations but glimpses of something that existed in the sliver between wakefulness and sleep, a place where the rules of our world bent.

One evening, I decided to confront the mystery. I walked into the Hollow at twilight, carrying a lantern. The air was cold, and the trees seemed to lean in, whispering secrets. I wandered until I found a clearing, and there, in the center, stood a small wooden hut, older than the woods, with a single window glowing amber. I approached, and through the grimy glass, I saw an old woman, her hands folded, her eyes closed. She was humming a lullaby. I knocked, and the door creaked open on its own. Inside, the walls were lined with jars, each containing a small, glowing object—a feather, a stone, a lock of hair. The woman opened her eyes, and they were milky white. ‘You’ve been seeing them, haven’t you?’ she said. ‘The ones who slip through the cracks. They are echoes, lost things that wander into your world when you are close to the veil.’ She gestured to a jar with a small, hooded figure inside, identical to the child I’d seen. ‘I collect them, so they can’t harm the living.’

She told me that the veil is thinnest in places like the Hollow, and that those who are sensitive, like me, can see the lost ones. She gave me a jar and said, ‘If you see one that troubles you, catch it, and bring it here. But be careful—some are not lost. Some are hungry.’ I left, feeling a strange mix of relief and dread. That night, I saw the child again, but this time I was ready. I whispered an incantation she had taught me, and the child dissolved into a wisp of smoke, which I trapped in the jar. I felt a sense of accomplishment.

But the next night, I saw something else: a tall figure with a hat, standing at the foot of my bed, its face a void. It didn’t move, but I felt a cold draught. I tried the incantation, but it only laughed—a sound like gravel. ‘I am not one of the lost,’ it said. ‘I am the keeper. And you have taken what is mine.’ The jar in my hand grew hot, and I dropped it, shattering. The fragments turned to dust, and the figure vanished. I didn’t sleep that night. I returned to the hut the next morning, but it was gone, replaced by a mound of mossy stones.

I never saw the old woman again, but the encounters did not stop. Sometimes I see the child, sometimes the tall figure, sometimes things too strange to describe. I’ve learned to keep my lights on, but even that doesn’t always help. I now believe that when we are between awake and asleep, we can see things that are normally closed off to us. But I’ve also learned that there are those who wish to remain unseen, and they do not appreciate being perceived. The lantern in the hollow was my guide, but it also led me to a truth I cannot unsee. Now, each night, I lay in bed, listening for the sound of dry leaves, wondering if tonight I will see something that belongs, or something that does not.