The Lantern in the Hollow

When I was nine, my family spent a summer in a rented cottage near the town of Ashfall, a place where the trees grew so close together they seemed to swallow the light. Our cottage was at the edge of a hollow, a deep, damp depression in the forest where the sun never fully reached. I remember the first night, lying in a narrow bed under the eaves, the air thick with the smell of pine and damp earth. I had been reading a book of local legends, but I stopped at a passage that chilled me: ‘Do not follow the lantern into the hollow. Do not speak to the one who carries it. Do not accept its light.’ The words felt like a warning meant for me. I closed the book and stared at the ceiling, my skin prickling. The night was silent, but it was a heavy silence, as if the forest itself was holding its breath. Then, from outside the window, I saw a faint glow bobbing among the trees, moving slowly toward the hollow. I watched, paralyzed, as the light paused at the edge of the trees, and I thought I saw a shape, a tall, thin figure holding a lantern. It seemed to be looking at me, though I couldn’t see its face. Then it turned and descended into the hollow, and the glow vanished. I pulled the quilt over my head and waited for morning.

Years passed, and I forgot about that summer. But when I was sixteen, I returned to Ashfall for a summer job at the local museum, cataloging old photographs and artifacts. The town felt smaller, and the hollow seemed more foreboding, its entrance now overgrown with brambles. I was given an old journal from a transient who had died in the area. His name was Elias Crane, and he had documented strange happenings, mostly ramblings of a disturbed mind, but one entry made my blood run cold: ‘The lantern calls to those who have seen it. It knows your face. It will wait for you to grow old enough to understand.’ That night, back in my rented room, I couldn’t sleep. The town was quiet, but I felt an inexplicable pull toward the hollow, as if something was tugging at my chest. I put on my coat and walked through the dark streets to the edge of the forest. Against every warning I had ever read, I stepped onto the path that led down into the hollow.

The path was steep and slick with dew. The trees leaned in overhead, blocking the stars. As I descended, the air grew colder and thicker, and I heard a sound, a low, rhythmic breathing, like someone asleep but restless. I stopped, and the breathing stopped. I took another step, and it resumed. I told myself it was the wind, but I knew better. At the bottom of the hollow, there was a clearing with a single, gnarled oak. Hanging from a low branch was an old iron lantern, unlit. I approached it, and as I reached out to touch it, a voice, rough and old, whispered from behind me: ‘Yeees.’ I spun around, but there was no one there. The lantern suddenly hissed to life, its flame burning a sickly green. In that light, I saw a shadow, tall and thin, standing at the edge of the clearing, facing me. I couldn’t see its eyes, but I felt them on me. It spoke again, its voice like scraping dry leaves: ‘You came back.’ I tried to run, but my legs wouldn’t move. The shadow began to walk toward me, its steps making no sound. As it drew closer, I saw that it had no face, just a smooth, dark void. But I could feel its gaze, cold and hungry.

I remembered the old warning: ‘Do not breathe its breath, do not look into its eyes, do not listen to its voice.’ But I had already looked. I had already heard. I squeezed my eyes shut, holding my breath, and I felt a cold presence brush against my skin, like a draft, but warm and foul. A whisper coiled around my ear: ‘Do not hide, boy. You have been marked since you first saw my light.’ I tried to think, to remember anything that could help. The only thing that came to mind was the line from the book: ‘Do not accept its light.’ I forced my eyes open. The lantern was on the ground, its flame flickering. I staggered toward it, ignoring the shadow that loomed to my side. I lifted my foot and kicked the lantern with all my strength. It flew into the darkness and clattered against a rock, the flame sputtered and died. The shadow let out a hiss, not of anger, but of pain. The air grew still. When I looked, the shadow was dissolving into the blackness, like ink spreading in water. The hollow fell silent. I scrambled up the path, not stopping until I reached the streetlights of town.

I never went back to Ashfall. I moved across the country, changed my name, tried to forget. But sometimes, in the dead of night, I see a faint glow outside my window, bobbing in the darkness, waiting. And I know that I have only postponed the inevitable. The lantern will call again, and next time, I may not be able to resist. The hollow knows my face, and it is patient.