The Lantern in the Hollow

It was the last night of December, the kind of cold that bites through denim and settles in your bones. I was with my two friends, Dex and Mara, sitting on the cracked curb outside my apartment in the town of Ashford. We had a box of fireworks left over from Guy Fawkes, but it was too damp to light them properly. So we decided to take them to the clearing behind Dex’s place, the one that bordered the Rookwood Forest. We’d been in there a hundred times before, but that night felt different, like the air itself was waiting for something.

We smoked a joint to take the edge off the cold, but it was weak, and we were all seasoned. I’ve been smoking for years, and I know the difference between being high and being in danger. We walked down the gravel path that cut through the residential street, past the last lamppost, and into the treeline. The forest was dense, mostly pines, and the ground was slick with pine needles and frost. The only light came from the sliver of moon and the dying glow of our phones as we navigated the uneven trail.

We found our usual spot—a clearing with a fallen log where we’d sit and talk. The fireworks were a disappointment; the fuses were damp, and most sputtered out in a pathetic hiss. We laughed, but the sound felt swallowed by the trees. That’s when Mara said she saw a light ahead, deeper in the forest. At first we thought it was a headlamp from another hiker, or maybe a poacher, but the movement was too deliberate. It pulsed, like a heartbeat, low to the ground.

We should have left. Every instinct told us to turn back, but curiosity had always been our downfall in that place. We’d seen strange things before—shadows that didn’t quite match the trees, a feeling of being watched—but this was the first time we’d seen something so tangible. We decided to follow it, stepping carefully, our boots crunching on the frozen undergrowth. The light stayed ahead of us, never closer, never farther, always just at the edge of our vision.

After ten minutes of walking, we stumbled into a hollow we’d never seen before. It was a perfect circle of flattened earth, ringed by gnarled oaks. In the center stood an old iron lantern, the kind you’d see on a vintage train. Its glass was smeared with something dark, and the flame inside was a sickly orange. The light didn’t flicker like a normal fire—it pulsed in sync with a rhythmic hum that we felt more than heard. It was the same light we’d been following.

Dex stepped forward, curious. He reached out to touch the glass, but as his fingers got close, the flame grew brighter, and the hum intensified. He yanked his hand back. ‘There’s something written on the base,’ he said, squinting. He crouched down and read aloud the engraved words: ‘Do not feed the hollow.’ The letters looked fresh, like they’d been carved with a knife.

We stood there, silent, the cold pressing in from all sides. Then we noticed the ground beneath the lantern wasn’t frozen like the rest of the forest. It was damp, almost wet, and there were footprints leading away from it—bare footprints, and too small to be an adult. They disappeared into the darkness, one after another, like someone had been walking on all fours. That’s when we heard the breathing. It was low, wet, coming from just beyond the circle of trees. We held our breath, and the breathing stopped.

Then the lantern went out. All at once, the light died, and we were plunged into blackness. Panic hit us like a wave. We fumbled for our phones, but they were dead—all three of them. We couldn’t see a thing. Mara grabbed my arm, and I could feel her shaking. ‘We need to move,’ she hissed. We turned, but which way was out? Every direction seemed the same. We started walking, trying to retrace our steps, but the ground felt different—softer, like we were walking on mud, not pine needles.

We walked for what felt like hours, but the forest never ended. The trees seemed to lean in, and the hum returned, but now it was coming from all around us. We passed the same fallen log three times, the one with a mark like a claw, and that’s when we knew we were lost. The air turned thick, and the hum became a drone, like a thousand bees buzzing in our skulls. I felt a hand brush my shoulder, but when I turned, no one was there.

Finally, the lantern flickered back to life—but it was no longer ahead of us. It was behind us, in the hollow, and the flame was now a deep red. We ran, blind, stumbling over roots and rocks. We broke through a hedge and found ourselves on a road we didn’t recognize. The streetlights were off, and the sign at the corner read ‘Hollow Lane’. We had never heard of it. We walked until we found a convenience store that was open, its fluorescent lights a harsh comfort. We went inside, and the cashier looked at us like we were ghosts. ‘You’re lucky to be out of there,’ he said, his voice flat. ‘People go missing in the Rookwood all the time.’

We never went back. But sometimes, at night, I hear that hum, low and rhythmic, and I see the pulse of orange light in my bedroom window. I know it’s waiting for us to return. And I know, now, that the lantern wasn’t a warning—it was a lure. We fed it something that night, something we didn’t even know we had. And it’s still hungry.