The Lantern in the Larch Grove

The air in the countryside on New Year’s Eve is supposed to be crisp and clean, but this year it felt thick as oil. I was with my three cousins—Mara, Jay, and Tessa—outside the old farmhouse our family rents every winter. We’d sworn off pranks for the new year, but that left a hollow boredom, so we set off to the woods with nothing but a flashlight and a dying phone.

The woods here were not the friendly, storybook sort. They were vast and old, tangled with roots that looked like clawed hands reaching out of the earth. The locals had a name for them: the Larch Grove, though I’d never seen a larch within. It was a place of false ground and hidden hollows, and we’d always avoided it after dark. But boredom is a powerful devil.

We walked deep into the trees, the sounds of distant fireworks muffled by the thick trunks until they became faint pops, like a muffled heartbeat. Our boots crunched on frost-brittle leaves, and our breath puffed in the cold. The flashlight beam cut a narrow, jittery path, and without it, we’d have been blind.

At 10:38, we stopped near a massive, twisted oak. Tessa, the most perceptive of us, grabbed my arm. Her fingers dug in hard. ‘There,’ she whispered, pointing with a trembling hand toward a clump of firs about fifty feet away. I squinted, but saw nothing. Then I saw it—a faint, golden light, not like the beam of a flashlight, but a soft, pulsing glow that seemed to linger and breathe. It was floating, about six feet off the ground, just behind the boughs.

We all stared. The light pulsed in a slow rhythm, like a heart. It didn’t flicker like a flame; it ebbed and flowed, as if it were alive. And as we watched, it began to drift lazily toward us, not with a direct motion, but sidling, as if it were curious.

‘Is that a prank?’ Jay asked, but his voice was thin and lacked conviction. No one laughed. The phone, clutched in my hand, showed no signal, and the display was flickering. I pocketed it and raised the flashlight. But the beam seemed to slide off the light, as if the light were a solid thing that would not be illuminated.

The light moved closer. Now I could see it more clearly: it was a globe of pale gold, about a foot in diameter, and at its center, something darker, like a core. It hovered, bobbing, and then, as if it had made a decision, it turned and began to move deeper into the woods. It paused, as if waiting for us.

We should have run. But something—curiosity, or the unspoken dare of the new year—made us follow. The light led us off the path, over roots and through thorns, to a spot I’d never seen before: a clearing where a single, enormous larch stood, its branches twisted and bare. And beneath it, a well, with a stone rim covered in green moss and a rusted chain descending into darkness.

The light hovered over the well, then descended, sinking into the black mouth. We rushed to the edge and peered down. Far below, we could see the light, reflected on something—water, or maybe a wet stone. And then, a sound rose from the depths: a sound like a woman singing, but the tune was wrong, full of shrieks and broken notes.

We backed away, but it was too late. The light shot up from the well, faster than any object, and flew straight at Mara. It passed into her forehead without a sound. She stiffened, her eyes went wide, and then she crumpled to the ground.

We rushed to her, but she was already sitting up, a strange calm on her face. She smiled, but the smile didn’t touch her eyes. ‘Let’s go home,’ she said, but her voice was different—it had a slight echo, as if someone else was speaking with her.

We carried her back, but by the time we reached the farmhouse, she was laughing, a low, discordant laugh. She walked to the mirror in the hallway and stared at herself, then turned to us. ‘She never should have brought me here,’ she said, in that echoing voice. ‘I’ve been waiting so long.’

We spent the rest of the night in the living room, huddled by the fire, Mara sitting in a chair, humming that dreadful tune. At midnight, fireworks burst outside, but she didn’t look. She just hummed.

I don’t know what happened to my cousin. They took her to the city hospital the next day. The doctors say she’s in a catatonic state, but that’s not what she was. She was listening. She was always listening. And sometimes, when I’m alone in the dark, I hear that humming, coming from somewhere deep inside me. I think I brought the light back too. I think it’s been with me since we left the grove. And on quiet nights, I feel it pulsing behind my eyes, waiting to be seen.