The Lantern in the Long Grass

I was sixteen when my cousin Eleanor had her first blood, and my aunt and uncle decided we needed a feast to mark the occasion. They lived in the hill country of Appalachia, on a plot of land that had been in the family for generations, so far off the main road that you could stand in the front yard and hear nothing but the wind and the occasional distant train. The house was a two-story Victorian with a wraparound porch, and behind it, the land fell away into a hollow so deep and overgrown that it seemed to swallow the light.

The party was on a Saturday in late September. The air was sharp with the smell of woodsmoke and apples from the old orchard. Relatives came from three states over, cousins and uncles and great-aunts I barely recognized. There was a hog roasting in a pit by the barn, and the adults drank moonshine from mason jars, laughing too loud. The kids, including me, mostly stayed out of the way, stealing slices of cornbread and running through the hay fields until dusk.

By ten, the first wave of guests started to leave, and by midnight, only the immediate family remained. My mother and the other women were in the kitchen, scrubbing dishes and wrapping leftovers in tinfoil. My father and uncles were on the porch, their voices low and gravelly, passing a bottle between them. The younger kids had crashed in the living room, sprawled on the floor with their mouths open. I found myself alone in the parlor, restless, the sweet taste of punch still on my tongue.

That’s when I remembered the lantern. It was an old kerosene lantern that had belonged to my great-grandfather, and it always sat on the mantelpiece, unlit, its glass chimney clouded with age. I had heard a story once, from a cousin who liked to scare us, that if you lit that lantern and walked to the edge of the property, you could see the spirits of the people who died on this land, their shapes glowing like embers in the grass. I was too old to believe it, but I was also seventeen and bored out of my mind.

So I took it. I filled it with kerosene from the shed and lit it, the flame casting a soft, warm circle around me. The night was cool and clear, the moon a silver coin behind thin clouds. I walked out of the house, past the barn, toward the tree line where the property ended and the forest began. My cousin Eleanor’s dog, a black Labrador named Juno, trotted beside me, her tail low and wagging slightly.

The grass was tall, up to my waist in places, and it whispered as I moved through it. The lantern swung in my hand, making the shadows dance. I came to the far fence, the old wire and wood that marked the boundary, and I stopped. Beyond it, the forest was dense, the trees pressing close, their branches like grasping fingers. I stood there for a moment, feeling foolish, and was about to turn back when I saw it.

At first, I thought it was a firefly, a stray spark. But it was too steady, too deliberate. A small glow, the color of a dying coal, hovering just above the ground at the edge of the forest, about twenty yards away. It moved, not like a bug, but like something that was watching me, and then it moved closer.

Juno let out a low whine and pressed against my leg. I took a step back, but the glow kept coming. It was larger now, about the size of a pumpkin, and it pulsed with a faint, rhythmic light, like a heartbeat. I could see that it was not just light—it was a shape, a figure, made of veins of fire that crackled and shifted. It had no face, but it had a head and shoulders, and it seemed to be leaning toward me.

I whispered, ‘Who’s there?’ My voice came out hoarse. The figure stopped. For a long moment, it just hovered, and then it raised an arm—a limb of glowing, twisting branches—and pointed at the lantern in my hand. I looked down at the lantern, and I saw that the flame inside had turned from yellow to a deep, pulsing red, matching the figure’s glow.

A sound came from the figure, not a voice, but a low hum, like a wire vibrating in the wind. It seemed to be speaking, but I couldn’t understand it. I felt a pull in my chest, a tug toward the forest, as if the lantern was a magnet and the figure was the pole. I took a step forward without meaning to, my boot sinking into the soft ground.

Juno barked, a sharp, frantic bark, and that broke the spell. I yanked the lantern back, fumbled with the cap, and blew out the flame. The red light died, and in the sudden darkness, I saw the figure flicker and vanish. The forest went still, and all I could hear was my own breath and Juno’s panicked panting.

I ran back to the house, the lantern cold in my hand. I didn’t tell anyone what I had seen. I put the lantern back on the mantel, and I tried to forget it. But the next morning, when I walked out to the edge of the property to check on the fence, I found something in the tall grass: a patch of ground, about the size of a body, where the grass was flattened and the soil was blackened, as if something had burned there. And in the center, there was a single, perfect circle of ash, like the mark of a lantern that had been set down and left to burn.

I never touched that lantern again. But sometimes, at night, when the wind is right, I can hear that hum from the forest, and I see a faint red glow among the trees. And I know that whatever I called out to that night is still waiting, still watching, still waiting for me to light the lantern and come back.