The Lantern in the Pines

I’ve been a Junior Forest Scout since I was seven, and our troop was chosen to organize the annual three-day encampment at the Pine Hollow Reserve in northern Maine. The event drew about fifty younger scouts, all between the ages of six and eleven, and I was part of the older group responsible for running the camp. The first night, after dinner, I volunteered to help set up the ceremonial bonfire with Mrs. Whitfield and her daughter, Elsie.

The designated fire ring was a twenty-minute walk through the dense, untamed woods from the main pavilion, where the others were singing campfire songs. The path was narrow and overgrown, and the late October air bit through our jackets, making us huddle together as we walked. Despite the cold, a strange warmth seemed to radiate from the trees, and every rustle of leaves made us spin around, our flashlights cutting frantic beams into the darkness. We all felt it—a prickling sensation at the back of our necks—as if something was watching, following us.

We tried to laugh it off, blaming the wind and our nervous imaginations. When we finally reached the fire pit, we exhaled with relief. The pit was a circle of stones, and we set about gathering wood, forgetting our fears in the mindless task. But as Mrs. Whitfield struck the match and the flames caught, I noticed something odd: a small, weathered lantern hung from a low branch on a nearby pine, its glass dark and dusty. I asked if it was part of the camp, but Mrs. Whitfield shrugged, saying she’d never seen it before.

We didn’t linger. The walk back felt longer, the forest closing in around us. Our soft screams were not from fright but from a growing dread that we couldn’t shake. Just before we broke into the clearing, Elsie grabbed my arm and pointed. Among the trees, I saw a flicker of light—not our flashlights, but a warm, amber glow, like the lantern we’d passed. It moved, weaving between the pines, keeping pace with us, matching our steps. We quickened our pace, and the glow vanished.

The next morning, the sun dispelled our fears, and we chalked it up to overactive minds. But the younger scouts started whispering about ‘the night light’ that danced in the trees. One little girl, Lily, said it spoke to her, that it promised to show her secrets if she followed. We dismissed it as a campfire tale. However, during a nature hike, I saw the lantern again, now hanging from a different tree, its glass glowing softly in the daylight. When I approached, I saw a dark, oily stain spread from inside the glass, and the smell of burnt honey filled my nostrils.

That evening, we gathered at the pavilion for a storytelling session. I noticed Lily was missing. Her counselor, a young woman named Sarah, had seen her slip into the woods after dinner. I grabbed my flashlight and ran out, calling her name. The forest was quiet, almost too quiet—no crickets, no wind. Then I saw the lantern, floating among the trees, its light pulsating like a heartbeat. I followed it deeper into the woods, past the fire pit, into a part of the forest I didn’t recognize.

The lantern came to rest on a massive, moss-covered stump. At its base, Lily was kneeling, her face upturned, eyes wide, as if in a trance. I rushed to her, shaking her shoulder. She blinked and looked at me, then at the lantern, and her lips curled into a strange smile. ‘He says he knows you,’ she whispered. ‘He remembers when you walked with him first.’ She pointed to the lantern, and I saw, in the glass, a distorted reflection of my own face, but older, with hollow eyes. The lantern went out with a hiss, and the forest erupted in sounds—the snapping of twigs, the rustle of leaves, and a voice that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere: ‘You refused my gift, so I’ll take another.’

I grabbed Lily and ran. We burst into the clearing, the pavilion lights ahead, but the voice followed us, growing fainter until it was just a whisper against my ear: ‘The pines will remember your scent.’ We told the adults everything, but when they went to investigate, the lantern was gone. The next morning, we packed up and left, but as we drove away, I saw the lantern again, sitting on a boulder near the road, its glass gleaming in the sun. I’ve never gone back to Pine Hollow, but I still see it sometimes—at the edge of my vision, in the corner of my room, its light a promise and a threat. And I know, whatever that thing is, it’s still waiting for me to take my turn with the flame.