The Lantern in the Pines

In the autumn of 2007, I was the lead singer for a doom metal band called ‘Ashfall’. We played our usual set at the ‘Iron Gate’, a dingy club tucked into the industrial district of a city that had seen better days. The club’s grimy walls were covered in peeling posters of forgotten bands, and the air was thick with the smell of stale beer and dust.

After the show, around 2 AM, my bassist, Marcus, and I decided to crash at our drummer’s place, which was a long walk from the club. As we trudged along the cracked sidewalks, we passed the city’s oldest cemetery, ‘Rest Vale’, a sprawling patch of land where the city’s forefathers lay in moss-covered graves, their stones leaning like drunken soldiers. The place was bordered by a low stone wall, and a row of ancient pines cast long, skeletal shadows under the dim streetlights.

Marcus suddenly stopped and grabbed my arm. ‘Hey, look,’ he whispered, pointing toward the fence. I squinted through the gloom and saw a figure—a tall, gaunt man in a long black coat, standing perfectly still, his face hidden by the brim of a wide hat. In his gloved hand, he held a small, oil-lit lantern, its flame a sickly greenish hue. The man didn’t seem to be doing anything; he just stood there, staring at us, or perhaps at something behind us.

I shrugged, trying to play it cool. ‘Probably a caretaker or something.’ But Marcus shook his head, his voice trembling. ‘Caretakers don’t use lanterns, and they definitely don’t stand like that.’ We hurried on, and as we glanced back, the man was still there, now slowly raising his free hand as if to wave—or point. His arm seemed unnaturally long, stretching at an angle that made my skin crawl.

We reached the drummer’s place, a rundown apartment above a laundromat, and tried to forget the encounter. But a week later, I was walking alone after a late rehearsal, and I saw the same man again at the same spot, the lantern casting its eerie light. This time, he was closer to the gate, and I could see that his coat was frayed, and his hat hid a face that was pale as death. I felt a cold knot in my stomach and crossed the street to avoid passing directly in front of the cemetery.

As I passed, I heard a faint, metallic clink, like a key hitting the railings, and then a soft, disembodied voice that seemed to come from right inside my ear: ‘He’s looking for his lantern.’ I whipped around, but no one was there. The man at the fence was gone.

Over the next few months, I learned from a history enthusiast that ‘Rest Vale’ was known for a legend about a groundskeeper from the 1800s who was accused of stealing bodies and selling them to medical students. He was hanged by a mob, but his lantern was never found. People claimed that his ghost still walked the cemetery, searching for his lantern, and that anyone who saw him would be marked—doomed to die within a year, or to become the next keeper of the lantern.

I didn’t believe it, but then Marcus died in a car accident three weeks later, his car skidding off the road exactly a year after our first sighting. I started having nightmares: I was walking through the cemetery at night, the green lantern swinging from my hand, and I could feel the presence of something ancient and hungry behind me.

One night, unable to sleep, I decided to go to the cemetery myself, for closure. I slipped through the rusted gate and walked among the tilted headstones. The air was cold, and my breath fogged. I saw the man again, standing at the entrance of a mausoleum, the lantern now hanging from a hook on the door. He didn’t move, but his head turned to face me, and I saw two empty sockets where his eyes should have been.

He spoke, his voice like a dry rasp: ‘You’ve come for the lantern.’ And before I could run, I felt a cold hand press a heavy iron key into my palm. ‘You’ll keep it now,’ he said, and as he spoke, I felt a weight settle into my chest, like a second heart of cold metal.

I woke up in my own bed, drenched in sweat, clutching a rusty key that smelled of damp earth. I’ve never told anyone about that night. But now, every night, I feel a pull toward the cemetery, and I find myself walking there, carrying a lantern that I’ve started leaving on my nightstand. The flame is always green, even when I blow it out. And the emptiness in the man’s eye sockets is staring back at me from my own reflection.

I don’t know how long I have before I become him, but last night, I saw a young couple passing by the fence, and I raised my hand to wave. The lantern swung, and I realized I had worn the long black coat all day without remembering putting it on. The cycle is repeating, and the lantern in the pines finally has its keeper.