The Lantern in the Rain

It was the autumn of my junior year, and I was part of the cross-country team. Our coach had arranged a weekend training retreat at an old farmhouse on the edge of the Blackwood Forest. The place belonged to a teammate’s aunt, who had agreed to let us stay for two nights. I arrived after dinner, the sky a bruised purple with the promise of a storm. As I walked up the gravel path, the farmhouse loomed before me, its windows glowing with a sickly yellow light. A strange unease settled over me, as if the air itself was thick with something unseen. But the sound of laughter and the thumping bass of a speaker from inside pulled me forward. I dismissed my apprehension and walked in.

Inside, the team was already in high spirits. The living room was a chaos of duffel bags, sneakers, and energy drinks. My teammates, a rowdy bunch, were clustered around a cheap Bluetooth speaker, trying to out-sing each other with off-key renditions of pop songs. Our team captain, a senior named Marcus, was orchestrating the chaos with a grin. I was greeted with cheers and a mock clipboard, as if I’d just arrived at a press conference. The aunt had left a tray of sandwiches and a note saying she’d be back in the morning. For a while, the farmhouse felt warm and alive, a sanctuary against the rain that began to patter against the windows.

As the night wore on, the storm worsened. The wind howled through the eaves, and the old wooden beams creaked in protest. We decided we needed some liquid courage to help us sleep, so two of the younger runners, Pete and Jasmine, volunteered to walk to a corner store about a mile down the road. They bundled up in rain jackets and took a flashlight. We said we’d keep the music playing so they could find their way back. We cracked open a few beers we’d brought, laughing and drinking until the clock struck 9:45. Marcus, ever the disciplined captain, declared it was time to sleep. We grudgingly began unrolling sleeping bags in the dusty living room, the storm outside a wild symphony.

Pete and Jasmine still hadn’t returned. We joked that they’d probably taken shelter somewhere, or maybe gotten lost. But as the minutes stretched past ten, a gnawing worry crept in. Marcus tried calling Pete’s phone, but there was no signal. We decided to wait a little longer, but the silence between us grew. The rain hammered the windows, and the wind rattled the shutters like skeletal fingers. I stared at the door, half expecting them to burst in with soaked clothes and a story about a flat tire on the road. But the door remained shut, and the storm only grew more violent.

At 10:30, we heard a knock. But it wasn’t at the front door; it was at the window behind us. We all turned as one, and there, pressed against the glass, was a face. It was pale and gaunt, with hollow eyes that seemed to look right through me. For a split second, I thought it was Pete, but the features were wrong. Then the face was gone. A collective gasp rippled through the room. ‘It’s just the rain, playing tricks,’ Marcus stammered, but his voice was shaky. We all knew what we saw.

We decided to go outside to search, despite the storm. We grabbed flashlights and raincoats. The ground was mud, and the wind tore at us. We called their names, but the sound was swallowed by the thunder. The beam of my flashlight swept across the yard, illuminating the wild grass and the dark trees at the forest’s edge. And then I saw it: a small lantern, sitting on a stump near the treeline, its flame flickering as if alive. It hadn’t been there before. Curious and frightened, I walked closer. The lantern was old, made of tarnished brass and glass, and inside the flame was a deep blue, like something impossible. I reached out to touch it, and the flame jumped, and I heard a voice, like a whisper in my ear, ‘You shouldn’t have come.’

I stumbled backward, my heart pounding. I called to the others, pointing at the lantern, but when they looked, it was gone. In its place was a trail of footprints leading into the forest, but they were filled with water, as if someone had been standing there moments ago. Marcus decided we should go back inside and wait. As we turned, we saw the farmhouse. The windows were dark, and the front door was ajar, swinging in the wind. We had left it closed.

We rushed inside and found our gear strewn about, as if someone had rifled through it. The speaker was still playing a low hum, but the music had stopped. And then we noticed the wall. There was writing, in what looked like mud, spelling out: ‘They are under the floorboards.’

We all froze. The room fell silent except for the storm. I looked at the floor, and indeed, there was a trapdoor in a corner, partially hidden by a rug. It hadn’t been there before. Marcus approached, his flashlight beam shaky. He pulled the handle, and the door creaked open, revealing a dark space below. We shone our lights down and saw a ladder going into darkness. And at the bottom, we saw two figures lying still, in running gear. It was Pete and Jasmine.

We scrambled down the ladder, calling their names. They were unconscious, but breathing. We carried them up, placed them on the floor, and tried to wake them. Their skin was cold, and their eyes were twitching. When Pete finally opened his eyes, he gasped and said, ‘The lantern. It was in the cellar. It led us to the door. But there was something else down there.’ Jasmine started sobbing, and she pointed at the trapdoor, which we had left open. As we watched, a faint blue light glowed from the dark, and the sound of footsteps climbing the ladder reached our ears. We slammed the trapdoor shut and put a heavy cabinet on top. The footsteps stopped. Then a voice, echoing from below, said, ‘You can leave the farmhouse, but you can’t leave the light.’

We didn’t sleep. We huddled together, listening to the rain and the occasional scraping beneath the floorboards. At dawn, the storm broke, and we fled, leaving the farmhouse behind. We never spoke of it again, but every now and then, in the dead of night, I see a blue light flickering in the corner of my vision, and I feel the weight of something waiting, just out of sight.