The Lantern in the Reeds

My childhood home sat at the edge of the marsh, where the land turned from hard-packed dirt to a maze of black water and cattails. The house itself was a sagging Victorian, its porch floorboards soft as sponges, and the windows were so old they rippled the world outside. Across the marsh, on a slight rise, stood the old cemetery, its tombstones like crooked teeth against the gray sky. My father had bought the place cheap, and we moved in the middle of autumn, when the reeds had turned to a brittle gold and the air smelled of rot and cold.

From the start, I felt watched. Not from the cemetery, though that was bad enough, but from the reeds themselves. They were tall and thick, swaying even when there was no wind, and sometimes I’d catch a glint of something back there, like a piece of glass, or a lantern. But no one lived beyond the marsh. At night, I’d lie in my bed and hear the reeds scratch against the outside walls, and the house would groan as if it were breathing. Our only heat came from a wood-burning stove in the kitchen, and its metal pipes ran through the walls, clicking and popping as they expanded. It woke me often, and I would lie there, listening to the house complain.

It was on the third night that I saw the cat. It was a big tom, orange and scarred, sitting on the fence post outside my window. I blinked, and it was gone. But then I saw it again the next day, darting behind the woodpile. And the day after that, peering from the tall grass at the marsh edge. Soon, I saw cats everywhere, always in the corner of my eye, always gone when I turned to look. My mother said it was my imagination, but I knew better. I started leaving out scraps of bread and fish, and in the mornings they were gone.

One evening, my father had gone into town for supplies, and my mother was reading by the stove. I was at the kitchen window, looking out at the marsh, when I saw it again: a steady orange glow, like a lantern, bobbing among the reeds. It moved slowly, as if someone was walking, but I couldn’t make out a figure. I called to my mother, but by the time she looked, the light was gone. She said it was probably a reflection from the house. But I knew what I’d seen.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. The pipes were ticking, and the reeds were rustling louder than ever. I got up and went to the back door, which faced the marsh. I told myself I just wanted to check the yard, but I knew why I was there. I opened the door and stepped onto the porch. The air was cold and wet, and the moon was behind clouds. Across the marsh, the cemetery was a dark hump. And there, on the edge of our yard, where the grass met the first line of cattails, stood a cat. It was a white cat, almost glowing in the dark. It looked at me, then turned and walked into the reeds, as if asking me to follow.

I should have gone back inside. But something pulled me forward. I stepped off the porch and onto the damp grass, my bare feet sinking. The cat stopped and looked back, then continued. I followed, pushing aside the reeds, which were taller than me. I lost sight of the cat but kept going, deeper into the marsh. The ground became boggy, and my feet sank into cold mud. I could see the lantern light ahead, now closer. I stumbled, and when I looked up, I was standing at the edge of a clear pool, black as oil. In the center of the pool stood a small wooden rowboat, half-sunk, with a rusty lantern on the bow, its glass cracked and dark.

There was no cat, no figure. Just the boat. I felt a chill run up my spine, and I noticed something in the boat: a bundle wrapped in a raincoat. Without thinking, I reached for it, my hand trembling. As I touched it, the raincoat fell away, and I saw a small, moldering teddy bear, its button eyes missing. I recoiled, and as I did, I heard a sound from across the pool, like a child crying. I looked up and saw, on the far bank, a figure in white, small and hunched. It moved, and I realized it was not a child, but a cat, and it was walking on two legs, like a person. It stopped and turned its head, and its eyes were not cat eyes, but human, dark and empty.

I screamed and turned to run, but the reeds had closed around me, and the path was gone. I thrashed, panicking, and finally burst through to the yard, sobbing. I ran into the house and locked the door, and I didn’t tell my parents. But the cats kept coming, and I knew the figure wanted something from me.

In the days that followed, I found more things in the marsh: a child’s shoe, a tarnished locket, a piece of paper folded into a boat. I never opened the locket, but the paper boat I did, and on it was written in pencil, ‘He never came back.’ I started having dreams of a boy, about my age, with mud-caked hands, sitting in the rowboat, holding the teddy bear. He would look at me and mouth the words, ‘He never came back.’

I told my older sister, Ellie, about the lantern and the cat. She laughed, said I had an overactive imagination. But that night, she said she woke to find our back door open, and there were muddy footprints leading from the marsh into the kitchen, stopping at the stove. She didn’t sleep after that.

I knew I had to go back, to find the boy and give him something. So I took the locket I’d found, and I went to the marsh in broad daylight. The pool was still there, and the rowboat was still there, but the lantern was on now, casting a weak, yellow light. I waded into the cold water, and I placed the locket in the boat. As I did, the boat began to sink, slowly, and the lantern flickered out. When the boat was fully submerged, the water became clear, and I could see the bottom, covered in mud and bones. Among them, a small skeleton, curled up, and next to it, the teddy bear. I wanted to scream, but I saw the white cat on the bank, watching me. It had something in its mouth: a key. It dropped the key at my feet, and then it was gone.

I took the key, and I never went back to the marsh. The cats disappeared. But sometimes, at night, I hear the reeds rustle, and I see a faint glow at the edge of the yard, like a lantern. And in the morning, there is always a fresh key on the kitchen floor, even though I lock the doors. I keep them in a jar, and I don’t know what they open, but I know the boy’s ghost is waiting for me to find out, and that one day, I’ll have to follow the white cat again.