The Lantern in the Thicket

In the decaying autumn of 1993, my cousin Finn and I had spent the afternoon exploring the abandoned coal camp of Merrow’s Cut. The company had shut it down in the late seventies, and the state had burned every remaining structure to the ground, leaving only concrete slabs and rusted bed frames. We were heading home, a forty-minute walk through the ridge country, and the sun was already bleeding into the horizon. As we climbed the gravel road out of the hollow, the air grew still, and the only sound was the crunch of our boots on the loose stones.

We were halfway up the long straightaway that led to Blackpine Gap when a sound came from the hillside to our right—a dry rustling, like something large pushing through the underbrush. Finn grabbed my arm, and we both froze, expecting a deer or a feral dog. But what stepped onto the road was no animal. It was an old man, gaunt and stooped, wearing a tattered oilcloth coat that hung to his knees. His face was hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat, but I could see his hands—long, pale fingers that twitched as he walked. He didn’t look at us; he just shuffled onto the gravel and started moving in our direction, his steps making no sound.

We stood there, too startled to move. The old man stopped about ten feet away, his head tilted as if listening. Then he spoke, his voice a dry rasp that seemed to come from the trees themselves. ‘You boys from the Cut?’ he asked. Finn and I exchanged glances. We knew no one lived up here anymore. ‘No, sir,’ I managed. ‘We’re just heading home.’ The old man nodded slowly, and for the first time, I saw his face beneath the hat. His eyes were milky white, like he was blind, but they seemed to fix on us anyway. He smiled, revealing brown, broken teeth. ‘Good. You shouldn’t go back there. Not after dark.’ He gestured with a thin arm toward the hollow behind us. ‘Them that stays, they get the lantern.’

I felt a chill run down my spine. Finn took a step back, pulling me with him. ‘We’ve got to go,’ he said, his voice tight. The old man didn’t move, just stood there, his head following us as we backed away. ‘Mind the thicket,’ he called after us. ‘It’s full of eyes tonight.’ Then he turned and shuffled off the road, disappearing into the underbrush as silently as he had come. We didn’t wait; we turned and ran, not stopping until we reached the safety of our porch, our lungs burning.

That night, I couldn’t shake the image of that old man. I told my mother about him, and her face went pale. She made the sign of the cross and whispered, ‘The lantern man. They say he was a watchman at the Cut, and when they burned the houses, he refused to leave. They say he walks the hollow, carrying a lantern, looking for the souls of the ones who died in the fire.’ I laughed it off, but I didn’t sleep well. The wind outside sounded like whispering, and I could swear I saw a faint glow moving among the trees at the edge of the yard.

The next day, Finn and I decided to go back, to prove to ourselves that it was just an old tramp or a hallucination from the heat. We took a flashlight and a pocketknife, and we walked the same road, but this time we paid close attention to the hillside where the old man had appeared. We found a narrow path, barely visible, that wound up into the thicket. On a whim, we followed it. The brush was thick and thorny, and the air grew cooler as we climbed. After about ten minutes, we came to a clearing where the trees parted. In the center stood a single stone chimney, the last remnant of a house. And leaning against it was an old brass lantern, its glass cracked and blackened with soot.

Finn reached for it, but I grabbed his wrist. ‘Don’t,’ I said. ‘Something’s not right.’ He shrugged me off and picked it up. The lantern was heavy, and as he lifted it, I saw something etched into the base: a name, ‘E. M. Harlow.’ The name rang a bell, but I couldn’t place it. Finn turned the lantern over, and a piece of paper fell out, yellowed and brittle. I unfolded it, and we read it together. It was a note, scrawled in a shaky hand: ‘They burned my home, but I’ll burn theirs. The lantern holds the fire that never goes out. He who carries it will see what I have seen.’ We read it twice, and then I looked up at Finn. His face was pale, and he was staring at something behind me.

I turned, and there, at the edge of the clearing, stood the old man again. He was holding a second lantern, this one lit, the flame casting a sickly green glow. ‘I see you found my keepsake,’ he said, his voice the same dry rasp. ‘Now you know my name. E.M. Harlow. The company men called me a fool, but they learned to fear the dark. You want to go home? You can. But the lantern stays.’ He took a step forward, and the light from his lantern seemed to pulse, and I felt a wave of dizziness wash over me. ‘Give it back,’ I whispered to Finn. But Finn was staring at the old man, his eyes wide, and he didn’t move. The old man smiled again. ‘He can’t hear you, boy. He’s already listening to me.’

I grabbed the lantern from Finn’s hands and threw it at the old man. It clattered on the ground at his feet, and the glass shattered. The old man looked down at it, then back at us, and his smile widened. ‘Careful,’ he said. ‘That fire spreads.’ And then he vanished, the light of his lantern winking out like a candle. We ran then, crashing through the thicket, not caring about the thorns that tore at our clothes. We didn’t stop until we were home, locked in our rooms, shaking. I never told anyone the full story, but that night, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the old man was still watching, waiting for us to come back.

Years passed, and I moved away, but the memory never faded. I tried to find out about E.M. Harlow, but old records were lost in a courthouse fire, and no one remembered the Cut but the old-timers, and they wouldn’t talk. I thought I was free of it, until last week, when I received a package in the mail with no return address. Inside was a small brass lantern, identical to the one we’d found, polished and gleaming, with a note that said simply: ‘The thicket remembers. Bring it back, or I’ll come for you.’ I’ve been looking at it for days, trying to decide what to do. But tonight, I heard a rustling outside my window, and when I looked out, I saw a pale glow moving among the trees at the edge of my lawn. And I know, with a certainty that chills me to the bone, that I’m not done with the lantern man yet. Not by a long shot.