The Lantern Keeper

I was sixteen when we moved to the town of Stillwater, a place that seemed to exist only in the spaces between cornfields and forgotten highways. My mother had remarried, and my stepfather, a man of few words and many maps, had inherited a small, weather-beaten house on the edge of a forest that locals called the ‘Blackwood’. No one talked about what was in the Blackwood, only that you should never go there after dark, and never, ever follow the light.

Those first weeks were a blur of unpacking and trying to adjust to the oppressive silence of the countryside. I missed the constant hum of the city, the lights, the noise. Here, the nights were so dark, they felt like a physical weight pressing against my eyes. My only solace was my journal, where I poured out my frustrations and my fears. I would often write late into the night, the scratch of my pen the only sound in the house.

One evening, after a particularly long and dreary day, I decided to turn in early. The clock on my nightstand, an old wind-up thing from my grandmother, read 10:52 PM. I blew out the candle I kept by my bed, a habit I’d picked up to save on the electric bill, and pulled the covers up to my chin. I closed my eyes, but sleep didn’t come easily. The wind outside was picking up, and it whistled through the cracks in the window, making a sound like a distant, mournful song.

Just as I was starting to drift off, I heard my door creak open. I kept my eyes shut, expecting my mother to check on me, as she often did, thinking I was a restless sleeper. But the footsteps that followed were heavy, deliberate, like those of a man. I opened my eyes and saw a figure silhouetted in the doorway. He was tall, with broad shoulders, and he wore a long, dark coat. As he stepped inside and slowly closed the door behind him, the moonlight caught his face. It was pale, almost translucent, and his eyes were the color of the deep forest at night. He held something in his hand, a small, dimly glowing lantern, which cast dancing shadows across the walls.

I tried to scream, but my voice was gone, caught in the icy grip of fear. The man walked towards my bed, the lantern swinging gently, and I could see that his feet didn’t quite touch the floor. He stopped beside me and leaned down, his face inches from mine. He smelled of damp earth and something sweet, like rotting flowers. He spoke, and his voice was like the sound of rustling leaves, dry and ancient. ‘You mustn’t sleep,’ he whispered. ‘The light will find you.’ He raised the lantern, and the flame inside flared, and then everything went black.

I woke with a gasp, my heart pounding against my ribs. The room was empty, the door still closed. I checked the clock; it was still 10:52 PM. A broken hour? I told myself it was a nightmare, a product of my unease in this new place. But the image of the man with the lantern stayed with me, etched into my mind like a scar.

The next night, I was afraid to go to my room. I stayed up in the living room, reading, until my mother insisted I go to bed. I complied, but I left a nightlight on, a small, reassuring glow. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, and as I watched, the shadows began to writhe. They seemed to dance, forming shapes that were almost human, but not quite. I closed my eyes, willing myself to sleep, but every time I did, I saw that pale face, those dark eyes, and heard those words: ‘You mustn’t sleep.’

On the third night, I decided to fight back. I sat up in bed, a flashlight in my hand, and I waited. When the clock struck 10:52, the door opened, and the man was there again. The lantern light was brighter now, a sickly yellow that made my skin crawl. He didn’t speak this time. He simply raised his free hand, and I saw that his fingers ended in long, needle-like claws. He took a step forward, and I threw my flashlight at him. It passed through him as if he were made of smoke, and thudded against the wall behind. He smiled, and it was the worst thing I had ever seen. ‘You cannot stop the light,’ he said. ‘You can only follow it.’

That night, I ran from my room, down the hall, past the kitchen, and out the back door, barefoot in the cold grass. I ran towards the Blackwood, because I didn’t know where else to go. I stumbled over roots and rocks, the forest swallowing me in its darkness. Behind me, I could see the bobbing glow of the lantern, growing closer. I ran until my lungs burned, until I collapsed in a clearing, sobbing. And then the light was there, and the man was standing before me, no longer menacing, but almost gentle. He held out his hand. ‘The keeper only wants the truth,’ he said. ‘You have carried a lie for too long.’

He was right. I had been lying about my father. My father hadn’t died when I was born, as I had always said. He had disappeared, vanishing into the Blackwood years before, and I had convinced myself he was dead rather than admit he’d left me. But the man with the lantern was a keeper of lost things, and he had seen the lie within me, glowing like a beacon in the dark.

I took his hand, and the moment I did, the world turned upside down. When I opened my eyes, I was standing in my father’s old study, a room I had only seen in blurred photographs. There was a letter on the desk, addressed to me. It was from my father, explaining that he had been chosen as the new Keeper of the Blackwood, bound to it forever, and that he had to leave me to protect me. He wrote that his only hope was that I would one day understand. And now, I did.

I am the Keeper now, following the lantern, watching over the lost and the wandering. And if you ever hear a soft knock at your window at 10:52 at night, and see a pale face in the glass, do not be alarmed. It is only me, the new Keeper of the Blackwood, come to guide you to the truth you’ve been hiding from yourself.