The Lantern Keeper

My buddy Jake and I decided to hunt for bluegill on the old dredge pond outside of Millbrook, a place known for its overgrown banks and the kind of quiet that presses on your ears. We figured the fish would bite better after dark, so we packed our gear and headed out around nine. My youngest brother, Tommy, insisted on coming along, and despite my better judgment, I let him.

The pond sat at the end of a dead-end gravel road, past a rusted gate that hadn’t been locked in years. The trail wound through a thicket of cottonwoods and willows, their roots snaking over the path like grasping fingers. We chose a spot where the bank was muddy and flat, and I set up our rods while Jake collected driftwood for a fire. By 10:30, we had a small blaze crackling and our lines in the water, the bobbers barely visible in the fading light.

Around eleven, as the fire popped and the night sounds thickened, a woman stepped out from the treeline. She was tall, with sharp features and a long, dark coat that seemed to swallow the shadows. She stood at the edge of our firelight, and her voice was calm but urgent. ‘Have you seen a little boy? He wandered off about an hour ago.’ We shook our heads, exchanged glances. Jake shrugged, and I offered to help, but she shook her head and disappeared back into the woods as silently as she had come. We shrugged it off, returning to our fishing.

But the unease lingered. I kept glancing at the treeline, half-expecting to see her again. Tommy, bored, had started poking the fire with a stick. Then, just past midnight, we heard something from the water—a soft, rhythmic splashing, like a child’s hand slapping the surface. We aimed our flashlights over the pond, but saw nothing. The water was still, reflecting only the flames.

That’s when the lantern appeared. It bobbed along the far bank, its light low and amber, moving in a jerky, unnatural path. We watched it for a full minute, transfixed. Then it stopped, and the light seemed to hover over the water, casting a long, wavering reflection. Jake whispered, ‘What the hell is that?’ He grabbed his rod and reeled in, and as he pulled his line out of the water, the bobber was missing, and the line was frayed at the end, as if something had bitten through.

Then we heard a child’s voice, thin and high, calling from the direction of the lantern: ‘Help me! Please!’ Tommy stood up, his eyes wide. I grabbed his arm. ‘Don’t move.’ The voice came again, closer now, and the lantern began to move toward us along the bank. I could see the silhouette of a figure now, small, but the light was behind it, making its face dark. It called again, and this time the voice sounded like it was right behind us, but we were facing the water.

We turned slowly. There, standing at the edge of the firelight, was the woman from before. But now her coat was wet, and dripping, and her face was pale, with dark hollows where her eyes should have been. She held a lantern in one hand, and in the other, a child’s hand, but the child was not there—just the apparition of a hand, translucent, clutching hers. She spoke, and her voice was a chorus of whispers, like dead leaves skittering: ‘He’s been waiting for you.’

The fire flickered, and for a moment, I saw the child: a boy of maybe six, standing behind her, his mouth open in a silent scream, his skin a muddy gray. Then the lantern dimmed, and when it flared again, the woman was gone. But the handprint on the wet mud at our feet was not ours.

We ran. We tore through the woods, branches whipping our faces, Tommy crying, Jake cursing. We stumbled into the gravel road, jumped into the truck, and didn’t stop driving until we hit the main highway. I never told anyone what we saw, but sometimes, at night, I hear that child’s voice calling from the darkness outside my window, and I know the lantern is still out there, searching for the next one who dares to fish after midnight.