The Lantern Keeper

In the summer of 1987, when I was four years old, my family and I went to the annual Lakeside Festival at Miller’s Pond. It wasn’t a ghost story, nor an angel encounter. Maybe a water spirit? I can’t say. All I know is that it was a night that left an indelible mark on my memory, recurring in my dreams for years.

We arrived as the sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple. The pond was surrounded by old willow trees, their branches drooping low over the water. My grandparents claimed a spot near the dock, spreading out blankets and setting up a small picnic. I remember the smell of grilled corn and the sound of crickets starting their nightly chorus. The festival was small, just a few dozen families from the nearby town, but it felt magical to me.

As darkness fell, the lantern ceremony began. Every family had brought a paper lantern, and one by one, they lit them and set them afloat on the pond. I watched as dozens of glowing orbs drifted across the water, their reflections shimmering like liquid stars. My father helped me light ours, a simple white lantern with a red ribbon. He held my hands as we placed it gently on the water, and I made a wish.

But then something strange happened. Our lantern began to drift in a direction opposite to the others, moving towards a shadowy corner of the pond where the willows hung thick and low. I tugged at my father’s sleeve and pointed. ‘Look, Daddy, ours is going the wrong way.’ He laughed and said, ‘It’s just the wind, sweetheart.’ But I knew better. The wind was blowing from the west, and our lantern was going east.

I couldn’t take my eyes off it. As it reached the willows, it stopped, and for a moment, it seemed to hover there. Then, a figure emerged from the shadows. At first, I thought it was another festival-goer in a costume, but the form was too tall, too thin, and its outline shimmered like heat rising off asphalt. It reached down and picked up our lantern with a hand that seemed to have too many fingers. The light illuminated its face, if you could call it that. Eyes like deep pools, and a mouth that stretched too wide.

I screamed, but no sound came out. My parents were distracted, talking to my aunt about the fireworks that were about to start. I tried to point again, but my arm felt heavy, as if weighted down. The creature looked straight at me, and then it placed the lantern back on the water, but it didn’t drift. It stayed perfectly still, the flame flickering a different color now, blue-green.

The fireworks began overhead, bursting in brilliant colors. The noise was deafening, but I couldn’t hear it. All I could hear was a low hum, coming from the direction of the pond. The creature dipped its head, almost in a nod, and then sank into the water without a splash. I blinked, and it was gone.

When I finally found my voice, I tugged at my father’s sleeve again. ‘Daddy, there was a man in the water. He took our lantern.’ My father looked at the pond, saw our lantern still floating there, and smiled. ‘Maybe it was the Lantern Keeper, honey. He watches over the lanterns and grants wishes.’ He said it as a joke, but I could see a flicker of unease in his eyes.

That night, I had the first of my recurring dreams. In the dream, I was standing on the dock, and the creature rose from the water, holding my lantern. It spoke to me in a language I didn’t understand, but I felt the meaning: ‘Your wish is my command.’ Then it pointed to the sky, and I saw a shooting star, and I woke up crying.

The dreams continued every night for years, always the same. I never told anyone, afraid they’d think I was crazy. But as I grew older, the dreams faded, and I almost forgot about that night at Miller’s Pond. Until, twenty years later, I received a letter from my grandmother. She had passed away, and her lawyer sent me a box of her belongings. In it, I found a photograph of me as a child, standing by the pond, holding a lantern. But in the background, barely visible in the shadows of the willows, was the creature. And in its hand, it held my lantern, its flame burning blue-green.

On the back of the photo, in my grandmother’s handwriting, were the words: ‘The Lantern Keeper keeps his promise.’ I never made a wish that night. But something did.

I haven’t been back to Miller’s Pond since. But sometimes, when I close my eyes, I see that creature’s face, and I hear its voice in the water’s lapping. And I wonder, what wish did I make without knowing? And when will the Lantern Keeper come to collect?