The Lantern Keeper of Blackwood Hollow

In the autumn of 2011, when I had just turned fifteen, my father and I moved to a remote cottage in Blackwood Hollow, a name that sounded more like a folk tale than a postal address. The house had stood for over two centuries, its timber frame sagging under the weight of history, and the realtor made no secret of its age. But my father, a historian obsessed with the colonial era, saw it as a treasure. I, on the other hand, could only think of the stories I’d heard about the Hollow’s past.

The day we arrived, I did what I always did with every new place: I offered to scout the property alone, to ‘get a feel’ for it, as I told my father. It was a habit I’d developed after years of moving, a way to brace myself for the unknown. As I pushed open the heavy oak door, a rush of cold air hit me, but it wasn’t the dank chill of neglect; it was a clean, almost electric cold that made my skin prickle. The moment I stepped inside, I felt a strange sense of being watched, but not with hostility. It was as if the house itself was exhaling a long-held breath.

I walked through the rooms, my footsteps echoing on the wide-plank floors. In the parlor, I noticed a small, brass lantern sitting on the mantelpiece, its glass smoked and yellowed. As I reached for it, I felt a presence beside me, a gentle tug at my awareness, like a child’s hand in my own. A voice, clear as a bell, spoke inside my mind, not with words, but with a torrent of images and emotions. I saw a girl with braided hair, wearing a simple woolen dress, her face lit by that very lantern. She was showing me the house as it had been, not with the peeling wallpaper and dusty corners, but with the warmth of life.

Her name was Eliza. She told me, in that wordless way, that she had lived here in the 1800s, the daughter of the local miller. She loved the house dearly, but most of all, she loved the lantern. Every evening, she would light it and place it in the window, a beacon for her father who often returned late from the mill. It was her job, her pride, her promise of safety. She showed me the cellar, where she would hide during thunderstorms, and the attic, where she would read by the light of that very lantern, dreaming of a world beyond the Hollow.

As the days passed, I found myself drawn to that lantern. I would polish it, and it seemed to glow even when unlit. My father noticed my fixation and told me the lantern was a family heirloom of the original owners, but that no one had used it in decades. I began to place it in the window at dusk, just as Eliza had done. And every night, I felt her there, a silent companion, a friend who had been alone for so long. I would sit by the window, the lantern casting a warm, amber light into the darkness, and I would listen to the stories she told me with her mind.

But one night, the lantern’s flame flickered. Not with the wind, but as if something were passing too close to it. The temperature dropped, and a smell of damp earth filled the room. Eliza’s voice, for the first time, was urgent, scared. She showed me something: a shadowy figure, tall and gaunt, standing at the edge of the woods. It was not from her time; it was something older, darker. It had been drawn to the light, she said, to the warmth that had been dormant for so long. For years, the lantern had been cold, keeping the presence at bay. Now that I had rekindled it, I had called it forth.

I tried to put out the flame, but it would not die. The figure grew closer each night, its form more defined. My father, oblivious, praised the cozy atmosphere. I was terrified, but I could not abandon Eliza. I remembered her stories, her love for the lantern, and I knew what I had to do. The night the figure was to reach the house, I took the lantern and walked into the woods. Eliza guided me to a forgotten well, hidden beneath a gnarled oak. She told me the lantern was her anchor, and that I must place it in the well, to let it sink into the darkness, and with it, the thing that was after it.

As I lowered the lantern into the well, the rope slipping through my hands, I felt a tearing sensation, a cold void where Eliza’s warmth had been. The lantern hit the water with a faint splash, and the last flicker of light vanished. The woods fell silent. I walked back to the house, my heart heavy. In the window, I saw no light, and I knew Eliza was gone, called back to wherever she had come from. I cried that night, feeling a profound loss.

The years have passed, and I have not moved far from Blackwood Hollow. I visit the well sometimes, peering into the black water. In my dreams, I sometimes see Eliza, standing by the window, holding the lantern, but her face is sad, and she fades if I try to reach her. The house is quiet now, except for the wind. And sometimes, on the darkest nights, I think I see a faint glow from the bottom of the well, a deep amber, as if the lantern still burns, waiting for another keeper to find it. But I know better than to light it again. Some things are better left in the dark.