The Lantern Keeper’s Bargain

In the heat of a July evening, in the farming town of Ashwick, seventeen-year-old Elara was sent by her mother to fetch a few staples from the general store two miles down the red-dirt road. The sun was dipping low, painting the sky in streaks of amber and violet, and the air was thick with the smell of ripening corn. Elara took the shortcut through the cow pasture, hopping the fence and kicking up dust as she went. The store was closing soon, and she didn’t want to keep her mother waiting.

She got what she needed—flour, sugar, a tin of lard—and started back just as the last light bled away. The road was a pale ribbon in the gloom, lined by silent oaks. She walked quickly, her sandals scuffing the packed earth, and hummed a tune to keep her company. Then, from the edge of the treeline, a man emerged, falling into step beside her. He was tall, with a weathered face and eyes that seemed too dark for the dusk. He tipped a battered hat and said, friendly-like, ‘Evening, miss. A bit late for a young lady to be out, isn’t it?’ Elara clutched her sack a little tighter. ‘Just heading home,’ she said, forcing a smile. He matched her pace. ‘I’m Corbin. I was just coming from the mill. Mind if I walk with you? It’s not safe for a girl alone.’ She hesitated, but he seemed kindly enough, and the thought of the dark road ahead made his company welcome. She told him her name, and he carried her groceries as they walked, chatting about the weather and the harvest, and how he’d lived here all his life.

They reached the path to her farm, an overgrown trail bordered by a broken fence. Corbin stopped at the gate. He set the sack down, and his smile widened, but something was off—his teeth looked too sharp, and his eyes glinted like pieces of coal. ‘I’ll take it from here,’ Elara said, reaching for the bag. He didn’t move. ‘You know,’ he said, his voice low, ‘I’ve been walking this road every evening for a hundred years, waiting for someone to walk with me. And you’re the first to be so polite.’ Elara’s blood went cold. She saw that his feet didn’t quite touch the ground, and a faint, sickly odor of decay wafted from his coat. In his other hand, he held a rusted lantern, unlit, and the glass was smeared with something dark. ‘You’re not a man,’ she whispered. ‘No,’ he said, ‘but I’m lonely. And you’re so warm.’ He took a step closer, and Elara felt the heat of him—not warmth, but the chill of a grave.

She thought of her mother, of the hot supper waiting, of the field beyond where her brothers were scything hay. She dropped her sack and ran, stumbling over roots and stones, the sound of his laughter chasing her. She burst through the farmhouse door, slammed it, and bolted it. Peeking through the window, she saw the figure standing at the edge of the lantern light, watching. He raised the lantern, and for a moment, the glass flickered with a blue flame. Then he was gone, leaving only the smell of dust and the memory of his voice. Elara’s mother found her shaking on the floor, the groceries scattered at the door. She never told anyone the whole truth, but she always carried a cross of rowan wood in her pocket afterward, and she never walked that road at dusk again. But sometimes, on summer evenings, when the sun dropped low, she’d see a man standing by the gate, holding a lantern, waiting for another polite girl to walk home.