The Lantern Keeper’s Burden

I’ve been silent for four years now, not because the strangeness stopped, but because I learned that speaking of it only invites more of it. Tonight, though, I feel compelled to write, to leave a record for anyone who might find themselves in a place like mine: the old canal town of Marrow’s End, where the water remembers everything.

Marrow’s End is a small, faded community in upstate New York, nestled between a granite quarry that closed in the 1920s and a network of locks and canals that once fed the Erie system. The houses are narrow, with steep roofs and peeling paint, built for workers who are long gone. The canal itself is still there, a black ribbon of sluggish water, but it’s been rerouted and drained in sections, leaving behind dry, weed-choked beds that smell of rust and rot. The town’s only claim to fame is a low, stone bridge that spans the largest dry lock, known locally as the ‘Dry Crossing.’ It’s a place where teenagers dare each other to walk at night, and where old-timers say the lock keepers still linger, if you listen closely.

I moved here for the cheap rent and the quiet, hoping to finish my novel about forgotten American industries. The house I rented, a former canal master’s quarters, came with a peculiar feature: a small, circular window in the closet of the spare bedroom that looked out onto the dry lock bed. No one had bothered to board it up, and from that window, I had a clear view of the old lock gate, its iron teeth crusted with decades of mineral deposits.

It started with the lantern light. At first, I thought it was a reflection from a passing car on the main road, but the dry lock is below grade, shielded by stone walls. The light was warm, amber, and it flickered with a rhythm that seemed almost deliberate. I began to watch for it every night, and soon I noticed it appeared at exactly 11:47 PM, and it would stay for exactly thirteen minutes. In that time, the light would make slow, circular sweeps, as if someone was inspecting the lock chamber from the gate’s catwalk.

Curiosity got the better of me one evening. I slipped out of the house, crossed the empty parking lot, and climbed down the rusted ladder into the dry lock. The air was cold and smelled of copper. I crouched behind a cluster of reeds, staring up at the gate where the light seemed to originate. And then I saw him: a tall, gaunt figure in a long oilskin coat, holding an old-fashioned kerosene lantern. He wasn’t a ghost in the translucent sense; he was solid, but he moved with a strange jerky gait, as if he were a marionette. He never looked in my direction, but he spoke, his voice low and gravelly, echoing off the stone: ‘Sixteen years. Sixteen years of counting. The gate must hold. The waters must rise.’

I didn’t know what to make of it. I assumed it was a local eccentric or a homeless man playing a prank. But the next night, I brought my camera, determined to get a photo. I waited, and the light appeared again. I snapped a few shots, but when I checked the digital display, the images were black except for a single point of light where the lantern would have been. The figure didn’t show up on the sensor at all.

I started keeping a log, a notebook filled with dates and times and the man’s muttered phrases. Over the weeks, I began to discern a pattern. He would say, ‘The water is low,’ or ‘The lock is dry,’ or ‘The gate is rusting,’ but always ending with ‘The keeper must count.’ One night, after a heavy rainstorm, I heard him say, ‘Tonight, the water finds its way.’ And then he did something terrifying: he turned and looked directly at my hiding spot. His eyes were pale, like frosted glass, and his mouth split into a wide, wet grin. ‘You see me?’ he rasped. ‘That means you’re part of it now. The lock takes its keepers.’

I fled back to the house, my heart pounding. I tried to rationalize it: a trick of the light, sleep deprivation. But the next morning, I found a small, rusted key on my doorstep, tied with a length of frayed rope. I didn’t pick it up. I swept it into the gutter.

But he wasn’t done. Over the following weeks, strange things began to happen in the house. Doors would creak open by themselves. The smell of coal oil wafted through the rooms. And every night at 11:47, I would feel an overwhelming urge to go to the spare bedroom, to look out that circular window. I resisted at first, but one night I gave in, and I saw that the dry lock was no longer dry. It was filled with black, turgid water, and the gate was straining, groaning under the pressure. The lantern man stood on the catwalk, now chest-deep in water, and he was shouting, ‘The count is off! The count is off! You must take the lantern!’

I slammed the window shut and drew the blinds, but the sound of rushing water filled the house, sloshing against the walls. I ran downstairs, and to my horror, water was seeping under the front door, spreading across the hardwood floor like a black oil spill. I tried to open the door, but it wouldn’t budge, as if the water pressure was holding it shut. The water rose to my ankles, then my knees, icy cold and thick as molasses. I screamed for help, but no sound left my lips. Just as the water reached my chest, the urge to go to that window became overwhelming. I fought it, but my legs carried me up the stairs, my body no longer my own. At the window, I saw the lantern man reaching out, his hand extended, the lantern dangling from his fingers. ‘Take it,’ he whispered, his voice inside my head. ‘Take it and you will be free. You will count. You will keep the water at bay.’

I didn’t want to, but my hand reached out, and my fingers closed around the cold brass handle. The moment I touched it, the water receded, sucking away as if a plug had been pulled. I was left standing in a dry, dusty room, holding the lantern. The man was gone, but his voice echoed in the silence: ‘You are the keeper now. Every night at 11:47, you will come to the window, and you will count the lock’s fittings. You will ensure the gate holds. If you fail, the water will rise, and it will swallow the town.’

I thought it was a terrible dream, but the lantern remained in my hand, solid and warm. I tried to throw it away, but it always appeared back in my closet, waiting. That was four years ago. Every single night, at 11:47, I am compelled to go to that window, to stand for thirteen minutes, and to count the rivets on the old gate, just as a ritual. I’ve tried to resist, to move away, but I always find myself back in Marrow’s End, drawn by an invisible thread.

Now, I have become the keeper. I know the water is always just beneath the surface, ready to rise if I miss a single count. I’ve tried to tell people, to show them the lantern, but they see only an old rusted lamp. They’ve started to avoid me, whispering that I’ve gone mad, that I’m the town’s new ghost.

But I am not the only one. Sometimes, I see others at the window, faces pressed against the glass, their mouths moving in silent pleas. They are the previous keepers, trapped like me, forced to serve the lock forever. And I know that someday, someone else will see my light, and I will be able to pass the burden on, just as the lantern man did to me.

So if you ever find yourself in Marrow’s End, and you see a flickering light in the dry lock, do not approach. Do not look too long. And whatever you do, never pick up a rusted key on your doorstep, for the lock takes its keepers, and the water is patient.