The Lantern Keeper’s Vigil

My family and I moved into the old carriage house on the edge of Thornfield when I was twelve. The place had been abandoned for years, and the price was so low that my father couldn’t resist, even though the realtor wouldn’t say why the previous owners left so suddenly. The house itself was charming in a decaying way, with its sagging porch and ivy-choked windows, but the moment I stepped inside, I felt a coldness that had nothing to do with the early autumn chill.

My room was in the attic, a narrow space with a single dormer window that overlooked the overgrown garden and the hollow beyond. The light from the streetlamp at the end of the lane cast a weak, yellow glow through the glass, just enough for me to find my way around at night. I liked the dark, so I never switched on the overhead light, preferring the shadows to dance across the slanted ceiling.

On that first night, I woke to the sound of clicking, like a key turning in a lock, over and over. It was coming from the garden. I pressed my face to the cold window and saw a figure standing among the tall weeds, a woman in a long dress, her face lifted toward my window. She had a sharp, pointed nose and her hair was pulled back so tightly it looked painful. She was shaking her head slowly, as if in warning, and in her hand she held a small, brass lantern, its flame flickering despite the still air.

I should have run to my parents, but I was frozen, watching her. Then the lamp on the street went out, plunging the garden into darkness. When the light returned a moment later, she was gone. I convinced myself I had dreamed it, but the next night, I saw her again. And the night after that. Each time, she stood in the same spot, shaking her head, her lantern casting a pool of light that never seemed to reach my window.

I tried to tell my parents, but they dismissed it as my imagination. ‘Probably just the neighbor’s cat,’ my mother said, though we had no neighbors within sight. I started avoiding the window, pulling the curtain closed, but I could still hear the clicking, and I felt her gaze on me through the fabric.

One night, I decided to confront her. I sneaked down the creaking stairs and out into the garden, the cold dew soaking my bare feet. She was waiting for me, her lantern held high, and her face was gaunt, almost skeletal. She pointed a long, bony finger at the hollow beyond the garden. ‘The keeper of the lantern must never look away,’ she whispered, her voice like dry leaves. ‘But he did, and now the light is gone.’ She raised the lantern, and for the first time, I saw that the flame inside was not warm but icy blue, and it illuminated a grave at her feet. The headstone read ‘Elias Thorne, Keeper of the Lantern, 1881-1901.’

She reached out and touched my forehead with her cold finger. ‘You see me because you carry the same burden. You must keep the vigil, or you will become as I am, forever walking the garden, warning the unseeing.’ I woke up in my bed the next morning, with a mud-caked footprint on my pillow, and I knew it was not a dream. Since then, I have watched the garden every night, and the woman with the lantern has faded, but I fear the day she vanishes entirely, because then her job will be mine.