The Lantern Maker’s Field

It was the summer of 2004, and I was twelve. My best friend, Maya, and I were over the moon because our Girl Scout troop had earned a spot at the regional jamboree, a weekend-long campout held in the northern part of the state, a place called Blackwood Meadows. The drive was supposed to take four hours, but our troop leader, Mrs. Hartley, had a terrible sense of direction. We were only six girls in her minivan, and we spent the entire afternoon winding through backroads, past decaying barns and fields of sun-scorched corn. The sun dipped below the horizon, and the sky turned a bruised purple. Maya and I sat in the back, our excitement turning to queasy anxiety as the van’s headlights cut through the thickening dark.

We finally arrived at Blackwood Meadows long after dinner. The camp was vast, with wooden cabins scattered around a central lodge. The other troops were already settled, their campfires dying to embers. We unpacked in a daze, our cabin smelling of pine and dust. Maya and I claimed bunks by the window, but the night pressed against the glass, black and heavy. We fell asleep to the sound of crickets, our dreams troubled by the long, disorienting journey.

The next morning, the camp buzzed with activity. We were split into mixed patrols, each with girls from other troops. I was assigned to Patrol Seven, and we were given a task: to explore the far edge of the camp and collect samples of wildflowers for a badge. Our patrol leader was a girl named Chloe, who seemed to know the camp layout better than anyone. She led us past the cabins, through a stand of birch trees, and into a meadow that was oddly bare, save for a single, gnarled oak at its center. Hanging from a low branch was a strange lantern, its glass panels dark and dusty. Chloe said the caretaker told her it was a relic from an old legend, but she didn’t know the story. We took our samples and left, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that the lantern was watching us.

That evening, around a communal campfire, an older girl from another troop, a blonde with a sharp voice, told us the tale. She said that long ago, a lantern maker lived in a cabin near the meadow. He crafted beautiful glass lanterns, but he was obsessed with capturing the perfect light. One night, he went into the meadow during a lightning storm, and a bolt struck the oak, killing him. His ghost, they said, still roams the field, searching for his lantern. ‘And if you touch his lantern,’ she whispered, ‘he’ll come for you.’ Everyone laughed, but Maya and I exchanged uneasy glances. We had touched the lantern that afternoon.

The next day, the camp activities were in full swing: archery, canoeing, and a nature hike. But my mind kept drifting back to the lantern. During a free period, Maya and I decided to investigate. We snuck back to the oak, and I reached up to touch the lantern again, this time giving it a gentle push. The glass rattled, and a faint glow flickered inside, then died. We both froze. A cold wind rustled the grass, and we heard a sound like a raspy breath. We fled back to the main camp, our hearts pounding.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in my bunk, listening to the wind moan around the cabin. Just past midnight, I heard footsteps crunching on the gravel path outside. They stopped at our door. I held my breath, waiting. The door didn’t open, but I felt a presence, a heaviness in the air. Then the footsteps moved on. I woke Maya, but she said it was just the wind. But I knew it wasn’t.

The next day, the camp leaders announced a night hike to a nearby hill to observe a meteor shower. We were all excited, but as we formed a line with flashlights, I noticed that the lantern in the meadow was now glowing. It was a steady, eerie blue. I tried to point it out to Maya, but she said it was just a trick of the light. We set off, our laughter echoing in the dark. As we walked, I kept looking back, and the lantern seemed to pulse, as if it were following us.

At the hilltop, we lay on blankets, watching the sky. Meteors streaked past, and everyone oohed and ahhed. But I couldn’t focus. The lantern’s glow was visible through the trees, and I felt a deep, primal fear. I told Maya we had to go back, that the lantern was calling us. She thought I was being silly, but when she looked, her face went pale. ‘That’s… not the path back,’ she said. I turned, and the lantern was now closer, standing at the edge of the field, its light casting long shadows.

We scrambled up, telling our patrol leader we needed to use the bathroom. She waved us off. We took a different path back, trying to avoid the meadow, but every turn led us to the same oak. The lantern’s glow was brighter now, and I could see a figure standing beneath it, a tall, gaunt man in an old-fashioned coat, his face hidden in shadow. He was holding the lantern, and he seemed to be waiting. I pulled Maya to a halt. We stood frozen, and the figure took a step toward us.

‘He’s coming,’ I whispered. We ran, crashing through the underbrush, and burst into the clearing near the cabins. The camp was quiet; everyone was still on the hill. We ran to our cabin, slammed the door, and huddled in a corner. The figure didn’t follow, but we could see the lantern’s glow through the window, slowly approaching. It stopped just outside. I peeked through the blinds, and the lantern was right there, its blue flame dancing. A hand, pale and skeletal, reached for the door handle.

We screamed, but no one heard. The door rattled, then fell silent. The next morning, when the camp woke, we were found in the corner, our eyes wide. We tried to tell them about the lantern man, but they dismissed it as a dream. But I knew better. The lantern was gone, taken from the oak, and no one could explain it. We left Blackwood Meadows later that day, and I never spoke of it again. But even now, I sometimes see that blue glow in my peripheral vision, and I know the lantern maker is still waiting, in some field, for the next curious soul to touch his lantern.