The Lantern Man

The first thing I noticed was the smell—brackish, like rotting kelp and wet concrete. It clung to the predawn air of Port Blossom, a fishing town that had long since surrendered to rust and recession. I was heading to the old pier for my morning run, a habit I’d picked up to escape the stale silence of my rented bungalow. The streetlights buzzed with a sickly orange glow, but they only reached so far, leaving the harbor road a patchwork of light and murk.

Halfway down the road, I saw them: two figures standing by the storm drain, their backs to me. They wore dark coveralls, the kind dock workers use, and both had heavy canvas bags at their feet, like tool kits or maybe overnight gear. The taller one had a yellow hard hat; the shorter one wore a wool cap pulled low. They weren’t moving, just staring out at the black water of the bay. It struck me as odd, because the main shipping lanes were on the other side of the peninsula, and no self-respecting dockworker would wait here, where the only traffic was the occasional stray cat or a drunk stumbling home.

As I got closer, the smell got stronger, and I realized it wasn’t just the bay. It was coming from them. A thick, sweet rot, like the inside of a fish left on a summer dock. I quickened my pace, keeping my head down, but just as I passed them, the shorter one turned. Their face was pale, almost luminescent, and their eyes were the color of old pennies. They smiled, a slow, wet smile that showed teeth that were too long and too sharp. Then they spoke, in a voice that didn’t come from their throat but from somewhere deep and hollow. ‘Lantern man’s coming,’ they said. ‘He wants his light back.’

I didn’t stop to ask questions. I broke into a sprint, my sneakers slapping the cracked asphalt. Behind me, I heard the clatter of their bags and a sound like dragging chains. I glanced back and saw them standing exactly where I’d left them, but now they were both facing me, and their heads were tilted at an unnatural angle, as if their necks had been unhinged. The tall one raised a hand and pointed at me. ‘He’ll find you,’ the voice echoed, though their lips didn’t move. ‘He always finds the ones who stare.’

The pier loomed ahead, a skeletal finger of weathered wood jutting into the gloom. I had planned to run to the end and back, but now I just wanted to get inside somewhere, anywhere. The bait shop at the entrance was closed, its security grille down, but the coffee stand next to it had a light on. I barged in, gasping, and slammed the door behind me. The barista, a girl named Ellie with a nose ring and tired eyes, looked up from her phone. ‘Hey, you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

I leaned against the counter, my chest heaving. ‘There are two people out there. They said something about a lantern man.’ Ellie’s face went pale. She set down her phone with a trembling hand. ‘You saw them? The dock diggers? They’re not people. They’re the ones who come back from the water. The lantern man was a lighthouse keeper back in the day. He used kerosene lanterns to guide ships. One night, during a storm, he went out to the end of the pier to relight the beacon and never came back. They say his lantern still burns somewhere out in the fog, and if you see it, you hear him calling your name. But the diggers? They’re his collectors. They drag down the souls of anyone who sees them and doesn’t leave an offering.’

I felt a cold knot tighten in my stomach. ‘An offering? What kind of offering?’ Ellie shrugged, but her eyes were darting to the door. ‘I don’t know. Maybe something precious. Maybe a memory. But you have to do it before sunrise, or he comes for you himself.’ The clock on the wall said 6:15. Sunrise was at 7:24. I had a little over an hour.

I didn’t want to believe it. It was just a folk tale, a way to scare tourists. But as I stood there, catching my breath, I noticed a foul smell seeping under the door—that same rotting scent. And then I heard a knock. Three slow, deliberate knocks. Ellie froze. ‘Don’t answer it,’ she whispered. ‘If you see his face, it’s too late.’ The knocking came again, louder this time. And then a voice, smooth and ancient, like the groan of a settling ship: ‘Lost your way, did you? I can guide you.’

The door rattled. The light in the coffee stand flickered. I looked at Ellie, and she was crying, shaking her head. ‘He’s here for you. You have to go out the back. There’s a rowboat under the pier. Take it out into the bay. The lantern light will lead you to safety. But you have to go now.’

I bolted for the back door, out into the narrow alley that stank of old fryer oil and salt. I could hear the front door splintering behind me. I ran down the rickety steps to the beach, where the tide was high, and there, just as Ellie said, was a small fiberglass rowboat, half-hidden in the shadows. I shoved it into the water and climbed in, grabbing the oars. My hands were shaking so hard I almost dropped one.

As I rowed away from the shore, I looked back. The coffee stand’s front door was wide open, and silhouetted in the light was a figure that was taller than any man, wearing a long coat, and behind it, two smaller shapes. The tall figure held something that glowed—a lantern with a light that was not yellow or white, but a sickly green, like the glow of a deep-sea fish. And even from that distance, I could hear a whisper, but it wasn’t in my ears. It was in my skull, a scratching, like nails on a chalkboard: ‘You see the light, don’t you? Then you’ll never be lost again.’

The fog rolled in, thick as cotton. I rowed blindly, my arms burning, the only reference point that eerie green glow that seemed to follow me no matter which direction I turned. My boat began to take on water, seeping through cracks I hadn’t noticed. My legs were wet, and the cold bit into my skin. I rowed harder, but the light was getting closer. I could see the shape behind it now—a man, but not a man, his face a void, his hands long and pale, reaching for me.

Just as I felt the fingers brush my shoulder, a heavy boom echoed across the bay. A foghorn, low and mournful. The green light flickered and then went out. The figure let out a hiss, like steam, and the fog began to unravel. I found myself drifting near a buoy, and beyond it, the gray silhouette of a trawler. A voice, human, called out, ‘Hey, you okay out there? You look a little green yourself.’ I grabbed the side of the trawler as it passed, and strong hands pulled me aboard. The deckhand stared at me, my clothes soaked, my skin pale. ‘You’re lucky we saw you,’ he said. ‘No one comes out this early except us. What were you doing in that boat?’

I couldn’t answer. I just looked back at the pier. The figure was gone, and the dock was empty. But as the trawler chugged toward port, I saw something floating in the water—a rusted old lantern, green-tinged, still smoking. And I knew, with a certainty that chilled me straight to the bone, that I hadn’t escaped. I had just been given a temporary reprieve. The lantern man always collects, and now I carry his light with me. I see it every time I close my eyes. And I know, one day, I’ll hear him calling my name.

That was three days ago. I haven’t slept since. I’ve been drinking coffee at the stand, watching the horizon, waiting for the fog to roll in. Ellie doesn’t look me in the eye anymore. She just says, ‘You have to give something back. He wants his light returned.’ But I don’t know how. I don’t know what I took. All I know is that the smell of rot never quite leaves my nostrils, and I’ve started walking with a limp because my left foot is always cold, like it’s been dunked in the sea. I’m writing this down because I fear I’ll forget. The lantern man is patient, and he’s waiting for me to make a mistake. I think he’s waiting for me to look into the light again. And I’m so tired, I might just do it.

So if you ever find yourself in Port Blossom, and you see two figures by the water wearing coveralls, don’t meet their eyes. And if you see a green light in the fog, row the other way. Because he’s always there, just beneath the surface, and he’s always hungry for the ones who see him. The lantern man doesn’t heal. He collects. And sooner or later, he’ll have my name.