The Lantern Man

In the autumn of 2022, I was housesitting for my aunt in the remote village of Kestrel Hollow, nestled deep in the Appalachian foothills. The house was an old timber-frame structure, creaking with age, and the nearest neighbor was a half-mile down a gravel road that wound through dense, gnarled trees. My aunt had warned me about the coyotes and the occasional black bear, but she had never mentioned anything about the lantern.

That night, I was restless, unable to sleep. The wind outside moaned through the eaves, and the old house settled with groans that sounded like footsteps on the stairs. Around 2:30 AM, as I lay in the guest bedroom scrolling through my phone, I heard a distinct knock at the front door. It was three slow, deliberate raps. My aunt was a heavy sleeper, but she was also expecting my uncle to return from a fishing trip late that night, so she had left the porch light on. But the knock was not the pattern my uncle used; he always knocked twice quickly.

Curiosity got the better of me. I crept down the stairs, my bare feet cold on the hardwood. The porch light cast a weak glow through the frosted glass panel beside the door. I peered out, but I couldn’t see anyone. The knock came again, stronger this time. I hesitated, but then I remembered that my aunt had said my uncle might have forgotten his keys. I unlocked the heavy bolt and swung the door open.

There, on the porch, stood a figure that made my blood run cold. It was a man, tall and thin, wearing a tattered raincoat. But what struck me most was that he resembled my uncle—his same broad shoulders, his same tired face—but it was not my uncle. The man’s eyes were dark, like empty sockets, and he held a rusty lantern that flickered with a pale blue flame. The light cast strange, shifting shadows across the porch. His mouth curved into a smile that was too wide, and he said in a voice that was both familiar and alien, ‘Mind if I come in?’

I stepped back, my heart pounding. ‘Who are you?’ I managed to say. The man tilted his head, a jerky motion, and replied, ‘I’m the one who’s been walking these hills for longer than you’ve been alive. Your uncle knows me. He’ll be home soon. He always brings the lantern when he comes back.’

The lantern. For the first time, I noticed that the porch light was flickering, and my uncle’s truck was not in the driveway. But I knew my uncle was supposed to return tonight. I felt a cold draft seep through the door. The man took a step forward, and I slammed the door shut, locking it. I heard a low, guttural laugh, and then the sound of footsteps retreating down the porch.

I ran upstairs and woke my aunt. She sat up, her face pale. ‘Did you see him?’ she asked. I nodded, and she whispered, ‘He’s been coming around for months. He calls himself the Lantern Man. They say he’s a doppelganger, but not of a person—of the dead. He appears when someone in this house is about to die. Last time he came, my father passed a week later.’

My blood turned to ice. I asked, ‘But my uncle is coming home tonight.’ My aunt grabbed my arm, her grip strong. ‘He’s not coming home. He died in a car accident on the mountain road two hours ago. The police called just before you came up. I didn’t know how to tell you.’

I looked out the window. In the distance, I saw a flickering light moving through the trees, down toward the road, following the path my uncle would have taken. The lantern man was walking away, but I knew he would be back. And now, whenever I hear three slow knocks at night, I do not answer. I just pray that the light in the window keeps him away.

But last night, as I lay in the dark, I heard a soft knock, and when I opened my eyes, there was a flickering blue light seeping through the keyhole, and a voice whispered, ‘Let me in. I have news from your uncle.’