The Lantern Man

The year was 2006, and I had finally convinced myself to take a break from the endless gray of the city. I chose the Faroe Islands, a place so remote and wind-battered that it felt like the edge of the world. I spent two weeks hiking the treeless moors, past sheep farms and cliffs that dropped into the churning Atlantic. The people were kind, but the landscape had a way of making you feel small, insignificant. I didn’t mind. I had come to escape, and I was succeeding.

After my trek, I stopped in a village called Tjørnuvík, a collection of old wooden houses huddled beneath a towering mountain. I found a hostel, a converted 19th-century warehouse that had been used for drying fish. The building was dark and drafty, with thick stone walls and small windows that barely let in the weak northern light. A sign above the door read ‘Guesthouse’ in faded letters. I paid for a bed and was given a key to a room on the second floor.

As I climbed the creaking stairs, I noticed a man standing in the corner of the common room. He was tall, stick-thin, with pale skin and eyes that seemed too large for his face. He wore round glasses, a collarless shirt, and his trousers were held up by suspenders, like something out of an old photograph. He didn’t move, didn’t blink. I nodded at him and said, ‘Evening.’ He just stared. I shrugged and went to my room.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. The wind howled around the building, and the old timbers groaned like they were alive. I got up to get some water from the kitchen. As I passed the common room, I saw the man again, sitting in a chair by the cold fireplace. He was facing the wall, not moving. I cleared my throat. ‘You okay?’ No response. I left, feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature.

The next morning, I asked the hostel owner about the strange man. He looked at me oddly. ‘What man?’ he said. ‘There’s no one else staying here. You’re the only guest.’ I felt a knot in my stomach. I described him in detail. The owner’s face went pale. ‘You saw the lantern man,’ he whispered. ‘He appears before a death. He’s been seen every time someone has drowned in the bay.’ I laughed nervously, but the owner didn’t smile. He told me to be careful near the water.

I tried to brush it off, but the image of the man wouldn’t leave me. That evening, I went for a walk along the shore. The sun was setting, casting long shadows across the black sand. I saw a figure in the distance, standing at the water’s edge. It was him, the lantern man, holding a faint, blue lantern that flickered like a dying star. He raised the lantern, and for a moment, I saw his face. It was not a face of malice, but of sorrow, deep and ancient. Then he turned and walked into the sea, and the light vanished.

I stood there, frozen, until the cold seeped into my bones. I hurried back to the hostel, my heart pounding. I tried to calm myself, telling myself it was a hallucination, a trick of the light. But when I entered the common room, he was there again, sitting in the same chair, his wet clothes dripping onto the wooden floor. He looked at me, and his lips moved, but no sound came out. I could read the word on his lips: ‘Soon.’

I locked myself in my room, pushing a chair against the door. I didn’t sleep. I stared at the ceiling, listening to the wind and the creaking of the house. At dawn, I heard a commotion outside. I looked out the window and saw a group of villagers gathered at the shore. They were pulling something from the water. It was a young man, a local fisherman, his face pale and lifeless. The lantern man had claimed another.

I packed my bags and left that morning, not even stopping for breakfast. I never looked back. But as the ferry pulled away from the island, I saw him one last time, standing on the dock, holding his lantern. He raised it in a mock salute, and the flame flickered out. I’ve never spoken of this to anyone, but I know what I saw. And I know that somewhere in the fog, the lantern man is still waiting, counting the days until his next call.