The Lantern Man

The first time I saw him, I dropped the medication cart. I’m a night orderly at Willow Creek Manor, a sprawling, decaying building that was once a sanatorium for children with tuberculosis. The place has a history you can feel in the cold drafts that snake through the halls and the way the floorboards groan even when no one walks on them. I’d been working there for nine months, mostly nights, and I’d heard the rumors—staff talking about a figure in a long black coat and wide-brimmed hat who drifted through the east wing. I thought they were just trying to scare the new guy.

But that night, I was coming out of the supply closet, my arms full of fresh linens, when I saw him. He stood at the far end of the hall, near the old solarium door. His coat hung to his ankles, and his hat shadowed his face completely. He didn’t move like a man; he slid, as if the floor were ice. He turned toward the dining room and vanished through the wall. I dropped the linens and just stood there, my heart pounding. When my supervisor, Carol, saw me frozen, she walked over and put a hand on my shoulder. ‘You’ve seen him,’ she said, not asking. ‘We call him the Lantern Man. He’s been here as long as the building. You’ll get used to him.’ I wanted to ask more, but she just walked away.

The next few weeks, I couldn’t stop thinking about him. Every night, I’d glance down that hallway, hoping to see him again, but also dreading it. One night, I was in the basement, checking the boiler, when I saw a light bobbing at the far end. It was a lantern, old-fashioned, with a glass chimney and a flame that didn’t flicker. And there he was, holding it, his face still hidden. He started walking toward the old storage rooms, and I followed, my curiosity overriding my fear. He disappeared through a door that I knew led to a sealed-off wing—the old pediatric ward, which had been closed since the hospital shut down decades ago.

The next day, I asked the facility director for the keys to that wing. She looked at me like I was crazy. ‘That wing’s structurally unsound,’ she said. ‘No one’s been in there since the ’60s. You have no reason to go in there.’ But I couldn’t let it go. I found a maintenance man who had a master key, and I slipped him fifty bucks to let me borrow it for an hour.

That night, I went into the sealed wing. The air was thick with dust and the smell of old medicine. The walls were lined with small beds, rusted metal frames, and faded bedspreads. On the walls were painted murals—cartoon animals, circus scenes, meant to cheer up sick children. But now they looked sinister, their faded colors like bruises in the dim light. I walked to the end of the ward, where a door stood ajar. Behind it, a narrow staircase led up to a bell tower that rose above the manor.

I climbed the stairs, each step creaking under my weight. At the top, I found the Lantern Man. He was standing at a window, looking out over the grounds. His lantern sat on a dusty ledge, casting a warm, steady glow. For the first time, he turned to face me. His face was not a face—just a smooth, dark void where eyes and mouth should be. I wanted to run, but I was frozen.

Then, in a voice that sounded like dry leaves scratching against stone, he spoke. ‘I am the keeper,’ he said. ‘I watch over the children who sleep here.’ He gestured to the window, and I looked down. Below, in the moonlight, I saw them—dozens of small silhouettes, running and playing in the overgrown garden, their laughter floating up like wind chimes. They were children, but their forms were translucent, and their faces were turned up to the tower, as if they knew I was there.

‘They don’t know they’re dead,’ the Lantern Man said. ‘They still believe they’re waiting for their parents to come back. I keep them calm. I keep them safe. But you, you’ve walked in with your questions. Now they sense something is wrong.’ As he spoke, the children below stopped playing. They turned slowly, all of them, and began walking toward the building, their eyes fixed on the tower.

I backed away, stumbling down the stairs, but when I reached the ward, the children were already there—standing in the narrow aisles between the beds, their mouths open but no sound coming out. They reached for me, their fingers cold as the draft that had followed me all along. I pushed past them, ran out of the wing, and slammed the door behind me. The next morning, I tried to tell Carol what I’d seen, but she just shook her head. ‘You’re like all the others,’ she said. ‘You let him get in your head. Don’t worry, the feeling will pass.’ But it hasn’t.

Every night now, I feel the children’s eyes on me from the cracks in the sealed doors. And sometimes, when I look down the hallway, I see the Lantern Man, standing at the end, and I know he’s waiting for me to come back. He wants me to join him, to help keep the children calm, to let them believe their parents are still coming. I don’t know how long I can resist. Sometimes, I find myself walking toward him, my hand outstretched, before I stop myself. I’m scared, but more than that, I’m curious—what would it be like to see the world from his side? To feel the peace he feels? But deep down, I know that if I go with him, I’ll never come back. And the children will never stop waiting.