The Lantern Man

The first time I sensed him was in the summer of my ninth year, in the decaying farmhouse my grandmother had inherited from her brother. I’d grown up in the city, but after my parents’ accident, I was shipped off to this backwoods place, where the nearest neighbor was a mile down a dirt road that turned to mud when it rained. My grandmother was a stern woman who wore her grief like a coat, never removing it, and she ran the house with a strict schedule. I had a small room in the attic, with a slanted ceiling and a tiny window that looked out over the cornfield. The house had no central heating, just a woodstove, and the attic was always cold, even in July.

That first night, I lay in the narrow bed, listening to the wind rattle the loose windowpane. The room was lit by a single bare bulb that hung from a frayed cord. My grandmother had told me to keep it off, but the darkness terrified me, so I kept it on, the yellow light casting long shadows that danced on the walls. It was then that I noticed a dark patch in the corner, above the old wardrobe. It seemed darker than the rest of the shadows, more substantial, as if it were a hole in the world. I stared at it, willing it to be a trick of the light, but it remained, unwavering. A chill crawled up my spine, and I pulled the covers to my chin. I tried to sing a lullaby my mother used to hum, but my voice cracked, and the song died in my throat. I squeezed my eyes shut, counting to ten, and when I opened them, the patch had moved closer, now near the foot of my bed. I gasped and sat up, but there was nothing there. Just the familiar furniture and the cobwebs in the corners.

The next night, I made sure to leave the bulb burning brighter, and I placed a chair against the door. But he was there again, this time standing beside the dresser, a shape that absorbed the light, bending it around his edges. I could feel a cold breath on my neck, though I was alone. I started to whisper a prayer, but the words felt hollow. I reached for the Bible on the nightstand, but it was too far, and my arm was shaking. The figure leaned in, and I could see the faint outline of a face, featureless but with a mouth that stretched into a grin. I squeezed my eyes shut and began to hum as loud as I could, a frantic, off-key melody. When I opened them, he was gone, but the room felt colder, and the light bulb flickered.

Over the weeks, I learned his patterns. He only appeared when I was alone, and he always waited until I was in bed. He would stand in the corner, then take a step closer each time my heart raced. I discovered that if I hummed a specific folk song my grandmother used to play on her phonograph, he would retreat. It was a song about a farmer and his lantern, leading lost travelers to safety. I would hum it for hours, my voice growing hoarse, until he faded back into the shadows. But he always returned, and each night he seemed a bit closer than before.

One evening, my grandmother fell ill, and the doctor from town had to stay overnight. She told me to sleep in her room, to keep her company, but I refused. I wanted to face him, to understand why he tormented me. That night, I left the lights off. I sat in the dark, listening to the house settle, and soon I felt his presence. He materialized in the corner, more solid than ever, and this time he spoke. His voice was like gravel scraping against glass, and it seemed to come from everywhere at once. He said, ‘You are not welcome here. This land is mine. Your family has borrowed it long enough.’ I trembled, but I forced myself to reply, ‘Who are you?’ He leaned closer, his face pressing into the dim light, and I saw features that were human but twisted: a long nose, sunken eyes, and a mouth full of broken teeth. ‘I am the Lantern Man,’ he said. ‘I guide the lost, but I also punish those who trespass. Your grandfather took my lantern and used it to find a shortcut through these woods. He never returned it, and he bound me to this place.’

I felt a mix of fear and pity. ‘What do you want?’ I asked. ‘I want my lantern back,’ he said. ‘It’s somewhere in this house. The one in the attic, in the trunk that’s locked with a brass padlock. Get it for me, and I will leave you be.’ I didn’t know of any trunk, but I promised I would search. He smiled, a horrible rictus, and vanished. The next day, I explored the attic, moving boxes and old furniture, until I found a wooden chest hidden under a tarpaulin. It had a brass padlock, but the key was hanging on a nail nearby. My hands shook as I unlocked it. Inside were old clothes, papers, and at the bottom, wrapped in oilcloth, a lantern. It was ornate, with filigree patterns and a glass globe that was frosted. I lifted it out, and it was heavy, as if filled with something more than air.

That evening, I took the lantern to my room, and when the Lantern Man appeared, I held it out. He reached for it, but as his fingers touched the metal, he recoiled as if burned. ‘You must light it first,’ he hissed. ‘Light it with the flame from the stove.’ I went to the kitchen and lit a taper from the pilot light, then returned. I opened the lantern’s door and set the taper to the wick. It caught immediately, and a soft blue flame flickered inside. The Lantern Man’s eyes widened, and he stepped forward. ‘Now give it to me,’ he commanded. But I hesitated. Something felt wrong. I looked into the flame, and instead of a fire, I saw visions: my grandmother as a young girl, running through the woods with the lantern, and behind her, the Lantern Man, screaming. I saw her strike a deal with him, using the lantern to imprison him, to keep him from haunting the family. She had trapped him in the lantern itself, and the only way to free him was to light it and hand it over.

I looked at him, and I understood. He was not a victim. He was a predator, and the lantern was his cage. ‘My grandmother bound you for a reason,’ I said. ‘What did you do?’ He snarled, his form twisting, growing taller, darker. ‘She lied! She was the trespasser. She stole my lantern to start her farm, and when I came to claim it, she tricked me. But you are not her. You are young. You can set me free, and I will grant you wealth, power, anything.’ I shook my head. ‘No. You’ve terrorized me for months. You’ve fed on my fear. I will not release you.’ With that, I slammed the lantern’s door shut, extinguishing the flame. He howled, and the room shook. Then he vanished, and the lantern in my hands grew cold.

When my grandmother recovered, I confronted her. She was pale, but she nodded, confirming the story. ‘He was a vengeful spirit that drove the original settlers away,’ she said. ‘When I came here, I had to make a bargain with him to keep the land. I trapped him in the lantern, and that’s why we’ve stayed. But you, you’ve broken his power. He can no longer feed on fear, because you faced him without fear.’ I didn’t feel brave. I had been terrified every night. But perhaps that was the point. She helped me bury the lantern deep in the cornfield, at the edge of the woods, and we said a prayer over it. That winter, I moved back to the city to live with my aunt. I never returned to the farmhouse. But sometimes, on the coldest nights, I feel the weight of the lantern in my hands, and I hear the echo of his voice. And I know that he is still watching, waiting, for someone else to light his way. But I’ve kept the secret, and I always will. The Lantern Man is a story I will carry with me, a reminder that fear is a choice, and that even the darkest corners can be faced with a heart that refuses to break.