The Lantern Man

It was the autumn of 2002, and I was nineteen, visiting my cousin Darla in the small town of Pemberton Falls. Darla had a friend named Maude, a girl with sharp eyes and a laugh that never quite reached her pupils. The town itself was dying, its streets lined with boarded-up shops and rusted mailboxes, but the old cemetery on the hill was still lovingly tended, as if the dead were the only inhabitants who mattered.

On the night of October 31st, Darla suggested we do something to mark the occasion. Maude had heard of a ouija board that could be bought at the local antique store, one that was said to have belonged to a woman who had used it to contact her husband after his death. The board was made of dark wood, with letters inlaid in mother-of-pearl, and it came with a planchette that felt strangely warm to the touch. We decided to take it to the cemetery, to see if we could summon something.

We walked up the gravel path just before midnight, the moon full and low, casting long shadows between the headstones. We settled under a gnarled oak at the edge of the property, its branches like grasping fingers. Darla placed the board on a flat tombstone, and we sat in a triangle, our knees touching. The air smelled of damp earth and fallen leaves.

I began, my voice trembling: ‘Is there any spirit here who wishes to speak?’ The planchette glided to YES, so quickly it felt weighted. Darla asked, ‘How many are with us?’ The pointer spelled out THREE. Maude, who had heard from a friend that my birth mother’s name was a secret, leaned in and asked, ‘What was her real name?’ The board spelled LILITH. My heart stuttered, because no one knew that name.

I swallowed hard and asked, ‘Is there anyone here who died violently?’ The planchette shot to YES, and at that instant, a scream tore through the night—not from the woods, but from behind us, from the oldest part of the cemetery. It was a woman’s cry, raw and desperate, and it seemed to come from the very ground.

We scrambled to our feet, the board toppling over, the planchette sliding off and spinning in the dirt. The scream faded into a sob, then silence. Darla wanted to leave, but Maude was frozen, her eyes wide. I had to drag them both down the hill, and as we ran, I saw a figure standing among the tombstones—a tall man in a long coat, holding a lantern that burned with a sickly green light. He didn’t move, but his face was a hollow mask, and I knew he was watching us.

We reached Darla’s car and drove straight to her house, shaking. We didn’t speak until we were inside with the lights on. Then Maude said, ‘The Lantern Man. He’s a legend here. They say he was a gravekeeper who murdered his wife and buried her in the cemetery, and now he guards her grave, punishing anyone who disturbs the dead.’

We laughed it off, but none of us slept. I kept thinking about that name—Lilith—and the scream. It was too real, too close.

The next day, we went back to the cemetery to retrieve the board. It was still there, lying face down on the tombstone, but the planchette was gone. As we reached for it, we heard the scream again, closer this time, almost right behind us. We spun around, and there he was—the Lantern Man—not ten feet away, his green light flickering, his mouth open in a silent wail. He raised a hand, and I felt my heart seize, and then he was gone, leaving only a cold spot that lingered long after.

We didn’t tell anyone, but strange things began to happen. Every night, I’d hear tapping on my window, and when I looked out, there was the Lantern Man, standing at the edge of the yard, his light calling to me. Maude stopped sleeping, said she saw him in her mirror. Darla started having nosebleeds.

On the third night, I decided to confront him. I went alone to the cemetery, the board under my arm. I set it up on the same tombstone and placed my fingers on the planchette. I said, ‘What do you want?’ The planchette moved: TRUTH. ‘What truth?’ It spelled: SHE LIES BENEATH. The lantern man appeared beside me, and I saw his hollow eyes—they were filled with tears of pitch. He pointed to a spot near the oak tree, and I knew. I started digging, with my bare hands, and soon I hit something soft. It was a bundle of cloth, and inside was a woman’s skeleton, wearing a locket with the name ‘Lilith’ engraved on it.

I heard a whisper, like a breath in my ear: ‘She was my wife. I didn’t kill her. She fell into the well. But he—the priest—he blamed me, and they hanged me. Now I can’t rest until her spirit is free.’ I looked at the lantern, and I realized it wasn’t a lantern—it was a prison, containing his soul.

I took the skeleton to the county coroner, and an investigation revealed that Lilith had died of a broken neck, not a fall. The priest had been a murderer, and the Lantern Man was innocent. The day they reinterred her in a proper grave, the Lantern Man appeared one last time. He nodded at me, then his light faded, and he was gone. The cemetery was quiet after that, but I never forgot the feel of the planchette under my fingers, or the scream that tore through the night. I still wonder if some truths are better left buried.