The Lantern Man

After finishing high school, I landed a job at a small rural hospice called Stillwater House to save up for college. I had just gotten my CNA certification, and they hired me for the night shift, which was perfect for my schedule. The place was an old Victorian mansion converted into a care facility, with creaky floors and drafty hallways. My co-workers, mostly veterans like Marge and Dale, told me about a resident spirit they called the Lantern Man. They said he appeared to patients about a week before they passed, always carrying a glowing lantern, and only those near death could see him.

I was skeptical but open-minded, having had a few odd experiences growing up in an old farmhouse. Marge warned me, ‘You might not see him, but if you hear a low humming, like a song from the old country, you’ll know he’s close.’ I shrugged it off and got to work.

One night, around 2:30 AM, I was in the east wing, checking on Mrs. Alvarez, who was recovering from pneumonia. The hallway was silent except for the hum of the fluorescent lights. Then I heard it: a low, melodic humming, coming from the west wing, near the sunroom. I walked toward the sound, my heart thumping. The humming grew clearer—an old lullaby I didn’t recognize. I turned the corner and saw a faint, flickering light at the end of the hall, as if someone was carrying a candle. But when I got closer, I found the sunroom empty, the light gone, and the humming stopped.

I returned to the nurse’s station and asked Marge if she had heard anything. She looked at me with a knowing gaze. ‘Did you hear it?’ she asked. I nodded. ‘Keep your ears open,’ she said. ‘It means the Lantern Man is around.’ I tried to brush it off, but a chill ran down my spine.

The next night, the same thing happened around 2:45 AM. This time, I saw the light coming from Room 12, where Mr. Bell, a 92-year-old with advanced dementia, was dozing. I peeked in and saw a soft, amber light hovering at the foot of his bed. I stepped closer, and the light seemed to coalesce into a tall, shadowy figure holding a small lantern. He turned his head toward me, and I could see his face—pale, kind, but ancient. He smiled slightly, then faded, leaving only the dim nightlight.

I stammered to Dale at the station, ‘I think I just saw… him.’ Dale nodded solemnly. ‘Mr. Bell’s time is near,’ he said. ‘He’ll be gone within the week.’ I felt a lump in my throat. I had only known Mr. Bell for a few weeks, but he was a sweet man who always tried to sing despite his dementia.

Three nights later, I was on duty alone when I heard the humming again, this time from Room 8, where Mrs. Harrington, a quiet woman with cancer, was resting. I entered and saw the Lantern Man standing by her bed, his lantern glowing brightly. I felt a strange calm, as if he was reassuring me that he was there to guide her, not to frighten me. He turned to me and said, ‘She’s ready.’ His voice was a warm echo in my mind.

Later that night, I heard a soft thud from Room 8. I hurried in and found Mrs. Harrington had passed peacefully in her sleep. The Lantern Man was nowhere to be seen, but the room felt still and serene, as if the air had been cleansed.

After that, I began to notice a pattern. Every time I heard the humming, I’d find a resident who was close to death, and the Lantern Man would appear. Some nights, he would just stand at the end of a hallway, his lantern swinging gently, watching me. I started to feel a strange kinship with him, as if he was preparing me for something.

Then, one night, I heard the humming in a way I had never heard before—urgent and mournful, coming from the basement, which was off-limits. I ignored the rules and opened the locked door, descending the rickety stairs. At the bottom, I found a small, forgotten room filled with old hospital beds and dusty equipment. In the corner, a nurse’s uniform from the 1950s hung on a hook, and on the floor lay a child’s toy, a wooden rocking horse.

I heard a child’s giggle, and I spun around. A little girl, no more than six, stood by the stairs, clutching the toy. She looked pale and translucent, with a faint glow. ‘He’s waiting for you,’ she said, pointing to the far corner. I turned and saw the Lantern Man, his lantern now casting a long shadow. He walked toward me, and as he got closer, I realized his face was not kind but sorrowful.

‘I lost her,’ he said, his voice like wind through dead leaves. ‘I was the night watchman here in 1953. There was a fire in this room, and I couldn’t save the girl. I’ve been guiding souls ever since, hoping to atone.’ The little girl faded, leaving only the Lantern Man and me. ‘But you are different,’ he continued. ‘You see me, and you help them pass. I think you are meant to take my place.’

I stepped back, shaking my head. ‘I’m not a caretaker of spirits. I’m just a CNA.’ He laughed softly, a hollow sound. ‘You already are,’ he said. ‘You’ve been doing it all along. Every soul you’ve helped cross has been because of your compassion. The lantern chooses who it wants.’

He handed me the lantern. It was warm in my hands, not hot. ‘When you are ready, you will know what to do.’ As he spoke, his form began to dissolve, and I was left alone in the dark basement, clutching the lantern.

I never saw the Lantern Man again, but sometimes, at the edge of sleep, I hear the humming. And I know that when a resident is near passing, the lantern glows on its own, ready for me to guide them. I’ve accepted my role, not as a grim reaper, but as a gentle light in their final hours. And I’ve learned that death is not something to fear, but a journey we all must take, with a lantern to light the way.