The Lantern Man

In the autumn of 2005, I was twelve, living in the small town of San Isidro, where the houses hugged the highway like chicks to a hen, and the streetlights were scarce—only two on our entire road. It was the 31st of October, a Monday, and the air was thick with the smell of burning leaves and rotten fruit from the nearby orchards.

My cousin, Liza, had come over to our house that evening. She lived just a block away, on the same street, but her parents were strict. She wanted to stay for a sleepover, but she knew she needed their permission, so I offered to walk her back and ask. Just as we were about to leave, our house helper’s boyfriend, a young man named Marco, who had been fixing our broken fence, offered to walk with us. He said it was safer with two people, and I, being a kid, felt a sense of security in his presence.

We stepped out into the dimly lit street. The first streetlight flickered at the end of the road, casting a sickly yellow glow that barely penetrated the darkness. The second was further down, near the bend, and it was out, leaving a stretch of pitch black between the two. The wind rustled the dried leaves on the ground, and I could hear the distant bark of a dog. Marco walked ahead, his figure a dark silhouette, while Liza and I followed, our footsteps echoing in the quiet.

We reached her house, a modest bungalow with a rusted gate. Her parents were watching TV, and they agreed to let her stay, but only until midnight. We hurried back, eager to get indoors. As we passed under the first streetlight, its light flickered and went out. I felt a sudden chill, as if the temperature had dropped ten degrees. I looked around but saw nothing. Liza grabbed my arm, and I could feel her trembling. Even Marco, who was usually fearless, paused and looked behind us.

‘Did you see that?’ he whispered, his voice tight. ‘What?’ I asked, my heart pounding. ‘There’s a man standing under the tree,’ he said, pointing to a large acacia tree about thirty meters ahead, where the darkness was absolute. I squinted, and then I saw it—a silhouette, tall and gaunt, holding what looked like a lantern. The light from the lantern was a sickly green, and it swung gently, as if the man was beckoning us.

We froze. The man didn’t move, but the lantern swung back and forth, like a pendulum. The green light illuminated his face partially, and I saw hollow eyes and a grin that seemed too wide. Marco took a step forward, as if to confront it, but I pulled him back. ‘No, don’t,’ I said, my voice shaking. We turned and ran, our footsteps thudding on the concrete, but the sound of our own feet was drowned by a low, resonant hum that seemed to come from the lantern.

We didn’t stop until we reached our front door, gasping for breath. We locked the door and peered through the window. In the distance, under the tree, the lantern was still glowing, and the man was still there, but now he was closer, just a few feet from our gate. Liza started crying, and Marco was as white as a sheet. We told my parents, but they laughed it off, saying it was just a trick of the light or a prank.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed, listening to the wind, and I could swear I heard the soft tinkling of a lantern outside my window. I pulled the covers over my head and prayed. The next morning, we found that the tree where we saw the man had been cut down overnight, and a strange symbol was carved into the stump—a circle with a cross through it.

Years later, I moved away, but I never forgot that night. I tried to ask Marco about it, but he refused to talk, and soon after, he moved away. Liza and I never spoke of it again, but I know she remembered. To this day, every time I see a lantern, I get a chill, and I can’t help but wonder: if we had stayed, what would have happened? Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I still see that green light, and I feel that the man is still waiting, holding his lantern, watching for anyone who dares to walk alone in the dark.