The Lantern Man of Bell Hollow

Marta’s brother-in-law, Dale, had always been the skeptic in the family. A man of logic and machinery, he fixed engines at the local auto shop and trusted only what he could measure or touch. So when he burst through the back door last Tuesday, his face pale and his hands trembling, Marta knew something had broken through his fortress of reason.

He’d been driving home along the old county road that cuts through Bell Hollow, a stretch of asphalt that curves around a forgotten millpond and past the ruins of a cider works that burned down in the ’30s. The night was clear, the moon full, and he’d had his high beams on to catch the deer that often darted out. But it wasn’t a deer that crossed his path.

‘It came from the left,’ Dale said, his voice shaking as he accepted a mug of coffee from Marta. ‘It was tall—taller than a man—and it moved so fast, like a blur. It crossed the road in three strides, not running, but gliding. I slammed on the brakes, but by the time my car stopped and I looked, there was nothing. Just the empty road and the dark trees on either side.’ He had pulled over, heart hammering, and waited. He’d even gotten out, flashlight in hand, but found no tracks. The only thing he saw was a faint, sickly green light flickering among the trees, like a firefly, but big—too big. He got back in the car and drove home, too shaken to think straight.

Marta listened silently, her own pulse quickening. She had lived in a haunted house in Hinsdale, New York, years ago, and had never been able to deny what she’d witnessed there. But she knew Dale had always dismissed her stories as coincidence or imagination. Yet now, seeing him tremble, she believed his experience was real.

‘Did you see a face?’ she asked. Dale shook his head. ‘No, it was all dark. It was like a shadow with edges that shimmered. But the weird thing was, I felt this cold—not just temperature, but a cold that went through my bones. And I heard something, like a whispering that wasn’t words. It sounded like a baby crying, but far away.’ Marta froze. ‘Crybaby Bridge,’ she whispered. ‘There’s a story about Crybaby Bridge in Salem. You’re thinking of that, right?’ Dale nodded, his face pale. ‘I saw a picture of it on that website you showed me. And it matched exactly.’

Marta had never been to Crybaby Bridge, but she’d read about it. According to local legend, a mother had thrown her baby into the creek, and on quiet nights, you could hear its cries. Others claimed to have seen the woman searching the banks, a lantern in her hand. But the picture on that page—a grainy photo of a tall, dark shape near the bridge—was exactly what Dale described.

Now, Marta felt an unease settle in her stomach. They had moved to this small Ohio town only three months ago, and now this. She looked at Dale, who was staring at his coffee as if it held answers. ‘You believe me now, don’t you?’ she asked softly. He lifted his eyes, and for the first time, she saw belief there. ‘I don’t know what it was,’ he said, ‘but it was real.’

That night, Marta couldn’t sleep. She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about Crybaby Bridge and the picture. She had an itch to see it for herself, to prove or disprove the story. But she also felt fear. In Hinsdale, she had learned that some things are better left alone.

She knew she shouldn’t go, but she also knew she would. Dale had come home a changed man, and somewhere deep down, she needed to understand. The next evening, as dusk fell, she grabbed a flashlight and her old film camera, and without telling Dale, she drove toward Bell Hollow.

The road was unpaved after the millpond, and the trees crowded close. She parked near a rusted sign that said ‘Crybaby Bridge 1/2 mile’ in fading letters. The walk was silent, save for the crunch of her boots on gravel. The bridge appeared: a narrow iron truss over a dark creek, its wooden planks rotting. No cars, no other signs of life.

She stepped onto the bridge, listening for the cry. At first, there was nothing but the gurgle of water and the rustle of leaves. Then, she heard it—a soft, intermittent wail, so faint she thought it might be a bird. She raised her camera, and through the viewfinder, she saw something that made her heart stop. A figure stood at the far end of the bridge, tall and featureless, a pale lantern in its hand, the same sickly green glow Dale had described. It was not moving, but it seemed to be watching her.

Marta lowered the camera, and the figure was gone. But the wail grew louder, turning into a desperate sob. She didn’t run; she couldn’t. She saw the figure again, now closer, its shape flickering like a dying flame. And she heard a voice, not from the figure, but from the air around her—a woman’s voice, pleading: ‘My baby, my baby, have you seen my baby?’

Marta felt a cold hand on her shoulder. She turned, but no one was there. The voice continued, more desperate: ‘He’s down there, in the water. Please, help him.’ Marta looked over the railing. The water was black, but she saw a pale shape beneath the surface, like a small form in a white dress. She gasped and stumbled back.

Then, as quickly as it came, the presence faded. The wailing stopped. The bridge was silent. Marta was alone, shaking, her camera hanging heavy at her neck. She lifted it and took a picture, hoping to capture proof.

She drove home in a daze, her mind racing. When she developed the film, she saw the photo of the bridge as she remembered, but in the corner, a tall shadowy figure with a lantern, and beneath the water, a tiny white bundle. She showed it to Dale, and he turned even paler. ‘That’s it,’ he whispered. ‘That’s what I saw.’

They never spoke of it again. But every night, Marta hears the cry from the hollow, a faint, heartbreaking sound that drifts through her window. And she knows she’ll go back. Not because she wants to, but because the voice of the Lantern Man calls to her, promising to show her what really happened, begging her to bring the baby home. And in her dreams, she sees herself descending into the water, reaching for the pale shape, and she wakes just as her fingers touch it, with the feeling that something has latched onto her, and she will never be free of Bell Hollow again.