The Lantern Man of Moss Road

In the summer of 1978, my grandfather, Arthur, was a lean, restless seventeen-year-old who spent his weekends at The Crown, a pub on the edge of the small town of Barlow. Barlow was a place where nothing ever happened, where the streets were lined with identical terraced houses and the only excitement was the occasional stray dog. Arthur lived with his mother and younger sister in a house at the end of Moss Road, a narrow lane that branched off from the main road and wound through a dense patch of ancient oaks before opening onto a few scattered houses. The lane was unlit, and at night it was a tunnel of absolute darkness, save for the occasional flicker of a distant porch light.

Every Saturday, Arthur would cycle to The Crown, have a few pints with his mates, and then ride home in the small hours, the only sound being the crunch of gravel under his tyres and the drunken hum of insects. He knew every pothole, every root that jutted from the earth, every dip in the road. He could navigate it with his eyes closed, and often did, singing to himself to keep the eerie silence at bay.

One night in late July, after a particularly boozy evening, Arthur was walking his bike up the lane, as the slope was too steep to ride. It was about 12:45 AM, and a thick fog had rolled in from the river, swallowing the moonlight and making the darkness almost tangible. He was just thinking about his bed when he saw a shape ahead of him, blacker than the night, moving slowly towards him. It was tall, vaguely humanoid, but with an odd, shambling gait. Arthur stopped, squinting. He called out ‘Evening’ in his usual friendly way, but the figure did not respond. It just kept coming, unhurried, and Arthur felt a chill that had nothing to do with the fog. He decided to give it a wide berth, crossing to the other side of the lane as he passed. The figure didn’t turn, didn’t acknowledge him, just continued its slow trudge. Arthur half-ran the rest of the way home, locking his door behind him and laughing at his own jumpiness.

A few weeks later, Arthur had almost forgotten about the encounter. It was a Saturday again, and he was walking his bike up the same lane, a pleasant buzz from the pub warming him. The moon was full, casting pale light through the trees, and the lane seemed almost friendly. But as he rounded the bend near the old, abandoned chapel, he saw the same figure. It was coming towards him again, moving even slower than before, as if it were wading through water. This time, Arthur stopped, a prickle of unease running down his spine. He fumbled for the small flashlight he kept strapped to his handlebars, clicked it on, and aimed it at the figure.

The beam illuminated a man—or what had once been a man. His clothes were ragged, hanging in tatters, and his skin was the colour of damp ash. His face was gaunt, with hollow cheeks and empty eye sockets that seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it. But what truly made Arthur’s blood run cold was his mouth: it was impossibly wide, stretching from ear to ear, and it was open in a silent, rigid smile, revealing rows of needle-like teeth that glistened in the flashlight. The figure didn’t react to the light. It just kept coming, its slow, deliberate steps bringing it closer. Arthur’s instincts screamed at him to run, but his legs were frozen. The figure passed within a hair’s breadth of him, so close that Arthur could smell a foul odour, like rotting leaves and old iron. It never turned to look at him, just continued its endless walk into the dark.

Arthur didn’t sleep that night. He told his mother he’d had a scare, but he couldn’t bring himself to describe the thing he’d seen. Over the following weeks, he avoided the lane entirely, taking a longer route home even if it added twenty minutes. But the image of that gaping smile haunted him, and he began to have nightmares, dreams in which he was walking down that lane and the figure was behind him, its mouth opening wider and wider until it swallowed the whole world.

One evening in late September, his mother sent him to the corner shop for milk. It was only a ten-minute walk, but the shop was on the other side of the lane, and dusk was falling. Arthur steeled himself, keeping his flashlight in his pocket and his eyes peeled. He walked the lane quickly, his heart pounding. He made it to the shop without incident, bought the milk, and started back. As he entered the lane, the last of the daylight had faded, and the air grew cold. He switched on his flashlight, sweeping it ahead of him. There, at the far end, near the chapel, was the figure. It had stopped. For the first time, it was not moving towards him. It was standing perfectly still, facing him, and even from this distance, Arthur could see that wide, unnatural smile.

Arthur’s breath caught in his throat. He wanted to turn and run, but the figure began to move again, faster now, closing the distance with a jerky, unnatural speed. Arthur turned and bolted, his feet pounding on the gravel. He could hear the thing behind him, a soft, wet sound, like bare feet on damp earth. It was gaining on him. He burst out of the lane and onto the main road, nearly colliding with a car. The driver honked, and Arthur stumbled to the pavement, gasping. He looked back at the lane entrance, but the figure was gone, swallowed by the darkness.

From that night on, Arthur never walked down that lane again. He moved away from Barlow when he was twenty, and he never spoke of the incident until he was on his deathbed, many years later. He told me the story, his eyes wide with the terror of a young man, and he warned me to never, ever walk down a dark lane alone, because some things in the dark are not meant to be greeted, and some smiles are not meant to be seen. I never forgot his words, and to this day, I take the long way home, and I always keep my flashlight on.

I moved back to Barlow last year, after my own marriage fell apart. I live in my grandfather’s old house, the one at the end of Moss Road. I have no car, so I walk everywhere, and last Saturday, returning from the pub, I found myself walking up the lane at midnight, just as he had done. The lane is still unlit, still dark, and the trees seem to lean in closer than ever. I had my phone out, using it as a torch, and as I neared the old chapel, I saw a figure ahead. It was tall, dark, and it was walking towards me with a slow, deliberate step. I felt a cold dread seep into my bones. I wanted to turn back, but my legs wouldn’t move. The figure came closer, and I could see its face in the dim light. Its mouth was stretched wide, impossibly wide, revealing rows of needle teeth. And for the first time, it spoke. Its voice was a dry, rasping whisper, and it said, ‘Evening.’

And I realized, in that moment, that the thing had been waiting all these years, and that my grandfather’s encounter had only been the beginning. It had been saying hello. Now it was expecting a reply.