The Lantern Man’s Hollow

Five years ago, during my reckless early twenties, my friend Danny and I found ourselves with no plans and less money on New Year’s Eve. Everyone we knew was either out partying or sensibly tucked up at home, but we had five pounds each and a full tank of ambition. So, we decided to take his beat-up Ford Fiesta out for a spin through the winding roads of the Ashworth Moor, a remote stretch of peatland notorious for local legends of strange lights and vanishing travelers. It was a place we’d only ever dared to drive through during the day, and even then, we kept the doors locked. But that night, something pulled us there like a moth to a flame.

We spent an hour and a half cruising along the narrow, tree-lined lanes, the bass thumping from the boot speakers, and the headlights cutting through the thick fog that rolled off the moors. The fog was unusual for New Year’s Eve, thick and soupy, muffling every sound beyond the car’s interior. Danny was grinning, his knuckles white on the wheel, as he took the sharp bends a little too fast, and I laughed, gripping the door handle. The road was empty, flanked by gnarled, ancient oaks that seemed to bow inwards, their branches scraping the roof like long fingers.

As the clock neared midnight, we pulled into a small gravel layby overlooking a dark, glassy tarn. The engine ticked as it cooled, and we cracked open two warm cans of lager, toasting to the new year. We sat in silence for a moment, listening to the wind rustle through the reeds, when a light flickered deep in the trees across the water. It was a pale, sickly yellow, not like a torch or a car’s beam, more like a will-o’-the-wisp. Danny pointed, ‘You see that?’ I nodded, my throat tight. We watched as the light began to move, slowly bobbing between the trunks, getting closer. ‘Probably a park ranger,’ I said, not believing it for a second.

But the light didn’t follow the path. It cut straight across the reeds and stopped at the water’s edge, just opposite us. The fog swirled, and for a moment, I swore I saw a figure standing there, tall and impossibly thin, holding the light aloft. Danny killed the engine and rolled down his window. ‘Hello?’ he called out, his voice echoing across the water. The light bobbed, almost in response, and then began to cross the water, moving directly toward us. It didn’t sink; it glided over the surface, leaving no ripples. My heart hammered in my chest, and I grabbed Danny’s arm. ‘Start the car. Now.’

Danny fumbled with the keys, the engine turning over with a whine before catching. But as he threw the car into reverse, the light vanished. We were plunged into darkness, the headlights dead, the dashboard lights flickering and dying. A hollow pounding started, not from the engine, but from the roof of the car. Three heavy thuds, like someone hammering with a fist. Then another, louder, from the boot. Danny slammed the accelerator, and the car shot backwards out of the layby, tires spinning on the gravel. We didn’t stop until we hit the main road, the car’s lights flickering back on as if nothing had happened. We drove in silence, the lager forgotten, the radio still blaring a cheerful pop song that felt obscene.

We got back to Danny’s flat just after twelve, and we didn’t speak about it for a week. But I couldn’t shake the image of that light, and I started looking up local folklore. That’s when I found it: the legend of the Lantern Man of Ashworth Moor. A pale glow that lures travelers to the tarn, and those who follow it are never seen again, their cars found abandoned with the doors open and the keys still in the ignition. I told Danny, and he laughed it off, but I noticed he started taking the long way to work, avoiding the moor entirely. I did too, but it wasn’t enough. Three nights later, from my bedroom window, I saw a flicker of yellow light at the edge of the garden, just beyond the fence. And I heard a tapping on the glass, a rhythm that matched my heartbeat. I never opened the curtain.

On the anniversary of that night, I received a text from an unknown number: ‘I’m still here. Why did you leave me?’ It was sent from Danny’s phone, but when I called, it went straight to voicemail. The police found his car parked in the same layby a week later, the driver’s door ajar, the keys in the ignition, and a single can of lager, still cold, on the passenger seat. They never found his body. They said he must have left on his own, but I know better. I saw the light that night, and I know it follows me still. Some nights, when the fog rolls in, I think I see a tall figure standing at the edge of my garden, holding a lantern, waiting. And I wonder if the light is a door, and if I’ll ever be strong enough not to walk through it.