The Lantern of Hallow Creek

The summer I turned nine, my family moved from the dry heat of Bakersfield to the damp, moss-choked woods of Hallow Creek, Maine. Our new house was a skeletal Victorian, its porch sagging like a tired jaw, and the nearest neighbor was half a mile down a road that seemed to want to be swallowed by the forest. I hated it. I missed the sun, the flat streets, the way the heat shimmered off the asphalt. But most of all, I missed my cat, Jasper.

Jasper was a scrawny black tom with a white patch over one eye, a stray my older sister had found in a dumpster. My father, a man who believed in discipline and hard names, had wanted to call him ‘Scrap.’ But I’d just learned about the Greek myths, and I insisted on ‘Cerberus,’ though we all shortened it to ‘Cerbie.’ He was a fierce little thing, a hunter of mice and shadows, and he’d been my only friend in the dusty California town where I’d spent my early years. When we moved, my mother insisted we bring him, but the long drive in the U-Haul had been too much. He’d slipped out at a gas station in Ohio, and we never saw him again. I cried for days, but my father said, ‘That’s life, boy. Things die, things leave. Best you learn it now.’

That first night in Hallow Creek, I heard a sound outside my window—a low, mournful mew, like a kitten but deeper, almost human. My room faced the backyard, which was a tangle of weeds and overgrown ferns, bordered by a stone wall that had crumbled in places. I pressed my face to the glass, but the yard was dark, the only light a sickly moon that struggled through the clouds. I thought I saw a shape, a low, dark form that moved with an unnatural fluidity, but then it was gone. I told myself it was a raccoon.

The next morning, I found a dead crow on the back porch. Its neck was twisted, its head facing backward. My mother shooed it away with a broom, muttering about ‘vermin.’ But I saw the marks on its body—not from a predator’s claws, but from what looked like thin, needle-like bites, arranged in a perfect circle around its breast. I didn’t mention it to anyone.

That night, the mew came again. This time, I got out of bed and crept to the window. The yard was awash in silver light, and I saw it clearly: a cat, but not a cat. It was the size of a lynx, with a coat of grey that seemed to have no texture, like it was made of shadow. Its eyes were two burning coals, and they stared directly at me. It opened its mouth, and the mew I’d heard became a low, guttural purr that vibrated through the windowpane. I stepped back, but I couldn’t look away. Then it turned and padded into the gap in the stone wall, disappearing into the dark.

I didn’t sleep that night. I lay in my bed, listening to the house settle, and I thought about Cerbie. I’d always believed he was special—that he could sense things others couldn’t, that he’d find his way back to me if he could. But he was gone. This thing, this creature, was not him. It was something older, something that had been in these woods long before our house was built. The old lady at the general store had called it ‘The Lantern,’ though she wouldn’t say why, just that it was a ‘mote of light that lures the lost.’

Three nights later, I woke to a scratching at my door. I opened it, and there was a cat—a normal, grey tabby, with a white patch over its left eye, just like Cerbie. My heart leaped. I scooped it up, but it was too light, too cold. It nestled into my arms, purring, and looked up at me with eyes that were almost black. ‘Cerbie?’ I whispered. It blinked slowly, and I knew it wasn’t. But I couldn’t bring myself to put it down.

I kept the cat, which I named ‘Ash’ after the color of its fur, and it followed me around the house, always watching. My father, who hated animals, ignored it, but my mother said it was ‘a comfort.’ And in some ways, it was. But at night, I’d hear it moving, not with the soft patter of paws, but a drag, a scrape, like something heavy was being pulled across the floor. And occasionally, I’d catch it staring at the wall, its back arched, hissing at nothing.

The village’s annual lantern festival came a week later. It was a tradition, my mother told me, to honour the dead who walked the Hallow Creek woods. We made paper lanterns with candles inside, and at dusk, we set them afloat on the creek, which wound through the town like a vein. I held Ash in my arms as we walked to the water’s edge. He was heavy, much heavier than he should have been, and he was warm—too warm. As I set my lantern on the water, Ash lunged, knocking it over. The flame sputtered and died. I turned to scold him, but he was gone.

I searched for him, calling his name, but the creek banks were crowded with people, their lanterns casting flickering shadows. Then I saw him, at the edge of the woods, his grey form barely visible. He was walking into the trees, and he looked back at me, his eyes catching the light. It wasn’t Cerbie’s look—it was something else, a hunger, a longing. And I understood then: this thing, whatever it was, had been using Ash’s shape to get close to me. And it meant to take me somewhere.

I followed it, pushing through the underbrush, ignoring my mother’s shouts. The woods were dark, and the lanterns’ glow faded behind me. Ahead, I saw a light—a wavering, golden light, like a lantern, but large, hanging from a branch. And beneath it stood the grey creature, its form now indistinct, shifting like smoke. It was not a cat. It was a hole in the world, a place where the dark was thicker, and it was waiting for me.

Just then, I heard a familiar mew—sharp, angry, and full of life. I spun around, and there, on a stump, was a scrawny black cat with a white patch over one eye. Cerbie. His fur was matted, his ribs showed, but he was alive. He yowled, an ugly sound, and launched himself at the grey creature. They tumbled into the leaves, a whirl of fur and noise, and then the golden light flickered and went out. The woods went silent.

Cerbie walked out of the darkness, alone. He had a gash on his shoulder, but he was intact. He trotted up to me and rubbed against my legs, purring. I scooped him up, and he felt real—solid, warm, alive. I cried into his fur, and he licked my cheek with a rough tongue.

I carried Cerbie back to the house. My parents were furious, but I didn’t care. I had him back. And he was himself. But that night, as I lay in bed, he sleeping at the foot, I heard a faint scratching at my window. I didn’t look. I closed my eyes and prayed. And I never spoke of the grey cat again.

But sometimes, when I’m in the woods, I feel a gaze on me, and I see a flash of golden light between the trees, just at the edge of sight. And I know the Lantern is still there, waiting for the next lost thing to follow it home.