The Lantern of Hollow Creek

It was a humid August evening in 1987 when my grandfather told me the story that would haunt my dreams for decades. We were sitting on the porch of his old farmhouse, the cicadas singing their relentless chorus, and the air thick with the smell of honeysuckle. I was nine, and I had just asked him about the strange, rusted lantern that hung by the back door, its glass long shattered.

He took a long drag from his cigarette, his eyes distant. ‘That lantern belonged to a friend of mine, Elias Thorne. We worked together at the sawmill down by Hollow Creek. Elias was a quiet man, but he had a gentle soul. One night, after a particularly grueling shift, we decided to go to the Rusty Nail, a bar just outside of town. It was the kind of place where the floor was sticky and the air was thick with smoke and secrets. We had a few rounds, and as midnight came and went, one by one the others drifted out, until it was just Elias and me.

I should have left with them. I had a bad feeling, the kind that crawls up your spine, but Elias was determined to finish his drink. He was staring at the amber liquid in his glass, his brow furrowed. I joked, ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’ He didn’t laugh. He just said, ‘There’s something in the woods by the creek. It’s been calling my name.’ I laughed it off, telling him he was just tired. But when I finally got up to leave, he grabbed my arm. ‘Don’t go the short way, past the old bridge. Take the long road.’ His eyes were dead serious.

I didn’t listen. I thought he was being superstitious. The short way was half a mile shorter, and I was exhausted. So I walked along the dirt path that ran parallel to Hollow Creek, the water rushing over rocks a dull drone in the darkness. The moon was hidden behind clouds, and the only light came from the occasional flicker of a firefly. That’s when I saw her.

She was standing at the edge of the ravine, where the creek had carved a deep cut into the earth over centuries. She wore a long, white dress that seemed to glow faintly, and her back was to me. Her hair was a tangled mess, hanging down past her shoulders, and the sound she made was like a wounded animal, a low, guttural weeping that made my blood run cold.

I called out, ‘Hey, are you alright? Be careful, you’ll fall!’ But she didn’t respond. She just kept weeping, her shoulders shaking with sobs. I took a step closer. I could see that her bare feet hovered a few inches above the ground, her toes pointing down. My heart hammered against my ribs. I knew then that something was terribly wrong.

I started backing away slowly, my eyes fixed on her. As I moved, her weeping grew louder, more desperate, filling the night with a sound that seemed to wrap around me like a cold hand. Then, slowly, she began to turn. I saw her profile first, a pale, gaunt cheek, and then her full face.

My grandfather stopped, his hands trembling as he lit another cigarette. ‘What was it?’ I whispered. He looked at me, his eyes hollow. ‘It wasn’t a face. It was just darkness, a void where her features should have been. But that wasn’t the worst part. As she turned, I saw her legs. They weren’t human. They were long, bony horse legs, bent backwards, with hooves that clacked against the ground as she took a step toward me.

I screamed. I turned and ran, not looking back until I reached my truck. I drove home without stopping, the image of that thing burned into my mind. The next morning, I went back to the ravine. There was no trace of her. But I found Elias’s lantern lying on the ground, its glass shattered. The lantern was still warm, as if someone had just blown out the flame.

I never saw Elias again. They found his truck abandoned near the old bridge a week later, but no sign of him. The lantern I kept as a reminder, a warning. And that’s why I’ve never gone near Hollow Creek after dark, and why I’ll never speak of her face again. For years, I’ve wondered if she’s still there, weeping at the edge of the ravine, waiting for someone to turn around.