The Lantern of the Hollow

I was eleven when my family moved to the old farmhouse on the edge of the Marshwood. The previous owner had left in a hurry, and the place still smelled of damp wood and old dust. My room was at the end of a narrow hallway, with a window that faced the sprawling reeds that whispered when the wind picked up. I didn’t mind it at first. The silence was different from the city, and I liked how the stars seemed closer out there.

One night, about a month after we arrived, I woke to a pale, pulsing glow in the corner of my room. It wasn’t like any light I’d seen before—not the soft amber of a nightlight or the cold blue of a phone screen. It was a warm, honey-colored flicker, as if someone had lit a candle and it was breathing. I blinked, thinking it was a dream, but it stayed. I sat up slowly, my heart thumping, and saw that the glow was coming from an old brass lantern that sat on a shelf I didn’t remember having. It was unlit, but the light inside it seemed to be alive, swelling and fading like a heartbeat.

I should have screamed for my parents, but I didn’t. Something about it felt familiar, like a memory I couldn’t quite touch. I got out of bed and walked toward it, my bare feet cold on the wooden floor. The lantern was warm when I touched it, not burning, but the light pulsed brighter as if responding to me. I lifted it, and the light spread across my hands, casting long shadows on the walls. Then I noticed the window—the reeds outside were standing perfectly still, though the wind had been howling earlier. The whispering had stopped. And in the glass, I saw my reflection, but it was wrong. My reflection was older, worn, and it was smiling at me.

I dropped the lantern. It clattered to the floor but didn’t break, and the light went out. The room plunged into darkness, and I scrambled back into bed, pulling the covers over my head. I didn’t sleep that night, and in the morning, the lantern was gone. I told my parents, but they said I’d had a nightmare. I tried to forget it, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that the lantern hadn’t been a dream. It had felt too real.

Over the next few weeks, I started noticing things. Small things at first—a cold patch in the hallway that wasn’t there before, the sound of something dragging in the attic, my shadow moving a second too late. And then the dreams began. Every night, I dreamed of the same place: a vast, open field under a black sky, with a single lantern in the distance, swinging from a post. In the dream, I would walk toward it, and the closer I got, the louder the whispers became. They weren’t words, but a sound like dry leaves skittering, almost familiar. And always, at the edge of the light, I’d see a figure—tall, thin, with a long coat that flowed like smoke.

Then one afternoon, I found an old photograph in the attic, tucked inside a book about local folklore. It showed a man standing in the same field, holding the same lantern. The man’s face was obscured, but his posture was identical to the figure in my dreams. Written on the back was a date—October 12, 1923—and a name: Elias Wren. I asked my father about him, and he said he’d heard the name once from a neighbor. ‘They say he was a lighthouse keeper, but not for the sea. For the marsh. He claimed the bog lights were lost souls, and he would guide them home. He vanished one night, and no one ever found him.’

That night, I woke again to the glowing lantern, this time on the floor beside my bed. It was lit, and the flame danced with an unnatural steadiness. I knelt down, and as I did, I heard a voice—not aloud, but inside my head. It was soft, like the rustling reeds, and it said, ‘You see them too, don’t you?’ I looked out the window, and the marsh was filled with tiny lights, like fireflies but cold and blue. They drifted between the stalks, pulsing in rhythm with the lantern. I felt a pull, a deep longing to step outside and walk among them. My hand reached for the latch, but then I heard my mother’s voice calling from down the hall, and the spell broke. The lights vanished, and the lantern flickered out.

I couldn’t tell anyone. Who would believe me? But I knew I couldn’t ignore it. I started researching Elias Wren at the local library, but the only record was an old newspaper clipping about his disappearance. It mentioned that he was a caretaker at a now-abandoned chapel deep in the marsh, where he kept a ‘holy lamp’ burning for the drowned. The chapel was said to be cursed, and the locals avoided it. I decided to find it.

One afternoon, after school, I rode my bike to the edge of the marsh and walked along a narrow path I’d never noticed before. The reeds grew taller and denser, crowding in on me, and the air grew thick and humid. After about an hour, I saw it—a ruined stone chapel, half-swallowed by vines and moss. The door was ajar, and inside, I saw a small altar with a single candle. The candle was lit, but its flame was silver, not gold. On the altar was a book, bound in cracked leather. I opened it, and the pages were filled with handwriting—Elias’s handwriting. It was a journal, and the last entry, dated the day he vanished, read: ‘The lantern has chosen a new keeper. I must go into the reeds now. They are waiting.’

As I read, I felt a cold hand on my shoulder. I spun around, but no one was there. The silver candle flickered, and the door slammed shut, trapping me inside. I ran to the door, but it wouldn’t budge. The light from the candle grew brighter, and I saw that the walls were covered in faded paintings—depictions of the lantern, of figures standing in water, of a man with a long coat. And I realized, with dread, that I had seen that man before. In my reflection. The journal was still in my hand, and it fell open to a page I hadn’t noticed. It said: ‘To leave the marsh, you must give the lantern to another. To give it, you must find the one who is lost. To find the one, you must follow the lights. But beware—the lights are not always what they seem.’

The candle sputtered, and the chapel went dark. I shouted for help, but my voice was swallowed by the silence. I felt my way to the door, and this time, it opened easily. I stumbled out into the fading daylight, and the moment I was outside, the chapel vanished, as if it had never been. I looked down, and the lantern was sitting at my feet, lit and pulsing. I picked it up, and I knew—I had become its keeper.

For weeks, I tried to get rid of it. I buried it, but it returned to my room. I threw it in the river, but the next night, it was on my nightstand, dripping wet. I began to understand that the lantern was a part of me now, bound to my soul. I could feel the lost souls of the marsh, calling out to me, and I could see them, wandering aimlessly among the reeds. They were not malicious, just sorrowful. And I knew that I had to help them, or I would be trapped forever, like Elias.

I returned to the chapel, but it was gone. In its place was a hollow in the ground, filled with black water. I knelt, and the lantern felt heavy, as if it were pulling me in. I heard a whisper: ‘Take the key.’ I reached into the water, and my hand closed around a cold iron key. I knew it was the key to the hollow, the gateway to wherever the lost souls went. I knew I had to enter the water, to find the one who was truly lost, and offer the lantern to them.

The reeds rustled, and I looked up. A figure stood at the edge of the marsh, tall and thin, wearing a long coat that flowed like smoke. It was Elias. He raised a hand, and the lantern in my hands swung gently. He spoke, but his voice was like wind through dry grass: ‘You have carried my burden long enough. It is time to set it down.’ I knew what I had to do. I walked toward him, stepping into the shallow water, and as I did, the lantern’s light swelled, illuminating the marsh like a phoenix rising. I held out the lantern, and he took it. As soon as he did, the light went out, and the marsh became still. The whispers ceased, and the souls were silent.

I woke up in my bed, the next morning, with no memory of how I got there. The lantern was gone, and the window overlooked a marsh that was just a marsh, dark and quiet. I told myself it was a dream, but I knew better. Sometimes, late at night, I think I see a faint glow among the reeds, moving slowly, as if someone is walking with a lantern. And I wonder if Elias is still out there, guiding the lost, and if someday, he’ll come back for me.

But that’s a story for another time. For now, I’ll just say that the lantern taught me something about the light we carry. It’s not always a curse. Sometimes, it’s a responsibility. And sometimes, we have to let go, even if it means losing a part of ourselves. I haven’t forgotten that cold, marshy night, or the warmth of the lantern in my hands. It’s a memory that will stay with me forever, a flicker of something both beautiful and terrifying. And I know, deep down, that the hollow isn’t empty. It’s just waiting, and so am I.