The Lantern of the Hollow

The conversation in the living room drifted like smoke from a dying fire. Claire, Mia, and I sat cross-legged on the threadbare carpet, our voices low, the clock above the fireplace ticking toward 9:45. Outside, the wind fussed through the pines that ringed our isolated farmhouse, a sound I had known my entire life but never trusted. When the last word faded and the silence stretched, Mia yawned and said, ‘We should sleep.’ We agreed, but the thought of climbing the creaking stairs to our separate rooms felt like a betrayal of the warmth we had built. So we decided to camp out in the living room, dragging in our blankets and pillows, turning the space into a nest of quilts and old comforters.

I volunteered to fetch my sleeping bag from my room, which sat at the end of the hallway, its window facing the dark treeline. My footsteps clicked on the hardwood as I walked, the sound swallowed by the old house’s groan. When I reached my door, I paused, hand on the knob, and pushed it open. Inside, the room was bathed in the pale blue glow of my television, which I always left on standby. But something was wrong. A small, crimson orb hovered in the air before the screen, about the size of a golf ball, spinning slowly as if caught in an invisible whirlpool. It cast a warm, pulsing light on the walls, like a miniature sun. I froze, my breath catching. The orb continued its lazy rotation, then, as if sensing my presence, it turned—there was no face, but I knew it was looking at me—and shot straight toward the window, disappearing in a streak like a shooting star, leaving a faint afterimage on my eyes. I stood there, heart pounding, but not with fear. It felt almost… curious. I shook my head, grabbed my sleeping bag, and returned to the living room, telling my sisters I had left the TV on. They barely looked up.

We arranged our sleeping spots near the fireplace, which we lit despite the mild evening, the flames casting dancing shadows. As we settled, the wind outside grew insistent, rattling the windowpanes, and the house let out its usual night sounds—the creak of old timber, the skitter of something in the walls. I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling, replaying the orb’s flight. Sleep came slowly, in waves, pulling me under between thoughts.

I don’t know how long I had been drifting when I felt it. A gentle pressure on the side of my head, like a hand cradling my temple, then a soft rocking motion. Not violent, but persistent. It was as if someone was trying to wake me, gently, for a reason. My eyes opened halfway, and I expected to see Claire’s face above me, or Mia, her hand on my cheek. But there was no one. The room was still. My sisters were lumps beneath their blankets, their breathing deep and even. The fire had reduced to glowing embers. And yet, the sensation continued for a few seconds more before fading, like a touch unwilling to let go. I blinked, fully awake, and sat up. The floorboards did not creak. My sisters didn’t stir. I was alone.

I lay back down, but sleep did not come easily. My mind kept circling back to the orb and the touch. They felt connected, as if the two events were part of a single, unspoken message. I stared into the dimness, until exhaustion won, and I slipped into a dreamless slumber.

The next morning, the sun was pale and thin through the curtains. We woke to the smell of coffee brewing, and the normalcy of morning seemed to erase the night’s anomalies. But as I folded my blankets, I noticed something on the floor near my pillow. A small, intricate carvings in the hardwood, barely visible in the light. It was a circle with a smaller circle inside, and a line radiating outward, like a symbol I had never seen. I traced it with my finger, and it felt warm. Then I looked up at the window, where the orb had vanished, and I knew that whatever had visited was not done with us. The hollow had a lantern, and it had found a path into our home.

That evening, as the sun set behind the treeline, I found the symbol recurring. On the kitchen window, etched in frost. On the back of my hand, a faint red mark like a birthmark. And in the air, just at the edge of hearing, a low hum that I felt in my teeth. My sisters noticed my distraction and asked what was wrong. I told them about the orb and the touch. Claire laughed, but Mia grew pale. ‘I saw it too,’ she said, ‘last night, when I went to the bathroom. A red light was in my room, hovering over my dresser.’ We fell silent.

That night, we did not sleep in the living room. We all gathered in my room, the door locked, the lights on. And we waited. The clock ticked past midnight. The wind died. And then, in the silence, we heard it. A soft knocking on the door, three times. Not from the hallway, but from the window. A red glow seeped through the glass, casting long shadows. We drew closer together, our hearts racing. The knocking turned to a scratching, like claws or something metal. The window rattled.

Then, as suddenly as it began, the noise stopped. The red glow faded. I crept to the window, my hand trembling, and peered out. In the yard, just beyond the porch light’s reach, stood a figure. Tall, thin, and completely still. It was wearing a long coat, and its head was tilted, as if looking at something. And in its hand, it held a lantern, the same red orb from before, swinging gently.

We didn’t move. The figure didn’t move. The wind picked up, and the figure slowly melted into the darkness, leaving only a faint outline in the grass. We didn’t sleep that night. And in the days that followed, we tried to explain it away—a prank, a dream, a trick of the light. But the symbol kept appearing, and the hum never left. And every night, at 9:45, we would hear the clock chime, and the knocking would begin. That was six months ago. We haven’t slept since. The hollow has its lantern, and it’s still searching for a keeper.