The Lantern of Watching Eyes

In the late autumn of 1984, my family lived in a small coastal village called Saltmarsh, a place where the sea breeze carried the smell of brine and the nights were so dark that even the stars seemed to hide. We had no electricity, only a kerosene lantern that cast a weak, flickering glow. The nearest house with a television was the old Harbinger place, a sprawling, creaking mansion that had been abandoned for years before old Mrs. Harbinger moved back in. She was a recluse, and the villagers said she had come to die, but she only watched the sea from her porch, day and night.

One night, a heavy fog rolled in from the ocean, thick as wool. My older cousin, Elias, and I decided to visit Mrs. Harbinger’s house because we heard she had a newfangled satellite dish, and that night there was a special broadcast of a horror film. We were teenagers, hungry for entertainment, and the fog seemed like an adventure. We took the lantern, but the fog swallowed its light, so we navigated by the sound of the waves and the occasional cry of a gull. As we approached, the Harbinger house loomed, its windows glowing with a sickly yellow light.

Mrs. Harbinger opened the door before we knocked. She was a wisp of a woman, her skin like parchment, her eyes too large and too bright. She smiled and welcomed us in, leading us to a parlor where a large television flickered. The room was cluttered with porcelain dolls, each with blank, staring eyes. She offered us tea in chipped cups, and we sat, transfixed by the movie. But as the film’s protagonist walked through a foggy forest, I felt a prickle on my neck, and I turned. One of the dolls had moved. It was now facing me, its painted smile seemingly wider.

I nudged Elias, but he was absorbed in the movie. I told myself it was my imagination. But then, another doll on the mantelpiece tilted its head, a slow, deliberate motion. My heart hammered. I whispered to Elias, but he just waved me off. Mrs. Harbinger, who was sitting in a rocking chair, suddenly spoke, ‘They like the movie too.’ Her voice was a dry rasp. I looked at her, and her eyes were not human; they were like polished black stones, reflecting the glow of the television.

Panic seized me. I grabbed Elias’s arm and pulled him up, shouting that we had to leave. Elias protested, but I dragged him out of the room. As we stumbled into the hallway, we found ourselves in a different corridor, one that stretched endlessly, lined with doors. The hallway we came in was short, but now it seemed to go on forever, each door identical. The lantern we had brought was still lit, but its flame had turned a sickly green.

We opened a door, hoping for an exit, but inside was a room identical to the parlor, with the same dolls, the same television, and the same Mrs. Harbinger, who smiled and said, ‘Back so soon?’ We slammed the door and ran down the corridor, opening more doors. Each one led to the same parlor, each time with the dolls a little closer to the door, their eyes tracking us. Elias was now as terrified as I was, and we both screamed for help, but the only sound was the laughter of dolls, high-pitched and tinny.

Finally, we found a door that opened to the outside. We burst through, and found ourselves on a cliff overlooking the sea, but the fog was gone, and the moon was high and sharp. We were not near the Harbinger house; we were on the far end of the village, miles away. When we returned home, shaking, we told our parents, but they said we had fallen asleep in the fields. They showed us a newspaper from the next morning: the Harbinger house had burned down decades ago, and Mrs. Harbinger had died in the fire, along with her collection of dolls.

We never spoke of it again. But sometimes, at night, when the fog rolls in from the sea, I see a light in the distance, and I hear the faint sound of dolls laughing. And I know that the lantern we left behind now hangs in a room full of watching eyes, waiting for the next visitor to stumble through the fog.