The Lantern on the Causeway

My name is Lena, and I have always had a strange affinity for the other side. It’s as if the dead find me, seeking me out like a lighthouse on a foggy night. I’ve had countless encounters over the years—whispers in old houses, cold spots in sunlit rooms, shadows that dance just out of sight. But nothing, nothing prepared me for the man with the unlit cigarette.

It started just before my father passed in the autumn of 2003. We were driving back from his final chemotherapy session, the silence heavy with unspoken fears. The road was empty, a ribbon of grey asphalt slicing through the barren fields. Then, up ahead, I saw him: an old man in a tweed suit, a fedora tilted low, walking down the middle of the lane as if he owned it. His hands were in his pockets, and he seemed utterly unbothered by the approaching car. Dad slowed, his brow furrowed. ‘Who the devil is that?’ he muttered. We passed within inches of him, and I turned to look, but he was gone. Just gone, like smoke on the wind. Dad shrugged it off, blaming the stress, the meds. But I knew what I’d seen.

Dad died two weeks later, on the eleventh of December. I never saw the man again until last night.

I work the night shift at the Maplewood Rest Home, a sprawling Victorian mansion that has since been converted into a care facility. It sits at the end of a long, winding driveway, lined with ancient oaks that lean in like curious spectators. Driving home at 3 a.m., bone-weary and half-asleep, I stopped at the junction where the old causeway meets the main road. The light turned red, and I sat there, the hum of the engine my only companion. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw him. The same old man, same tweed suit, same fedora, walking down the middle of the road. But this time, he had a cigarette dangling from his lips, unlit, and he was beckoning to me—a slow, deliberate curl of his fingers. My heart hammered. I couldn’t look away. He walked a few more steps, then paused, turning to face me with an expression of urgent pleading. In the dim glow of the streetlight, I saw his eyes—hollow, dark pits that seemed to swallow the light. He vanished again, just like before, leaving me shaken and gasping.

I told my sister, Clara, the next morning. She looked at me with that mixture of pity and concern she’s perfected over the years. ‘Lena, you’re exhausted. You’ve been seeing Dad everywhere since he passed. Maybe you need to see someone.’ I wanted to scream that I wasn’t crazy, that I’d seen him with Dad, but the words died in my throat. Who would believe me? Instead, I forced a smile and said maybe she was right.

But I couldn’t let it go. I’ve always trusted my instincts, and something told me this man was important. I started researching the area, digging through old records at the library. After days of searching, I found a faded newspaper article from 1928. A man named Arthur Pendleton had died on the causeway—a hit-and-run, they said. He was a dockworker, a widower, known for his fondness for cigarettes he never lit. The article mentioned he used to walk the same stretch of road every evening, always in the middle, as if he were daring fate. The accident occurred on the night of December 11th.

December 11th. The same date my father died. The same date I saw the man with Dad. Coincidence? I didn’t think so. I delved deeper, discovering that Pendleton’s son had been driving that car. The son, a troubled young man, had just been released from prison for petty theft. There was a rumor that Arthur had been on his way to confront him, to drag him home. They’d had a vicious argument hours before. The son claimed he never saw his father in the road, but the pieces didn’t fit.

I felt a chill crawl up my spine as I pieced it together. Arthur was a protective father, desperate to save his son from a life of crime. He died trying to bring him home. Now, years later, he appears to me—a woman who also lost a father—beckoning, pleading. Maybe it wasn’t me he was calling. Maybe it was the truth he wanted me to uncover.

That night, I stood on the causeway, the same spot where I’d seen him. The wind off the bay was cold, biting through my jacket. I clutched a photograph of my father and a copy of the old article. ‘I’m here, Arthur,’ I whispered into the dark. ‘What do you need?’ For a long while, nothing. I began to feel foolish, standing alone on a deserted road at midnight. Then I saw it—a faint glow, like a lantern bobbing in the distance. It grew closer, and I could make out a figure. It was Arthur, but now he was holding a lantern, the flame inside burning bright. He raised it high, and in its light, I saw something else: a shadowy shape kneeling by the roadside, a figure with its head bowed, clearly in distress. It was a young woman, dressed in old-fashioned clothes, and she was sobbing. Arthur pointed his free hand at her, then at the ground beneath her.

I walked forward, my legs shaking, until I stood where the woman was. I knelt down, feeling the cold, damp grass. My fingers brushed against something hard—a piece of metal. I dug it out: a locket, tarnished and rusted. It opened with a creak to reveal a tiny photograph of a young woman, and inside, an inscription: ‘For my beloved, forever.’ I looked up, and Arthur was still there, but now he was fading, his lantern growing dim. He gave a small nod, and then he was gone.

The next day, I took the locket to the historical society. An elderly curator, Mrs. Whitfield, recognized it immediately. It belonged to a woman named Elsie, who had disappeared in 1928, just a week after Arthur’s death. She had been his niece, a runaway who lived on the streets. The police suspected foul play, but her body was never found. With the locket as evidence, authorities searched the area and, in a shallow grave just off the causeway, they found her remains. Her skull had a visible fracture—a blow from a blunt object.

The case was reopened, and the truth came to light. Arthur’s son, Albert, had been a violent man. He had killed Elsie in a rage, then hidden her body. His father had been on his way to confront him, to force him to confess, but Albert ran him down instead, framing it as an accident. It had all been buried for decades, but now, justice was served. Albert had died in the 1960s, unpunished for his crimes.

I visited my father’s grave that evening, laying a stone on the marker. ‘You brought him to me, didn’t you?’ I said aloud. ‘You wanted me to help him.’ I felt a gentle warmth, like a hand on my shoulder, and I knew I was right. Since that day, I haven’t seen Arthur again. But I know he’s at peace. And I’ve learned that the spirits who come to me aren’t always looking to scare—sometimes, they just want someone to listen, to find the truth that was never told.

As for the man with the unlit cigarette, I no longer fear him. He was a guardian, waiting all those years for someone to finish his work. And in his final act, he guided me to a broken girl, and I gave her name back. The lantern on the causeway now burns bright in my memory, a beacon of the dead who still love the living.