The Lantern Tree

My family has owned the Ashworth farm in the rolling hills of southern Missouri for over a century. The house is a sprawling, modernized Victorian, all sharp gables and wide, uncurtained windows that stare out over the pastures like glassy eyes. We’ve been coming here every summer and winter since my grandfather passed, and I’ve always felt a strange kinship with the land, a sense of being watched, but never with malice. There’s a small plot of ground near the old oak tree at the edge of the woods where my grandmother buried her stillborn twins, and further back, a weathered headstone marks the resting place of a traveler’s wife who died of fever in the 1880s. I’ve never felt any presence from those graves, just a quiet sadness that hangs in the air like dust.

This past weekend, I drove down from Chicago alone. The drive was long, and I arrived at dusk, the sky bleeding orange and purple behind the tree line. The house was quiet, my uncle having left the keys under the ceramic frog by the back door. I let myself in, the familiar smell of old wood and furniture polish greeting me. I unpacked and settled into the living room with a book, but my attention kept drifting to the windows. As darkness fell, the glass transformed into black mirrors, reflecting the room and, beyond, the faint glow of the yard light. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was out there, just at the edge of perception.

Later, I decided to take a walk to clear my head. I grabbed a flashlight from the pantry and stepped out onto the porch, the night air cool and damp. The yard light cast a pale circle, but beyond it, the fields melted into formless shadows. I walked toward the old oak tree, its branches like crooked fingers reaching for the stars. As I approached, I noticed something I hadn’t seen before: a small, round object hanging from one of the lower branches, swaying slightly in the breeze. I aimed my flashlight at it and saw it was a tiny lantern, but not a modern one—it was made of rusted tin and glass, with a flickering candle flame inside. I had never seen this lantern before, and the fact that it was lit made my blood run cold. No one had been here for weeks.

I stood there, transfixed, watching the flame dance. The wind was still, yet the flame did not waver. I had the strangest urge to touch the lantern, to feel the warm glass. But as I reached out, the flame suddenly guttered and went out. I pulled my hand back, startled. A chill swept over me. I turned to head back to the house, but I froze. In the light of my flashlight, I saw that the field was dotted with tiny, glowing points—like fireflies, but motionless. They hovered about a foot above the ground, casting a faint greenish light. I swept the flashlight across, and the points scattered, darting away into the darkness. I couldn’t rationalize it. I ran back to the house, slamming the door behind me, my heart pounding.

I tried to sleep, but every time I closed my eyes, I saw those glowing dots. I finally got up and went to the kitchen for a glass of water. As I passed the window, I stopped. There, in the glass, I saw the reflection of the lantern tree, but it wasn’t just the tree—there was a figure standing beneath it, a feminine silhouette in a long dress, with hair braided and hanging over one shoulder. I spun around, but the yard was empty. My reflection stared back at me, pale and wide-eyed. I told myself it was the lighting, a trick of the glass. But I didn’t believe it. I spent the rest of the night in the living room, all the lights on, the curtains drawn.

Morning came, and I felt foolish. I went outside to examine the tree in daylight. There was no lantern. The branch where it had hung was bare, and there was no sign that anything had ever been there. I walked to the ancient headstone, reading the faint inscription: ‘Cordelia, beloved wife of Thomas, died in childbirth, 1887.’ The grave was overgrown with weeds, but I noticed a small, fresh wildflower placed at the base—a tangle of white daisies, tied with a piece of red thread. I had a sinking feeling in my stomach. I knelt down and touched the flowers. They were real, dewy with morning. I looked around, but there was no one in sight.

That night, I decided to stay in my room and watch a movie on my laptop, curling up under the quilt my grandmother had made. As the movie played, I heard a faint scratching at my window. I looked up, and there, on the glass, was a handprint—small, delicate, with long fingers. It was on the outside of the glass, but the palm was pressed against it, as if someone were trying to get in. I screamed and jumped back. The handprint vanished. I flew to the window and peered out, but saw nothing. The yard light illuminated an empty lawn. I drew the curtains and shoved a chair against the door. I was trembling, on the verge of tears.

The next day, I called my uncle, asking if anyone had been to the property recently. He said no. I asked about the lantern and the handprint. He was silent for a long moment, then said, ‘That’s not ours. And if you see the lady in the field, do not follow her. She lost her way once, and now she looks for company.’ I demanded more, but he just said, ‘She’s been restless,’ and hung up.

I decided to leave early, but as I packed my car, I saw the lantern again. It was hanging from the tree, and the flame was lit, even in the bright afternoon sun. I walked toward it, a sick feeling rising in my throat. This time, I noticed something different: the branch had no leaves, and the lantern cast no shadow, even though it was high up and the sun was out. I stood directly under it, looking up. The flame seemed to flicker in a deliberate rhythm, like a heartbeat. And then I heard a soft humming, a woman’s voice, coming from the woods behind me. I turned, and there she was—a figure in a white dress, her face hidden by a bonnet, standing at the edge of the trees. She raised a hand and beckoned, then turned and walked slowly into the forest, humming all the while.

I was frozen, my heart hammering. Every instinct said run, but my feet seemed rooted to the earth. The humming grew softer, and I realized with horror that she was leading me toward the old family burial plot, the place where my grandmother’s babies lay. The thought of those tiny graves, and the tragic death of a mother and child that had passed this way in another century, filled me with a dread I couldn’t name. I finally wrenched myself free and sprinted to the house. I grabbed my keys and didn’t stop driving until I reached the interstate.

Now I’m home in Chicago, but I can’t shake it. I see the lantern in my dreams, its flame dancing in the darkness of my room. And sometimes, when I look into the bathroom mirror late at night, I see a glimmer of white in the reflection behind me, a shape like a woman in a bonnet, waiting. I know she’s not done with me. She wants to show me something, to make me witnesses to her pain. And I’m terrified that the next time I see her, I will follow, into the woods, into the earth, and find myself planting roots beside her forever.