The Lantern’s Gaze

My husband, Carl, has always scoffed at the supernatural. ‘No such thing as ghosts,’ he’d say, his tone as solid as the steel he worked with. I never argued, but I kept my own counsel, for I’d felt things in the quiet corners of the world that defied explanation. That night, as we drove down the winding gravel road toward the lake, I felt a familiar prickle on my skin, a premonition of something amiss.

We reached the public dock, a wooden skeleton stretching into the black water. The air was thick with the smell of mud and rotting vegetation. Carl set up our lantern, its hissing white light carving a small circle of safety. He baited his hook with a stinking chunk of liver, while I sat on the cool planks, hugging my knees. The water lapped against the pilings, and the occasional croak of a bullfrog punctuated the silence. It was peaceful, but my unease grew with each passing minute.

Carl cast his line into the darkness. ‘You’re too jumpy,’ he said, without turning. ‘Nothing here but fish and frogs.’ I tried to lose myself in the rhythm of the water, but my gaze kept drifting to the far shore, where the trees huddled like conspirators. I thought I saw a flicker of light there, a brief orange glow that vanished the moment I fixed on it. I told myself it was a firefly or the reflection of a distant star.

Then I heard it—a soft, rhythmic sound, like a boat gently rocking against the dock. But our boat was tied at the end, and it was still. I nudged Carl. ‘Did you hear that?’ He grunted, ‘Probably a muskrat.’ I strained my ears, but the sound had stopped. A minute later, it began again, closer this time, a creak and a watery slap. I shone my flashlight across the water, but saw nothing.

The lantern flickered, sputtered, and then died, plunging us into darkness. Carl muttered a curse and fumbled for his lighter. In that sudden blackness, I felt a presence—a cold, heavy watchfulness that pressed against my skin. I could smell something faintly sweet, like decaying flowers. Carl’s lighter sparked, and the flame danced to life, but the darkness beyond it seemed to push back.

‘We should go,’ I whispered. Carl laughed, a rough sound. ‘You’re letting your imagination run wild. I’ll light the lantern again.’ He shook it, and the wick caught, but the light was dimmer, yellowed, casting strange shadows that writhed on the water. I saw a shape, tall and stooped, at the far end of the dock. It was as if the darkness had condensed there, watching us. I pointed, my hand trembling. ‘Carl, look.’ He squinted, then shook his head. ‘It’s a post or a stump. You’re scaring yourself.’

But as he spoke, the shape moved. It slid sideways with a fluid, boneless motion that was decidedly not human. My heart pounded. I grabbed Carl’s arm. ‘Turn the lantern toward it.’ He did, and in the beam, we saw nothing but the empty dock and the black water beyond. Yet the feeling persisted—that we were not alone, that something was waiting just beyond the edge of our perception.

Then the lantern went out again, and this time, it wouldn’t relight. The lighter’s flame was weak, and every time it flickered, I thought I saw a face in the dark—gaunt, hollow-eyed, with a mouth stretched in a silent scream. Carl’s bravado finally cracked. ‘Okay, we’re leaving.’ He started reeling in his line, and I gathered our things, my hands shaking.

As we turned to leave, a sound echoed from the water—a splash, as if something heavy had slipped beneath the surface. I looked back, and in the faint moonlight that filtered through the clouds, I saw the outline of a figure standing at the end of the dock, where it joined the shore. It was tall and thin, and it held a lantern of its own, glowing with a cold, greenish light. Its face was hidden, but I felt its gaze on me, piercing and ancient.

I pulled Carl’s arm, but he didn’t seem to see it. ‘Come on,’ he urged, and we hurried to the car. As I opened the door, I chanced one last look. The figure raised its lantern, and in that sickly light, I saw its face—smooth, featureless, like a mask of bone. And it was smiling. I scrambled into the car, slammed the door, and Carl gunned the engine. We drove away without speaking, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that the thing was still watching, its lantern a cold star in the rearview mirror.

We never spoke of that night again. Carl became quieter, more withdrawn. He stopped fishing, and he took to sitting by the window at night, staring out into the darkness. I often find him standing there, a distant look in his eyes. And sometimes, when I’m alone, I hear that soft creaking sound, like a boat rocking on the water, and I know the lantern’s gaze is still upon us, waiting for us to return.