The Lantern’s Guests

January 4, 2011

by Jocelyn

3 min read

Story Premise 3 min read (553 words)

"When I was seven, my grandmother owned a crumbling lighthouse on a desolate stretch of coast. The keeper’s cottage, where we stayed, was cozy enough, but the outhouse, a rickety wooden shack perched on the rocks, was a source of nightly terror. The wind howled through the cracks, and the sea crashed below, and the […]"

When I was seven, my grandmother owned a crumbling lighthouse on a desolate stretch of coast. The keeper’s cottage, where we stayed, was cozy enough, but the outhouse, a rickety wooden shack perched on the rocks, was a source of nightly terror. The wind howled through the cracks, and the sea crashed below, and the darkness felt thick and alive.

On the night of our visit, I woke to a pressing need. The clock on the nightstand glowed 9:47. My cousins were asleep in their bunks, and my parents were in the next room, but I couldn’t wake them for this. I pulled on my boots and grabbed the old lantern from the hook by the door. The beam was weak, casting a sickly yellow circle that barely pierced the gloom.

I stepped outside, and the wind nearly tore the lantern from my hand. The path to the outhouse was slick with seaweed, and the wooden door groaned as I pushed it open. The interior was vast and cold, with a high ceiling lost in shadow. I set the lantern on a shelf and turned to the toilet, but as my eyes adjusted, I noticed something impossible.

Little figures, no taller than my knee, were scattered across the floor. They were made of shifting grey mist, their forms wavering like heat shimmer. They were arranged in a loose circle, and at the center, two of them stood together, facing each other. They were having a wedding. One of them, the ‘bride’, wore a tiny crown of barnacles, and the ‘groom’ had a sprig of dried seaweed as a boutonniere. They bowed to each other, and the others raised their tiny arms in celebration. They moved in silence, a dance of swirling mist, and the lantern light passed through them without casting shadows.

My heart hammered, but I was transfixed. They were beautiful in a strange, eerie way. I finished my business as quickly as I could, my eyes never leaving them. When I was done, I snatched the lantern and fled back to the cottage.

But as I crossed the living room, I froze. They were there too. They covered the couch, the tables, the windowsills. They were everywhere, still holding their silent ceremony. They danced on the mantelpiece, their tiny feet leaving no trace in the dust. The air grew cold, and the lantern sputtered. I backed away, and they didn’t even look at me. They were utterly absorbed in their ritual.

I dove into my parents’ bed, pulling the covers over my head. I could feel the cold presence even through the blankets, and I didn’t sleep a wink. In the morning, when the sun finally chased them away, I told my grandmother what I had seen. She set down her teacup, her face unreadable.

‘The lantern’s guests,’ she said softly. ‘They only come when the light is weak and the sea is restless.’ I waited for her to laugh, to say I had dreamed it, but she just shook her head. ‘You were lucky. They are not always so kind.’ She never explained further, and I never saw them again. But every time I close my eyes, I see their silent dance, and I wonder if they are still waiting for a stronger light to guide them home.

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