The Lantern’s Hollow

Ever since I can remember, I’ve had encounters that felt like scenes from a film—except the camera never stopped rolling. As a child, I’d press my face to the cold glass of my bedroom window and spot a boy standing at the edge of the woods, his outline shimmering like heat off asphalt. He’d beckon, and I’d slip out into the night, following him through the underbrush, always just out of reach, until dawn leaked through the trees and he vanished. My parents divorced when I was six, and I split my time between their new homes—one a cramped apartment in the city, the other a drafty farmhouse on the outskirts. The presence followed me to both, but it wasn’t the houses that were haunted; it was me. My mother’s apartment had a long hallway where I once caught a shadow stretching across the wall, tall and thin, even though nothing stood there. At my father’s farmhouse, I’d wake in the dead of night to see a cloaked figure pacing at the foot of my bed, its steps silent, its face hidden beneath a cowl. I stopped turning my head in that direction years ago. But now, as an adult, the feeling has intensified—a weight against my chest just before sleep, a presence that stands by the door, patient. So I’ve started seeking out places rumored to be haunted: abandoned asylums, ancient battlefields, forgotten graveyards. I carry with me a lantern I found in my father’s attic, its glass frosted with age and its flame that never gutters, no matter the wind. I feel like I’m searching for something—maybe whatever has latched onto me wants to be laid to rest, or maybe it’s leading me somewhere. Last week, I drove to a town called Hollow Grove, where the locals whisper about a derelict church on the edge of a swamp. They say if you stand in its nave at midnight, you can hear the dead humming. I went. The church’s roof had caved in, and the floor was slick with moss. My lantern cast long shadows that danced like living things. I stood at the altar, and I felt it—not just behind me, but all around, seeping from the walls. The humming started, low and dissonant, like a choir of crickets. Then I saw him: the boy from my childhood, no older than he ever was, standing by a shattered stained-glass window. He pointed not at me, but at the lantern. I lifted it, and the flame flickered, turning a sickly green. The humility grew louder, and the boy’s mouth moved, but no sound came out. He mouthed, ‘You brought it.’ I looked down at my own hands—they were translucent, fading. The presence I’d felt all my life wasn’t following me; it was me. I had died in that woods years ago, and what returned was only a hollow echo, trapped in a loop, seeking release. The lantern guttered, and the boy faded. The church went dark. I stumbled out, and I saw my own reflection in the swamp water—pale, gaunt, with no light in my eyes. I’ve been driving ever since, trying to find a way back, but every road leads to the same place. Now, I am the presence that watches others sleep. And I am waiting for someone like me to bring me peace.