The Lantern’s Last Light

In the autumn of 2014, I joined a small paranormal research team for what was supposed to be a routine investigation of an abandoned lighthouse on the jagged coast of Maine. The keeper’s quarters had been empty since the 1960s, and local legends spoke of a keeper who went mad, locking himself in the lantern room before the light went dark. My team consisted of two others: Marcus, a skeptic with a penchant for gadgets, and Elena, a medium who had seen things she couldn’t explain. I was the documentarian, the one who kept the cameras rolling and the audio recorders running.

The night we arrived was cold and damp, with fog rolling in from the sea like a silent tide. We had expected to find the usual eerie silence, but as we stepped onto the rocky path leading to the lighthouse, a low hum seemed to vibrate through the ground. We brushed it off as the wind playing tricks on us.

We set up our equipment in the keeper’s quarters, a sparse room with peeling wallpaper and a single, grimy window that looked out onto the churning Atlantic. The air was thick with the smell of salt and decay. As the evening wore on, our EVP sessions yielded nothing but static, and the temperature remained stubbornly stable. Disappointment settled over us like a heavy blanket.

Around midnight, Marcus suggested we check the lantern room, which we had avoided due to its unstable spiral staircase. Elena hesitated, her eyes distant. ‘He doesn’t want us up there,’ she whispered, but Marcus dismissed her concern. We climbed the narrow, creaking steps, our flashlights casting long, dancing shadows on the rusted iron walls.

At the top, we found the lantern room intact, its massive Fresnel lens still in place, though darkened and cracked. The wind howled through a broken pane of glass, and the hum we had felt earlier was stronger here, almost a physical presence. I set up my recorder and asked the standard questions: ‘Is anyone here? What is your name?’

For a long moment, there was nothing. Then, a faint whisper, barely audible over the wind, seemed to answer: ‘The lantern must never go out.’ I looked at Marcus and Elena, but their expressions told me they had not heard it. I played back the recording, and there it was, a garbled voice that made my skin crawl.

Encouraged, we pressed on. Elena began to sway, her eyes glazing over. ‘He’s here,’ she said, her voice unnaturally low. ‘He’s angry. He thinks we’re trying to kill the light.’ Suddenly, the glass of the lantern shattered inward, and the wind died as if the world had held its breath. The temperature plummeted, and our breath misted in the air.

A deep, resonant voice boomed from the shadows, not through our speakers but directly in our minds: ‘Leave this place, or be consumed by the dark.’ We scrambled for the stairs, but the door slammed shut, and the staircase twisted into a spiral that seemed to have no end. Panic set in. Marcus pulled at the door, but it wouldn’t budge. Elena was crying, clutching a small cross she had brought.

Then, I saw it—a figure of pure blackness, taller than any man, standing in the shattered window. It had no face, only a void where features should be, but I felt its gaze upon me. It pointed a long, bony finger at the lantern, and the lens began to glow with a sickly, greenish light. The hum grew into a deafening roar, and the light pulsed like a heartbeat.

The voice echoed again: ‘You have seen the light. Now you must carry it forever.’ I watched in horror as Marcus was lifted off his feet, his body writhing as if in agony, and then he vanished into the darkness. Elena collapsed, unconscious. The lantern’s glow intensified, and I felt a searing pain in my chest, as if something was burning its way into my very soul.

I managed to drag Elena down the stairs, which had returned to their normal, rickety state. We escaped into the night, gasping for breath, the lighthouse looming behind us like a silent sentinel. In the days that followed, Marcus was never found. The authorities chalked it up to a tragic accident, but Elena and I knew better.

We never spoke of that night again, but there are times, in the quietest hours, when I hear a whisper in my ear: ‘The lantern must never go out.’ And sometimes, when I look in the mirror, I see a flicker of green light deep within my eyes—a light that I know, with absolute certainty, will one day consume me.