The Lantern’s Last Light

The news came through a string of text messages, not from a phone call or a visit. I was sitting in my flat above the old bakery on Mill Lane, scrolling through my feed when I saw the post. It was a photo of a young man, grinning next to a dirt bike, with a caption that read, ‘Rest in peace, Jamie. You’ll never be forgotten.’ My stomach dropped. Jamie was someone I knew from the estate, not a close friend, but we’d shared cigarettes at the bus stop and traded nods in the corner shop. He was eighteen, with a mop of curly hair and a laugh that echoed off the concrete walls.

He’d gone to the Brecon Beacons with his mates, the same weekend every year, to tear up the muddy trails on their bikes. The track they used was called the Devil’s Staircase, a treacherous path that wound up the mountain and disappeared into a forest so dense it swallowed the sun. They said he’d hit a patch of loose rock, lost control, and gone over the edge. By the time they reached him, he was already gone. The hospital was thirty miles away, but they said there was nothing they could do.

The same weekend, another boy from the next town over was killed by a train on the level crossing near the old mill. It was as if death had swept through the valleys, collecting the young. I sat in my flat, staring at the wall, the weight of it pressing down on me. I’d seen Jamie just last week, buying a pack of gum and a can of coke, his eyes bright with plans. Now he was a photograph, a memory, a name on a banner.

The community rallied, as it always does. The corner shop became a shrine. Photographs, flowers, and handwritten messages covered the window. A book was placed on the counter for people to sign, each page filled with shaky handwriting and tear-stained ink. And then, on the Saturday after his funeral, we released the lanterns. Everyone gathered in the park at dusk, each holding a paper lantern with Jamie’s name written on it, and messages for him. I held mine, the thin paper crinkling in my hand, and watched as the first lanterns floated up, orange against the grey sky, like fireflies escaping the earth.

I let mine go, and it joined the dozens drifting upward, carried by a gentle wind toward the mountains. As they rose, I felt a strange pull, a weight in my chest that told me to follow. It was irrational, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that Jamie wasn’t truly gone. The lanterns vanished into the darkening sky, but I kept staring, imagining I saw one dip and fall, caught in the currents, dropping toward the distant woods.

I tried to forget it, but the image haunted me. The next day, I borrowed my cousin’s car and drove toward the Beacons, telling myself I needed to clear my head. The road twisted through valleys, past sheep-dotted hills and crumbling farmhouses. I found the trailhead for the Devil’s Staircase, a dirt track marked by a rusted sign, barely legible. The air was cold, and the wind carried the faint smell of smoke. I parked and walked, my boots crunching on the gravel.

I don’t know what I expected to find. Maybe closure, maybe some sign that Jamie was at peace. But as I reached the spot where he’d crashed, a place where the soil was still churned and a piece of orange plastic lay tangled in a bush, I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the wind. There, caught on a branch, was a lantern. Its paper was torn, and the wire frame was bent, but the name ‘Jamie’ was still visible, smudged but clear. I reached for it, and as my fingers touched the brittle paper, I heard a voice behind me.

‘He didn’t fall,’ the voice said. I spun around. An old man stood there, leaning on a twisted walking stick, his face weathered like the hills. ‘The Devil’s Staircase takes its toll, but not like that. He was riding alone, you know. His friends were ahead. He said he heard something in the woods, a sound like a child crying. He stopped to help. That’s when it got him.’ He pointed to a gap in the trees, a dark opening that seemed to breathe. ‘It waits there. It calls to the young, the kind-hearted. It needs their light to keep its own.’

I stared at the old man, my heart pounding. ‘That’s crazy,’ I said, but the words felt hollow. He shrugged and walked past me, into the woods, disappearing into the shadows. I stood there for a long time, holding the ruined lantern. The wind picked up, and I thought I heard a faint, plaintive cry from the forest, like a child lost and alone. I backed away, my eyes fixed on the treeline, and stumbled back to the car.

I drove home in a daze, the lantern on the passenger seat beside me. When I got back, I tried to tell myself it was grief, that my mind was playing tricks. But I couldn’t throw the lantern away. I put it on my shelf, next to a photo of Jamie I’d taken from the memorial. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed, listening to the wind outside, and I swear I heard a whisper, so faint it was almost nothing: ‘Help me.’

I’ve spent the past week trying to rationalize it. But every night, the voice grows a little louder, and the lantern begins to glow, faintly, from within. I know now that Jamie’s death wasn’t an accident. And I know that the thing in the woods isn’t finished. It’s still calling, still waiting for another kind soul to hear its cry. And I’m afraid that, sooner or later, I won’t be able to ignore it.