The Lantern’s Last Light

In the sweltering July of 2012, our town of Ashford was finally shedding its winter coat. Six months of snow that buried cars and stalled trains had given way to a heat that made the asphalt shimmer. I worked as a site supervisor for a construction firm on the outskirts, a job that paid the bills but left me craving the cool of my apartment. I had a mountain bike, a rugged thing with tires thick as my wrist, and every day I rode the twenty minutes home along the main highway—safe, well-lit, constant traffic. It was monotonous, but I liked the predictability. My name is Elias, and I was a creature of habit.

One evening, as I was packing up my tools, my coworker Marcus caught up with me. Marcus was a wiry fellow with a nervous laugh, and he lived in the same complex as I did, three blocks over. He had a girlfriend, Lena, who lived in the building adjacent to mine, and often we rode together. That day, as we cycled past the turnoff for the highway, he veered left. ‘Elias, come on! I found a shortcut that cuts off ten minutes. It goes along the river—the old mill path.’ I hesitated. The highway was a lifeline; the river path was a dark ribbon that wound through the woods. But the heat was oppressive, and my shirt was soaked. The promise of a cooler ride and a quicker end to the day was tempting. I followed.

The moment we left the pavement, the world changed. The road turned to packed dirt, potholed and narrow. Overhead, a canopy of ancient oaks met, blocking out the last of the sun. The air dropped ten degrees, and the sound of cicadas gave way to the murmur of water. We rode in silence for a while, the only light coming from our bike lamps, which seemed to swallow the darkness ahead. After about ten minutes, we reached a stretch where the path hugged the river. Here, the trees thinned, and the moonlight spilled across the water, silver and cold. Marcus stopped and pointed. ‘See that? The old mill.’ I saw a collapsed structure, its rotten beams jutting out like ribs. ‘There’s a ferry crossing a little further. We can take it, saves us going around the bridge.’ I had never heard of a ferry here, but locals kept to themselves. I shrugged and followed.

We dismounted and walked our bikes along a rickety wooden dock. A small flatboat was tethered to a post, half submerged. Marcus pulled it to the bank, and we boarded. As we pushed off, the silence deepened. The only sound was the shallow lap of water against the hull. The moonlight painted everything in white and black, making the world seem like a faded photograph. Halfway across, I felt a chill run down my spine. It was as if something was watching from the opposite bank. I looked back at the mill, and for a split second, I saw a light flicker in its empty window frame. I blinked, and it was gone. I told myself it was a firefly.

On the other side, we continued on a trail that was barely visible. Marcus seemed to know his way, but his pace slowed. ‘Shouldn’t be much longer,’ he said, but his voice lacked its usual confidence. The path veered away from the river and into a dense thicket. The moonlight faded, and we had to rely on our lamps, which cast weak, wavering beams. That’s when we saw the lantern. It was a rusted, old-fashioned kerosene lantern, sitting on a stump at the edge of the trail, its flame flickering as if tended. It was out of place—no houses for miles. Marcus picked it up, and the flame steadied. ‘Someone left this. Creepy.’ He hung it from his handlebar, and we continued.

The trail opened into a small clearing with a dilapidated house. It was a two-story Victorian, rotted and sagging, with a porch that hung askew. Moss covered the roof, and the windows were black voids. On the porch was a cluster of lanterns, all lit, casting a sickly orange glow. Marcus’s own lantern seemed to pull us toward the house. ‘We should cut through the yard,’ he said, but we both stopped at the gate. There was a sign, faded but readable: ‘NO TRESPASSING. VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED.’ Marcus laughed nervously. ‘It’s abandoned. Who cares?’ But as we stood there, the front door creaked open, just a little, as if invited. The lantern in Marcus’s hand flickered and went out. He shook it, but it wouldn’t light. ‘Must be out of oil,’ he said, but I saw the reservoir was full.

A cold wind blew, and the shutters banged. I wanted to turn back, but the path behind us had vanished into darkness. The only way forward was through the house. We left our bikes against the porch and climbed the steps, which groaned under our weight. The door was ajar, revealing a narrow hall. Inside, the air was stale, and the floor was covered with dust that showed no footprints, but there was a faint trail, as if something had been dragged through. The house was full of lanterns—on the floor, on tables, on the stairs—all burning with that same steady flame. They cast no shadows, leaving us surrounded by light but feeling more blind than ever. We moved deeper, calling out, ‘Hello?’ but the only response was the creak of the floorboards.

We reached the kitchen, where a single lantern sat on a wooden table. Its flame was brighter, and it illuminated a photograph on the wall. It was a family portrait, but the faces were smudged, unrecognizable. In the corner of the photo, a date: July 14, 1987. Marcus reached out to touch it, and as his finger made contact, the flame in the lantern shot up, casting wild shadows. From the floor above, we heard a scraping sound, slow and deliberate. I grabbed Marcus’s arm. ‘We should leave. Now.’ We turned, but the hallway behind us was now walled—no door. The way we had come was gone. Panic set in. We tried to force the wall, but it was solid. The only way was up.

We climbed the stairs, each step creaking louder. The upstairs hallway was lined with doors, all closed. At the end stood a door with the same lantern symbol that had been on the stump. Marcus’s lantern, still dead, now grew warm in his hand. It started to glow from within, casting a sickly green light. The door at the end creaked open on its own. Inside was a room lit by a single lantern hanging from the ceiling. In the center, a woman’s silhouette sat at a vanity, brushing her hair. She didn’t turn. Marcus, trembling, whispered, ‘Who’s there?’ The brushing stopped. The woman slowly turned her head, but her face was a void—no features, just smooth skin. She stood and moved toward us, not walking but gliding. Her hand reached out, and her fingers were long, too long.

I grabbed Marcus and pulled him back, but the door we had come through was gone. The room had become a coffin. The lantern above flickered, and in that moment, I saw not the woman, but my own reflection in a mirror—old, gaunt, and bleeding from the eyes. The lanterns in the room all went out at once, plunging us into absolute darkness. I heard Marcus scream, a sound that was cut short, as if something had covered his mouth. I backed into a corner, feeling the walls closing in. The darkness was not empty; I felt a cold breath on my neck.

I woke up in the morning, lying on the riverbank, the overturned ferry nearby. My bike was beside me, but Marcus was gone. The lantern was nowhere to be seen. I stumbled back to town, but the road seemed longer. When I reached my apartment, I found a note under the door: ‘We’ve been waiting for you, Elias.’ The handwriting was Marcus’s.

Since then, I’ve never taken a shortcut. I keep to the highway, where the lights are bright and the people are many. But sometimes, at the corner of my eye, I see a flicker of orange light, and I hear a faint scratching, as if something is waiting for me to stray from the path again. I know one day, the lantern will call me back.