The Lantern’s Reach

My name is Mara, and I’ve been living with my partner, Leo, for nearly two years. Since the start of summer, I’ve been dabbling in EVP recordings—a hobby Leo finds both amusing and intriguing, especially when we capture orbs in our photos. This is what happened on our anniversary night.

We had celebrated with a late dinner at a seaside grill, then drove to the old jetty at Crescent Cove, a place known for its eerie quiet after midnight. It was past one in the morning when we settled on the damp sand, our cooler and chairs set up under a bruised sky. The moon was hidden behind clouds, and the only light came from the distant lighthouse, its beam sweeping across the water like a pale finger.

I wasn’t having any luck fishing, so I gave up and busied myself with my recorder, hoping to catch some spirit voices. Leo, on the other hand, was determined to catch something, his rod a silhouetted line against the dark. I snapped a few photos of the cove, the water, the sky—just to see if any orbs would show. After the last shot, I walked over to the path that led back to the car, my camera glowing as I reviewed the images.

That’s when I noticed a figure on my right, standing near the water’s edge. I assumed it was Leo—he had a similar build and was wearing a dark jacket. But as I turned to smile at him, I realized with a jolt that Leo was still in his chair, three feet to my left, his back to me, fishing line taut into the surf. The figure on the right was a stranger, and he was walking toward me with an odd, fluid gait.

I lowered the camera, my heart pattering. The man stopped just outside the halo of my phone’s light, his face in shadow. He didn’t speak, but I saw he was holding a lantern—an old-fashioned oil lamp with a flickering flame. He raised it slowly, and the light cast his features in sharp relief: hollow cheeks, eyes that were too dark, and a smile that didn’t reach them.

‘Lost?’ I called out, trying to keep my voice steady. He tilted his head, and instead of answering, he pointed the lantern toward the water. At that moment, my EVP recorder, which I’d left on the cooler, emitted a burst of static. It wasn’t the usual hiss; it was a voice—a woman’s whisper, clear as if she were beside me: ‘Don’t follow the light.’

I gasped and spun around, but Leo was still fishing, oblivious. The man took a step closer, and the lantern’s flame grew brighter, casting elongated shadows that writhed on the sand like living things. Something tugged at my memory—a local legend about a lighthouse keeper who vanished in the 1800s, his spirit said to lure travelers into the sea with a phantom light. I had dismissed it as folklore.

‘Do you know the way out?’ I asked, my voice trembling. The man smiled wider, and his mouth opened, but instead of words, a low hum emanated from his throat, vibrating in my chest. The lantern swung, and I felt a compulsion to walk toward it, my feet beginning to obey against my will. The water seemed closer now, the waves licking the shore with an inviting rhythm.

‘Leo!’ I screamed, but my voice was muffled, like I was underwater. Leo finally turned, his fishing rod drooping. He saw me moving toward the stranger and called out, ‘Mara! Who’s that?’ The man’s smile vanished, replaced by a look of hunger. He raised the lantern higher, and the beam split, one part hitting Leo, the other hitting me.

In that split second, I saw Leo’s face contort with recognition—he had seen the spirit before, in old photographs at the maritime museum. But he was also frozen, his eyes glazed. The humming grew louder, and I felt my consciousness dimming. The last thing I remember was the lantern’s flame turning blue, then white, then engulfing me in a cold, silent light.

I woke on the beach at dawn, my clothes damp, the recorder still running in my pocket. Leo was shaken, his hair wet, and he held my hand like he had lost me forever. He said I had walked into the water up to my waist before he snapped out of his trance and pulled me back. The stranger was gone, but the lantern remained, sitting on the sand where we had been fishing, its flame still burning despite the rising sun.

We never spoke of it again, but I kept the recorder. Sometimes, at night, I play back the tape, and in the static, I hear that woman’s voice, but now it’s coming from my own mouth: ‘Don’t follow the light.’ And I wonder if the spirit found another vessel, or if it’s still waiting for the next curious soul to wander too close to the edge.