The Lantern’s Reach

It was the autumn of 2008, and I was a freshman at a small coastal college in the Pacific Northwest. My older brother, Daniel, and I had been at odds all week, and that night it boiled over. He was a senior, always trying to parent me, and I resented it. After a particularly vicious argument, he stormed off to his room, and I heard him crying through the thin walls. Guilt churned in my stomach, but I was too proud to apologize. I grabbed my jacket and slipped out the back door, heading toward the abandoned pier that jutted into the sea. The moon was hidden behind thick clouds, and the only light came from a flickering streetlamp at the end of the road. As I walked, I heard footsteps behind me. It was my neighbor, Max, a lanky kid who had just moved in. He was a year older, but we’d become fast friends. ‘Headed to the pier?’ he asked, falling into step. I nodded, and he grinned. ‘Mind if I tag along? The tide’s low, and the crabs are out.’ I shrugged, grateful for the company.

We reached the pier, a crumbling wooden structure that stretched about a hundred feet into the black water. The planks groaned under our weight, and the smell of salt and rot filled the air. We sat at the end, dangling our legs over the edge, and I told him about the fight. Max nodded sympathetically, kicking at a piece of driftwood. ‘Siblings, man. They’re the worst and the best.’ We talked for a while, the waves lapping beneath us. Then, out of nowhere, Max went rigid. His eyes widened, and he pointed toward the base of the pier, where the water met the sand. ‘Do you see that?’ he whispered. I squinted into the gloom. At first, I saw nothing but the faint glimmer of bioluminescent plankton. But then, a soft glow appeared, like a lantern being uncovered. It was bobbing gently, as if held by an unseen hand.

The glow moved closer, and I could make out a shape: a small, rusted lantern, its glass cracked but intact. It hovered about a foot above the water, drifting as if on an invisible current. My heart began to pound. ‘What is that?’ I asked, my voice barely a whisper. Max shook his head, his face pale. ‘I don’t know, but we should get out of here.’ He scrambled to his feet, but as he stood, the lantern shot toward us with unnatural speed. It stopped at the edge of the pier, just inches from Max’s boot. The flame inside flickered, casting dancing shadows on his face. And then, a sound came from the lantern: a soft, gurgling whisper, like a drowning man’s last breath. ‘Don’t… leave.’ The voice was cracked and watery. Max froze, his eyes locked on the lantern. I grabbed his arm and yanked him back. ‘Run!’ I shouted.

We sprinted down the pier, our footsteps thundering on the old wood. Behind us, the lantern gave chase, bobbing and weaving like a living thing. It emitted a piercing wail that seemed to tear through the night. We didn’t stop until we reached the street, where the lamplight cast a yellow pool on the asphalt. We turned, gasping, and saw the lantern hovering at the edge of the pier, as if it couldn’t cross the boundary. It swayed for a moment, then dimmed and vanished, leaving only the echo of its cry. Max and I exchanged terrified looks, our breath fogging in the cold air. ‘We need to tell someone,’ he panted. ‘No one’s going to believe us,’ I said. But even as I spoke, I noticed something: a thin, wet line on Max’s shoulder, like a trail of seaweed. He didn’t seem to notice, and I dismissed it as sweat.

We went back to our houses, agreeing to meet the next morning to research the pier’s history. But that night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept hearing that whisper in my head: ‘Don’t… leave.’ At 3 a.m., I heard a knock on my window. I live on the second floor, so I nearly screamed. Drawing the curtain, I saw Max standing on the lawn below, staring up at me. His face was lit by the moon, which had finally broken through the clouds. But his eyes were wrong: they were milky white, like a dead fish’s. He raised his hand and pointed to the pier, then mouthed something. I couldn’t make it out, but his lips formed the words, ‘It wants us.’ I stumbled back, and when I looked again, he was gone.

The next morning, I found Max’s front door ajar. Inside, his room was empty, but the floor was covered in wet sand and strands of kelp. On his desk was a note, scrawled in shaky handwriting: ‘The lantern is a keeper of the drowned. I heard the call. I must go.’ I ran to the pier, my heart hammering. The tide had risen, and the water was deep and dark. Floating near the end was Max’s jacket, tangled in a mass of seaweed. And there, on the sand, was the lantern, its flame burning bright even in the daylight. I stood frozen as a voice echoed from the waves, not in words but in a feeling: a longing, a pull toward the sea. I turned and fled, and I never returned to that pier. But even now, on quiet nights, I hear a faint gurgling outside my window, and I see a small glow bobbing in the distance, waiting for a new lost soul to keep it company.