The Lantern’s Reach

I’m 19, and my cousin’s kid, Toby, is 6. When Mom and Dad took in Aunt Rita for her surgery, Toby came along to keep her company. My room, which is really just the attic converted into a bedroom, had two twin beds: one for me, one for Toby. The beds were separated by a narrow nightstand with a humming digital clock. The attic window, a single pane of old glass, looked out over the cow pasture behind our farmhouse.

That night, I remember the moon was waxing gibbous, and a storm was rolling in from the west. I fell asleep to the sound of distant thunder. At some point, I woke up. It wasn’t a gradual stirring—it was like a needle of cold air poked the back of my neck. I sat up, and the attic felt weirdly quiet. The clock on the nightstand read 3:17 AM.

I saw a flicker of light from the direction of the window. It wasn’t lightning, but a steady, amber glow, like a kerosene lantern. And there, by the window, stood Toby. He was facing away from me, his small shoulders hunched, and he was holding something out in front of him—a lantern, I think. Its light cast long shadows across the slanted roof.

I thought about telling him to get back to bed, but something stopped me. A chill ran through me. I looked over at his bed. There was Toby, curled under his quilt, his chest rising and falling in a peaceful rhythm. I whipped my head back to the window. The lantern was gone, and the window was dark, save for a brief flash of lightning. The storm had arrived.

I lay back down, convincing myself it was a trick of the light. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that the figure by the window wasn’t Toby. You see, Toby, my real Toby, he’s deathly afraid of the dark. He never leaves his bed at night, not even to pee. And when I looked at the shape by the window, something was off. Its shoulders were too broad, and its feet didn’t quite touch the floor.

I didn’t sleep the rest of the night. I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, listening to the rain hammer the roof. In the morning, Toby was chipper, asking for pancakes. I didn’t tell him about the shape. But as I was getting dressed, I noticed something on the floor by the window. A small patch of dark, damp earth, shaped like a footprint. And it wasn’t Toby’s size. It was way too big. And it smelled faintly of wet soil and rot.

A week later, I found out from Aunt Rita that Toby had been sleepwalking when he was younger. He used to wander out to the pasture, holding a rubber toy lantern he refused to give up. That was before they moved to the city. She said he stopped after they got a dog. But we don’t have a dog. And the pasture has been empty for years.

I keep the attic door locked now. But sometimes, in the deep of night, I hear a scraping sound, like a lantern chain being dragged across the floor, just beyond the threshold. And I remember that footprint, and I wonder if Toby’s sleepwalking started again—or if something else has been wearing his shape to call me out to the field.