The Lantern’s Toll

I never believed in ghosts, not really. Sure, I’d read the forums and watched the documentaries, but it was all entertainment. That changed last autumn, when I inherited my great-aunt’s cottage in the isolated village of Ashwood Hollow. The place was more of a shack, a crooked structure leaning into the encroaching forest like it was trying to hide. I planned to sell it, but first, I needed to clear out the clutter.

The cottage was a dusty time capsule. Piles of moth-eaten clothes, boxes of yellowed newspapers, and jars of mysterious preserves lined the shelves. But the heart of the hoard was an antique brass lantern, tarnished and heavy, with a frosted glass globe. It sat on the mantlepiece, eerily clean, as if recently polished. A slip of paper tucked beneath it read: ‘Do not light. He comes to collect.’ I laughed it off as a prank by my eccentric aunt.

That night, the wind howled through the gaps in the old planks, making the cottage groan. I was going through a box of old letters when I found a photograph. It was a group of village men from the 1920s, standing by a mill, and among them was a man with a distinctive lantern. I recognized it—the same brass lantern. The caption on the back read: ‘The Keeper and the Hollow Men.’ My curiosity was piqued, but the cold draft made me shiver, and I decided to call it a night.

I couldn’t sleep. Every creak and rustle had me jumping. At some point, I heard a faint tapping from the living room. I grabbed a flashlight and crept out, but the room was still. The lantern, however, seemed to glow faintly, a sickly yellow light pulsed within its glass. I approached, drawn against my will, and before I knew it, my hand was on the cold metal. A voice rasped in my ear, ‘Light the wick.’ I spun around, but there was no one.

My heart hammered. I told myself it was the wind, a creaky floorboard, my imagination. But the lantern’s glow deepened, and an irresistible urge gripped me. I found a matchbook on the mantelpiece—something I hadn’t noticed before—and struck a match. The wick caught fire with a hiss, and a luminous blue flame leapt up. The light filled the room, but it cast no shadows. Instead, the walls seemed to distort, and the air grew thick with the smell of damp earth.

Then I heard the knocking. It was low, rhythmic, coming from the front door. I froze. The knocking grew louder, more insistent. I called out, ‘Who’s there?’ The knocking stopped. A muffled voice answered, ‘I’ve come for the light.’ The door swung open on its own, revealing a figure in a long black coat. Its face was obscured by a wide-brimmed hat, and in its gloved hands, it held a scythe-like object that glinted in the blue light. I stumbled back, but my feet seemed rooted to the floor.

The figure stepped inside, its presence making the air feel heavy and cold. It spoke again, its voice like rustling leaves, ‘You have the lantern.’ I couldn’t respond, my throat dry. It raised its scythe, and I thought I was done for. But instead, it pointed at a tattered old clock on the wall. The hands were spinning wildly. ‘You’ve broken the seal,’ it said. ‘Now the hollow ones will come for you.’

A low moan filled the cottage, like the sound of wind through a hollow log. The walls began to writhe, and shapes pressed against them—pale, gaunt faces with empty eye sockets. They started to push through, their forms becoming solid, their fingers reaching toward me. The lantern’s flame flickered, and the keeper laughed, a dry, crackling sound. ‘You have until dawn, if you can keep the light burning.’ Then it vanished, leaving me alone with the encroaching creatures.

Panic surged through me. I grabbed the lantern, its heat searing my palm, and ran for the door. The hollow ones followed, their moans growing louder. The village was dark, the streets empty, but I could see the old mill in the distance—the one from the photograph. I sprinted toward it, the lantern swinging, its flame growing weaker with each step. My lungs burned, my legs screamed, but the moans spurred me on.

I reached the mill just as the last light of dawn began to peek over the horizon. The door was locked, but I rammed it with my shoulder, breaking it open. Inside, it was dusty and abandoned, but a trapdoor in the floor was slightly ajar. I descended into a root cellar, where I found something that made my blood turn to ice: dozens of brass lanterns, all dark, arranged in a circle. In the center, there was a stone altar with a bowl of black liquid.

As the hollow ones clawed at the door above, the lantern flickered, threatening to die. Desperate, I poured some of the black liquid into the lantern’s reservoir, and the flame erupted with a blinding white light. The hollow ones screamed, disintegrating in the beam. When it subsided, the cellar was silent, and the lantern was back to its original tarnished state. The sun was fully up now, streaming through cracks in the floorboards.

I scrambled out of the cellar, gasping for breath. The village looked normal, peaceful. I returned to the cottage, packed my things, and left without looking back. But as I drove away, I saw the man in the black coat standing at the edge of the forest, watching. And the lantern, which I had left on the mantlepiece, glowed in the window, its blue light steady.

I tried to forget, but a month later, I received a parcel. Inside was the lantern, and a note: ‘You kept it burning. The toll is paid. But know that you are now the Keeper. Guard the light, or the hollow ones will return.’ I’ve kept it locked in my basement ever since. But sometimes, at night, I can hear a faint knock at the door, and the lantern’s glow flickers on its own. I don’t know how long I can keep the light burning. But I know one thing for sure—I believe now.