The Lantern’s Vigil

The assignment had seemed like a stroke of genius back in the safety of our dorm. A documentary on the paranormal, something to spice up our media portfolio and give us a thrill. Marcus, with his endless conspiracy theories, had suggested we spend a night in a place with real history, not some tourist-trap castle. That’s when I remembered the old war memorial on the outskirts of town. It wasn’t much, just a weathered stone obelisk and a patch of ground where fifteen soldiers from the Great War were buried. Far enough from the main road to feel isolated, but close enough that we could bolt if things got too weird.

We arrived at 9 PM, the sky a bruised purple fading to black. The air was damp, carrying the smell of wet earth and decaying leaves. We had our camera, a tripod, a few torches, and a thermos of strong coffee to keep us awake. As we walked past the rows of gravestones, their inscriptions worn smooth by a century of rain, I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature. Marcus, ever the showman, began addressing the air in a theatrical whisper. ‘We come in peace. We mean no disrespect. If any of you are here, we’d like to hear your story.’ His words echoed off the stone, swallowed by the night.

We set up our equipment near the back, where the graves were oldest, almost swallowed by grass. As I fumbled with the camera, trying to get a shot of the obelisk silhouetted against the moon, I noticed something odd. The lantern that hung from a post near the memorial’s entrance was flickering, even though there was no wind. I pointed it out to the others, and Sarah, who had been quiet, said, ‘It’s probably just a faulty bulb.’ But we all knew it was more than that. The flickering became rhythmic, almost like a heartbeat, and then it stopped, plunging that corner into darkness.

We continued filming, conducting fake interviews with each other, trying to fill time for our ten-minute documentary. But the unease settled in my stomach like a stone. Every so often, I’d catch a movement in my peripheral vision, but when I turned, there was nothing. Marcus kept talking, his voice getting louder, as if he was trying to drown out his own fear. Sarah was checking her phone, trying to get a signal, but she was white as a sheet.

Then it happened. The camera battery died, even though it had been fully charged. We swapped in a fresh one, but it wouldn’t turn on. The torch in Marcus’s hand flickered and died too, leaving us in near darkness, lit only by the weak beam of my phone’s flashlight. That’s when we heard it: a low, mournful hum, like a distant horn, rising and falling. It seemed to come from the very ground beneath us. We froze, straining to locate the source. It grew louder, and I felt a vibration through the soles of my boots, as if something below was stirring.

Sarah whispered, ‘What is that?’ Marcus, for once, was speechless. The hum resolved into a word, repeated over and over, but in a language I didn’t recognize. It sounded like ‘morrow’ or ‘morrow.’ Then the ground beneath our feet began to tremble, and a crack appeared, snaking between the graves. Dirt crumbled, and something dark and wet pushed up from the earth. It was a hand, gray and withered, reaching out as if grasping for air. We screamed and stumbled backward, all bravado gone.

We ran, leaving our equipment behind. As we fled along the path, the lantern flickered back to life, casting a sickly yellow glow across the graves. For a moment, I saw a figure standing at the foot of the obelisk, tall and indistinct, holding a lantern of its own. It raised the lantern, and the light it cast was cold, blue, and in that light, I saw the graves opening, one by one, and skeletal figures rising, their jaws open in a silent, eternal scream.

We didn’t stop running until we reached the main road, lungs burning. We never went back, and the documentary was never made. But I can’t forget that hum, or the sight of that hand. And sometimes, at night, I hear it again, that word, ‘morrow,’ growing louder, as if the ground is calling me back. I’ve started having nightmares of lying in the dark, feeling cold earth pressed against my back, and a lantern’s light swaying above me.

Last week, I saw the lantern from the memorial in my dorm room, on the bedside table, its flame flickering. I haven’t told anyone, but I know it’s waiting for me.