The Lantern’s Witness

The first time I saw the light, I thought it was a firefly. But it was November, and the orchard behind the farmhouse was bare. My friend Lila had warned me about the things that lingered here, but I’d always dismissed it as the echo of her grief after losing her husband. She’d moved to this remote corner of Vermont to escape the memories, but the past had a way of clinging to the land.

The house was a colonial relic, with low ceilings and warped floorboards that groaned even when the wind only whispered. It sat at the edge of an old apple orchard, and beyond that, a neglected cemetery where the town’s founding families were buried. The graves were so old that the stones had crumbled to illegible stubs. Lila said the property felt watched, and she wasn’t wrong. From the moment I arrived, I felt an unblinking presence, like a stranger’s gaze on the back of my neck.

That evening, Lila had invited her son, Toby, and his friends—a group of teenagers who thought it would be fun to hold a séance. I wanted no part of it. I’d had enough of the creeping unease. But Lila pleaded with me to stay, to keep her company while the kids did their foolishness. So I sat in the kitchen, sipping cold coffee, while they gathered in the parlor, giggling and calling out names.

Then the lights flickered. A single bulb in the kitchen buzzed and went dark. I heard the kids’ laughter falter. Toby’s voice, high and forced, said, ‘Who’s there?’ The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. I was about to get up, to tell them to knock it off, when I saw it through the window.

A figure crossed the orchard, carrying a lantern that cast a sickly yellow glow. It moved slowly, deliberately, as if searching for something. I tried to call out, but my voice caught. The figure paused at the edge of the yard, raised the lantern high, and I saw its face. It was a man, but his eyes were hollow pits, and his mouth stretched in a grin that was all teeth. The lantern’s light flickered, and he vanished.

I ran to the parlor, my heart pounding. The kids were silent, their faces pale. ‘What happened?’ I asked, but they just stared at the floor. On the table, the candles they’d lit were snuffed out, the wax cold. A sour smell hung in the air, like old dirt and rust. Then Toby whispered, ‘He was in the window.’

The rest of the night was a blur. Lila made everyone stay in the living room, with every light on. No one slept. At dawn, I decided I’d had enough. I packed my bag, ready to leave, but as I reached the front door, I saw the lantern on the porch, sitting there as if waiting for me. Inside the glass was a piece of folded paper. I unfolded it with trembling hands. It read, in spidery handwriting, ‘You are the witness now.’

I dropped the note and ran to my car, but the engine wouldn’t start. The battery was dead. I looked back at the house, and in the upstairs window, I saw a child’s face pressed against the glass, pale and wide-eyed. It wasn’t one of the kids. It was a boy I’d never seen, and he was smiling.

I called Lila, but she didn’t answer. The house was silent, yet I could feel the presence closing in. I sat in the driver’s seat, gripping the wheel, refusing to look back. But the mirror showed me the truth: the child was now standing behind my car, holding the lantern, his grin growing wider. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them, he was gone.

I don’t remember driving away. I only remember the sound of my own scream, and the smell of apples rotting in the cold. Back home, I tried to tell the police, but they dismissed me as a hysterical tourist. And now, every night, I see the lantern light at the foot of my bed. It sits on my nightstand, the flame flickering, and I know the boy is waiting. For the witness to come back.