The Lantern’s Wrath

My cousin Eli and I were twelve and thirteen that summer, old enough to feel brave and foolish enough to test it. The town of Murkwell was built on a reclaimed marsh, and the developers had left a ragged patch of woods between the new housing tract and the old railway line. That woods was our haunt, especially the crumbling foundation of a farmhouse that had burned down decades before. The locals said the fire was arson, set by a jealous husband who found his wife with the hired hand. The husband was a lantern maker, and the story went that he was so angry he doused the house in oil and lit it with the very lantern he used for his trade. They said his wife and her lover died inside, but the lantern survived, a charred, twisted thing that still hung from a post at the back of the foundation. We’d seen it, blackened and fused to the wood, and it made our spines tingle.

We decided one August night to hold a séance there, just the two of us, armed with a flashlight, a notebook, and a quija board Eli’s older brother had bought at a yard sale. The air was heavy and still, insects humming a low dirge. We sat cross-legged on the cold, cracked concrete, the lantern post looming over us like a crooked finger. We set the board between us, placed the planchette, and tried to be quiet and serious, but we kept giggling at first. Then, after about ten minutes, the planchette gave a little jerk. We thought it was our own jittery hands, so we lightened our touch. It started moving in slow, determined circles, finally spelling: ‘HELP’.

My heart hammered. Eli’s eyes were wide. We asked, ‘Who are you?’ The planchette flew to ‘MARGARET’. We didn’t know a Margaret. We asked, ‘What do you want?’ It spelled ‘STOP HIM’.

A cold breeze cut through the still air, making the pages of our notebook flap. The lantern above us creaked, as if swinging on its post, though there was no wind strong enough to move it. We heard something—a faint, wet sound, like footsteps squelching in mud, coming from the dark woods behind us. We froze, listening. The footsteps grew louder, then stopped just at the treeline. A pale, flickering light appeared among the trees, bobbing like a lantern carried by an unseen hand.

We grabbed the board and scrambled to our feet. The light started moving toward us, slow but deliberate. We didn’t wait; we ran, crashing through the underbrush, not looking back until we burst onto the street. We didn’t sleep that night, and we didn’t tell any adults.

But the next day, we went back. The pull was irresistible, like a dare we couldn’t refuse. The daylight made the place less frightening, but the lantern was gone. The post was empty, just a blackened stub with a few charred wood strands. We searched the area, and a glint of metal caught Eli’s eye in the high weeds. He reached in and pulled out a small, tarnished brass locket, cracked and fused shut. We pried it open with a knife. Inside was a faded photograph of a young woman with sad eyes, and next to her, a smaller portrait of a man with a thick mustache. On the reverse, scratched in uneven letters, were the words ‘My Margaret’.

We didn’t know what to do with the locket. Eli slipped it into his pocket, and we left. That night, I woke to a strange sound outside my window—a rhythmic tapping, like something knocking on glass. I looked out, and there, at the edge of the yard, stood a figure holding a lantern, its light casting long, distorted shadows. The figure raised the lantern, and I saw the face: it was the man from the photograph, his skin blackened and peeling, his mouth open in a silent scream. He pointed at my window, then at the direction of Eli’s house, as if accusing.

I called Eli, terrified. He was shaking. He said something had been scratching at his door all night, and when he looked through the keyhole, there was an eye staring back, bloodshot and wild. We decided to get rid of the locket. We went back to the foundation at dawn, planning to bury it near the post. But when we got there, the ground was torn up, and the post had been uprooted, lying on its side. A smell of scorched earth and kerosene hung in the air.

We dug a small hole near the post’s base, placed the locket inside, and covered it. As we stood up, the air grew cold again, and we saw a woman in a white dress standing at the edge of the woods, watching us. She seemed to smile, but it was sad, and then she faded. We walked away, hoping it was over.

But that night, I had a dream. I was walking through the woods, and I came to the foundation. The lantern was back, hanging from the post, but it was lit with a greenish flame. The man with the burned face was standing there, turning the crank on the lantern, and the light was pulling sounds from the air—whispers, sobs, and a name: ‘Margaret, Margaret’. He saw me then, and he pointed from me to the post, where I saw a noose made of rusted chain dangling. I woke up screaming.

We tried to forget, but strange things followed us. Footsteps in the hallway at night, lights flickering, our names being called in empty rooms. Eli found a note in his pocket one day, written in shaky script: ‘You have my lantern. Return it.’ But we didn’t have it; we’d buried it. The next day, we dug it up again, hoping to give it back by leaving it on the post. As we placed the locket back on the charred stub, we heard a deep, rumbling laugh from the woods. Then silence.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I looked out the window, and the figure with the lantern was standing in my yard, right outside the glass. This time, he was holding the locket open, and the photo was empty. He pointed at me, and I felt my throat tighten. I tried to scream, but no sound came out. Then he vanished, and the lamp went out.

I haven’t slept well since. Every time I close my eyes, I see that lantern, green and flickering, and I hear the creak of the chain, like a slow pendulum. Sometimes I catch a whiff of smoke and kerosene. And last week, I walked past Eli’s house and saw him standing at his bedroom window, pale, holding a lantern of his own, lightning bugs swirling around it. He didn’t wave; he just stared, as if he were waiting.

I’m waiting too. Waiting for the night when the lantern’s light finds my window again, and I have to decide whether to step out toward it, or run. But I know I can’t run forever. The lantern maker wants his wife’s soul, and somehow, we took the key.