The Last Lantern

I was nineteen when I finally left Meridian, but the town never left me. It’s a place that clings, like the damp that seeps through the walls of its old houses. I moved there with my mother and two younger brothers when I was twelve, the fifth relocation in as many years. We settled into a two-story Victorian on Hemlock Street, a house with peeling paint and a porch that groaned underfoot. The first few months were quiet, almost peaceful. But then the lantern appeared.

We found it in the attic, buried under a tarp and decades of dust. It was an old oil lantern, its glass soot-stained, the brass tarnished to a dull green. My youngest brother, Leo, unearthed it while exploring. He brought it down, excited by the find. I remember the weight of it in my hands, the strange chill that ran through me when I touched it. We cleaned it, polished the glass, and filled it with oil. That night, we lit it on the back porch, just to see.

The light it cast was wrong. It was too warm, too golden, and it seemed to bend the shadows around it, making them stretch and dance. We sat there, the four of us—my brothers, my cousin Maya, and I—watching the flame flicker. It was then that the sound began. A faint, rhythmic scraping, like nails on wood, coming from the direction of the old oak tree at the edge of the yard. We all heard it, but no one wanted to be the first to admit it. Maya whispered, ‘Did you hear that?’ and we all jumped.

We tried to ignore it, but the scraping grew louder, more insistent. It was coming from the tree, but there was nothing there—just the dark silhouette of branches. Then, the lantern flame guttered, as if blown by a breath, and the scraping stopped. We sat in silence, hearts hammering. Leo was shaking. I told them it was just the wind, but we all knew better. We turned off the lantern and went inside, but the feeling of being watched followed us.

The next day, I tried to rationalize it. Maybe it was a branch rubbing against the trunk. But that night, I was alone in the house with our dog, Rusty. My mom had taken the boys to a late movie, and Maya had gone home. I decided to light the lantern again, hoping to banish the memory. I placed it on the kitchen table and struck a match. As the flame caught, Rusty, who had been dozing at my feet, sprang up with a low growl. His hackles were raised, his eyes fixed on the back door.

I called his name, but he wouldn’t stop. Then the scraping returned, but this time it was closer—coming from the walls. It moved, tracing a path around the kitchen, like something crawling within the plaster. Rusty started barking, a frantic, desperate sound. I grabbed the lantern and held it up, but the light seemed to make the shadows darker. The scraping stopped. Then a voice, soft and childlike, whispered, ‘Put out the light.’

I froze. It was a child’s voice, but there were no children in the house. Rusty whimpered and pressed against my leg. I tried to speak, but my throat was tight. The voice came again, more insistent: ‘Put out the light, or I’ll never be free.’ My hands trembled, and the lantern swung, casting wild shapes on the walls. Then I saw it—at the edge of the light, a small, pale hand reaching out from the shadow under the sink. It was thin, almost skeletal, and it beckoned.

I screamed. I threw the lantern at the wall. It shattered, oil spilling, flame flaring, and for a moment, the room blazed. The hand withdrew, and the voice cried out in pain. Then silence. Rusty bolted, and I followed him, running out of the house into the cold night. I didn’t stop until I reached the end of the street. When I looked back, the house was dark, but I could have sworn I saw a light in the attic window.

We moved out two weeks later. I never told my mother the full story. But the lantern stayed with me, a twisted piece of metal I kept in a box. Years later, I researched the house’s history. A family had lived there in the early 1900s. Their youngest daughter had died of a fever. The lantern was said to be hers, a gift from her father. She had been afraid of the dark, and he had promised her the light would keep her safe. But after she died, the lantern was never lit again, until we found it.

I think about that hand, reaching out. I think about the voice, so desperate. I wonder if I should have kept the light burning, or if I did the right thing by breaking it. Sometimes, late at night, I still hear that soft scraping, and I wonder if I’ve brought the darkness with me. But I’ve never lit another lantern. Some lights should stay unlit, for the things they illuminate are better left in the dark.