The Last Lantern

In the summer of 1987, my cousin Lena and I found ourselves stuck in the sleepy town of Dunsmuir, California, housesitting for her great-aunt. The old Victorian had been in the family for generations, but it had a reputation among the locals for being ‘unsettled.’ Lena, always the skeptic, dismissed it as superstition. I, on the other hand, felt a constant chill, as if the house itself was watching me.

One night, after a particularly long day of dusting cobwebs and rearranging furniture, Lena produced an antique brass lantern from the attic. It was tarnished and heavy, with a strange, ornate pattern of intertwining vines and eyes. She claimed it was an old family heirloom meant for communicating with spirits. ‘Let’s try it tonight,’ she said with a mischievous grin. ‘It’ll be fun.’

I was hesitant. The lantern felt cold in my hands, and the eyes seemed to follow me. But Lena insisted, and after lighting the one candle we could find, we placed it on the dining table and sat across from each other. The room was dim except for the flickering flame. We held the lantern by its handles, our fingers intertwined, and asked if any spirit was present.

The flame flickered wildly, then died. A gust of wind, icy and smelling of decay, swept through the room, extinguishing our own candles. Darkness engulfed us. Then, a faint whisper: ‘You’ve brought it back.’

We scrambled for matches, relit the candles, and found the lantern’s flame burning a deep blue. I wanted to stop, but Lena was excited. ‘It’s working!’ she said. The flame began to move, tracing symbols in the air. I called out, ‘What do you want?’ The flame shot upward, then settled, and the lantern grew cold. A voice echoed from the lamp, not human but resonant, ‘Release me.’

We both felt a pull, as if the lantern was trying to draw us in. We dropped it, and the lantern clattered on the floor, the flame sputtering. Then, the house seemed to groan, and a low laugh resonated from the walls. Lena was pale. ‘We need to put it back,’ she whispered. We tried, but the attic door was locked. Every key we tried, every knob we turned, it refused to open.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I heard footsteps in the hall, whispers calling my name. I felt the cold breath on my neck. I hid under the covers until dawn.

The next day, we tried to burn the lantern. But it wouldn’t light, and the fire seemed to die before touching it. We tried to bury it, but the ground rejected it, and the hole sealed itself by morning. We were trapped with the lantern.

That’s when we discovered the markings. On the inside of the lantern’s base, there were names scratched, some faded, others vivid. At the top, a name: ‘Elias.’ We realized the lantern was a prison for a vengeful spirit. Lena, desperate, tried to communicate again, hoping to understand. The flame turned red, and a voice, clearer now, said, ‘I helped your ancestors. They betrayed me. Now, I take the bloodline.’

It started with small things. Items moved, doors slammed, and we heard children crying. Then, we saw shadows with long fingers reaching for us. We tried to leave the house, but every exit led back to the dining room, where the lantern sat, its flame burning without fuel.

We attempted to break it. We threw it against the wall, but it bounced back, unharmed. We tried to melt it with a blowtorch, but the flame retreated into itself. It was then that Lena remembered a legend her grandma told her: only a sacrifice of the carrier’s blood would release the spirit and bind it again. The last carrier, Elias, had bound the spirit with his own blood, but it wasn’t strong enough. Now, a descendant’s blood could do it.

We didn’t want to believe it. But as the shadows closed in on us, and I felt the spirit’s cold hand on my throat, Lena took a knife from the kitchen and cut her palm. She smeared the blood over the lantern’s eyes, crying. The lantern shook violently, and the flame burst, then faded. The house went silent. The door to the attic swung open.

For a moment, we thought it was over. But then the lantern started to glow again, with a faint pulse. The voice returned, softer, haunted. ‘You sealed me, but you are not free. The lantern will find its way to the next of his kin.’ And the lantern began to move across the floor, toward me.

We fled the house, leaving everything behind. We drove all night, not stopping until we reached the city. We thought we had escaped. But when I unpacked my bag, the lantern was there, nestled between my clothes. And in its glow, I saw the name ‘Robby’ being scratched onto its base, alongside the others.

Now, I write this from a motel room, with the lantern on the table. It has grown quiet, but I know it’s waiting. I know the only way to truly break the curse is to destroy it, but every time I try, I feel the spirit’s presence, and I hesitate. I don’t know how long I can resist. I don’t know if anyone will find this, but if you see an antique brass lantern with eyes and vines, don’t light it. And whatever you do, don’t speak the name engraved on its base.

I think I hear it calling my name now. The flame is blue again. I must go.