The Last Lantern

October 31, 2011

by Viviane

It was the last night of our senior trip to the coastal town of Raven’s Hollow, a place known for its crumbling cliffs and the old lighthouse that had been abandoned for decades. My friends and I—Leo, Maya, and I—had spent the week hiking the trails and exploring the tide pools, but we’d heard rumors about a hidden network of caves beneath the lighthouse, accessible only at low tide. The idea of sneaking out after midnight to find them was too tempting to resist.

We’d done stupid things before, but this felt different. The air was thick with salt and something else—a metallic tang that made my skin prickle. The moon was nearly full, casting a silver path across the black water, and the lighthouse stood like a crooked finger pointing at the sky. As we approached, I noticed a red lantern hanging from a rusty hook near the base, swinging slightly even though there was no wind. Maya said it was probably a warning, but Leo just laughed and pushed open the iron door.

Inside, the steps were slick with damp, and our flashlights cut through the darkness, revealing walls covered in strange carvings—spirals and eyes and shapes that didn’t quite make sense. We found a trapdoor in the floor, half-hidden under a frayed rug, and below it, a stone staircase descending into blackness. The air grew colder as we climbed down, and the sound of our footsteps echoed too loudly, as if the space was bigger than it should be. At the bottom, there was a narrow passage leading to a natural cavern, filled with the sound of dripping water and the distant rumble of the sea.

That’s when we saw them—dozens of lanterns, identical to the one outside, arranged in a wide circle on the sandy floor. Each one was lit with a pale flame that didn’t flicker, and in the center of the circle lay a small, leather-bound book. Leo picked it up and started reading aloud, his voice echoing strangely. The words were in a language none of us recognized, but as he spoke, the flames in the lanterns began to grow taller, turning from yellow to a sickly green. The ground beneath us started to tremble, and the sea noise grew louder, closer.

Maya grabbed my arm, her face pale. ‘We need to get out,’ she whispered, but Leo seemed entranced, his eyes fixed on the book. The cavern walls began to shift, the stone rippling like water, and from the cracks, a fine black dust seeped out, filling the air. I could taste it on my tongue, bitter and cold. The lanterns started to flicker, one by one, going out, and in the growing darkness, I heard something breathing—a slow, deep rhythm that seemed to come from the earth itself.

We ran. We scrambled up the stairs, through the trapdoor, and burst out into the night, but the red lantern on the lighthouse was gone. The sky had turned a bruised purple, and the stars were dim, as if something was blotting them out. We didn’t stop until we reached the motel, and we locked the door, checking every window twice.

That was two years ago. Leo hasn’t spoken a word since that night; he just sits in his room, staring at the walls. Maya moved away, and she calls me sometimes, but she never talks about what happened. As for me, the strange thing is that every night, at exactly midnight, I see a red glow from my window. I live in a city now, miles from any lighthouse. But the glow is there, pulsing like a heartbeat, and I know it’s waiting. It’s always waiting.

I’ve tried to burn the memory, to drown it in noise and light, but the lantern’s flame never dies. It’s in my dreams, in the back of my mind, whispering in a language I’m starting to understand. And last night, for the first time, I felt the urge to go back, to find that cavern again. Maybe I will. Maybe I’ll take the book, and read the words that Leo didn’t finish. Maybe then, the lantern will finally go out. Or maybe, it will find a new keeper.

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