The Last Lantern

In the fall of 2006, my father, Arthur, was 61 and had been fighting a persistent cough that his doctor initially dismissed as a stubborn case of bronchitis. But when the coughing fits started to leave him breathless and pale, he agreed to a battery of tests. The results came back on a Tuesday, and the word ‘cancer’ hung in the sterile air of the doctor’s office like a curse. It was in his lungs, and it had already spread to his liver. The doctor gave him six months, maybe less. We moved him from our small apartment in the city to a rented cottage on the outskirts of a dying town called Ashford, where the trees were thick and the only sounds were the wind and the occasional passing train.

Arthur had always been a quiet man, but the illness carved him into a skeleton. Each weekend, I drove three hours north to spend those precious, painful days with him. We’d sit on the porch, watching the leaves turn, and he’d speak in short, labored sentences about his youth, about the lake he used to fish in, about my mother who had left us years ago. The cottage had a small, rustic lantern on the porch, and he insisted on lighting it every evening, even when the sun was still up. ‘It keeps the dark honest,’ he’d say with a weak smile.

On the fourth day of my visit, the strain was becoming unbearable. Arthur had been dozing in and out, and the hospice nurse said it might be a matter of days. My cousin, Leanne, who lived nearby, suggested we go into town for a few hours, to clear our heads. I hesitated, but Arthur’s eyes flickered open, and he nodded. ‘Go,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll be here in the morning.’ I remember the exact words: ‘I’ll wait for you.’ I kissed his forehead, took the lantern from the porch to guide us, and we drove off.

The town was quieter than usual. The diner was closed, and the only light came from a single bar. Leanne and I had a couple of drinks, tried to laugh, but the weight of the night pressed on us. As we drove back, the country road was pitch black, for the moon was hidden behind clouds. I held the lantern out the window, its small flame flickering. It was then that I saw a figure on the side of the road—a tall, gaunt man in a long coat, his face hidden. He raised a hand, as if in greeting. Leanne gasped. ‘Don’t stop,’ she said. I didn’t. But as we passed, I saw that his other hand held a dark object, and I could have sworn it was the twin of our lantern, unlit.

When we returned to the cottage, I was relieved to see a soft glow through the window. I expected Arthur to be asleep, but he was sitting upright in his chair, his eyes wide, staring at the door. He seemed to be waiting for us, but he was dead. A thin line of blood ran from his nose, and his skin was cold to the touch. The only thing in the room was the lamp on the nightstand, burnt out, and a single match on the floor, still warm. The nurse, who arrived soon after, said he died of a sudden heart attack, likely hours earlier. But I knew better. I had left the lantern with him, but on the porch, the lantern was now gone. I had taken it with me, yet there it was, sitting on the table, its flame snuffed, and a small piece of paper tucked under it with two words: ‘Goodbye, son.’

Years later, I still drive up to that cottage, but I never go at night. I keep a lantern in my car, but it’s never lit. And sometimes, when I’m about to fall asleep, I see that tall figure on the side of the road, holding his unlit lantern, and I hear my father’s voice, not accusing, but whispering a warning I never understood: ‘The light doesn’t keep them away; it draws them in.’ I’ve told myself it was a hallucination, a symptom of grief. But last week, I found an old photograph in Arthur’s belongings. In it, he’s a young man, standing with a group of friends, and in the background, there’s a familiar silhouette—a tall, gaunt figure in a long coat. And in his hand, he’s holding a lantern that is lit.