The Pale Lantern

The July heat had turned our little house into a brick oven, so when my friend Callum suggested we sit outside, I didn’t hesitate. We had a strip of woods behind the property, and the cooler air under the trees was a relief. Callum went out first, saying he’d find a good spot. I finished my drink and followed a few minutes later.

I usually kept my eyes on the ground when walking at night, but that evening I forced myself to look ahead. My nerves were already frayed from the heat, and I half-expected Callum to jump out from behind a bush. The path to the woods passed by an old toolshed, its red paint peeling and the door hanging loose. I called out his name, and his voice came back from somewhere near the tree line, sounding close but not too close. I relaxed a little and kept walking.

As I reached the edge of the woods, I glanced down to avoid a root and saw my shadow stretched long by the moonlight. Thinking about shadow people made my skin crawl, so I looked up quickly. That’s when I noticed something strange: a soft, white glow about ten feet ahead, hovering at knee height. It pulsed gently, like a slow heartbeat. I froze, thinking it was just a firefly, but it was too steady. The light didn’t flicker or move. It just hung there, waiting.

I called out to Callum again, my voice tight. He didn’t answer. The glow seemed to pulse faster. I took a step back, and the light drifted closer. Then I heard a sound—not from the light, but from behind me. A rustling in the grass, like something dragging itself along. I turned, and there was Callum, standing just a few feet away, his face pale in the moonlight. But something was off. He was too still, and his eyes were wide, fixed on the glow behind me.

‘Don’t move,’ he whispered. His voice was thin, like he was forcing it out. I obeyed, my heart pounding. The glow had stopped moving. It pulsed, faster now, and I realized it wasn’t a light at all. It was a shape, a small, humanoid figure made of pale light, its edges blurred like water. It had no face, but I felt it looking at me.

Callum took a slow step back. ‘I’ve seen it before,’ he breathed. ‘It follows people who are afraid. It feeds on it.’ My blood ran cold. I wanted to run, but my legs were like lead. The pale figure began to move toward Callum, its glow brightening. Callum’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. The light wrapped around his ankles, and he staggered, his body twitching.

I don’t remember screaming. I only remember running, my feet slamming against the hard earth, the red shed a blur as I passed it. I burst through the back door and locked it, pressing my back against the wood. The house was silent. I peeked through the window. The yard was empty. No glow. No Callum.

The next morning, I found Callum sitting on the porch step, his clothes soaked with dew. He didn’t remember anything after going into the woods. But his eyes—they had a strange, milky tint, like something had been drained from him. He never spoke about it, and I never went into those woods again. But sometimes, at night, I catch a faint glow through the window, hovering just beyond the tree line. Waiting for me to look. Waiting for me to be afraid.

I keep the curtains drawn now. I keep the lights on. But the fear never goes away. And I know one night, I’ll forget to look up. And the Pale Lantern will be waiting.