The Poltergeist of the Lantern Room

I’ve always had a knack for sensing things that aren’t quite there. A chill in a warm room, a door that creaks without wind, a fleeting shape in the corner of my eye. It’s why I took the night custodial job at the old lighthouse-turned-museum on Gull Rock. The pay was decent, and I figured my… sensitivity would help me handle the occasional ghostly resident. I never expected the full-blown chaos that would unfold that autumn.

October 2023: The museum was hosting a harvest festival in the main hall, a big deal for the town. Around 7 PM, the caterer’s helper, a young man named Leo, was restocking the punch table. I was in the back office, sorting through a pile of forgotten coats, when I heard a crash. I rushed out to find Leo on the floor, covered in red punch, staring at the empty serving tray that had been floating in the air a moment before. He pointed at the chandelier, shaking. ‘It came from there,’ he stammered. ‘I swear, something threw it.’ I helped him up, my heart pounding. That was just the beginning.

November 2023: After a week off for Thanksgiving, I returned to find the museum’s storage closet in disarray. The volunteer coordinator, Mrs. Higgins, was in tears. All the antique lanterns we’d been preserving for the winter exhibit were smashed. ‘Someone’s been here,’ she said. ‘But the doors were locked all week.’ I walked in and saw the glass shards arranged in a circular pattern on the floor, as if deliberately placed in a ring. The air was cold, even though the heating was on. I knew it wasn’t a human intruder.

December 2023: The real chaos began. It was late one night, and I was doing my rounds. The museum had a spiral staircase leading to the lantern room at the top, which was sealed off for repairs. As I passed the door, I felt a gust of icy wind, and the door flew open. Inside, the old brass lantern was rocking back and forth on its stand, though nothing touched it. The chains that held it clinked with an eerie rhythm. I tried to close the door, but it slammed shut on its own, and the handle was freezing cold. I heard a voice, barely a whisper, say, ‘Leave the light.’

A week later, I found the museum’s guestbook open to a page from the 1920s. Written in faded ink was a name: ‘Evelyn Graves.’ The entry read, ‘The keepers’ daughter, loved the light, died 1923.’ I shivered. I’d heard rumors that a little girl had fallen from the lantern room, her father the keeper devastated. Maybe she was still here, wanting to keep her precious light burning.

One night, I decided to stay in the lantern room after closing, hoping to communicate. I sat in the dark, the lighthouse beam sweeping across the sea. After an hour, I felt a tiny hand touch my cheek. A child’s voice, soft and sad, said, ‘They took my light.’ I understood. The museum had been replacing the original lighthouse lamp with an LED replica for safety. She missed the old flame.

I found the original lamp components in a crate in the basement. Carefully, I restored the old oil lamp and, using the museum’s permission, I re-lit it. That night, I watched as the beam shone bright and solid. The odd occurrences stopped. The cold spots vanished, and the lantern room felt peaceful. But I knew she was still there, watching. And sometimes, when I pass the spiral staircase, I catch the faint scent of oil and wick, and I swear I see a small silhouette in the glass, her hand pressed against it, smiling. I’ve decided not to tell Mrs. Higgins. Some lights are meant to stay on.