The Lantern Man’s Light - Short Story

Eliza Marlow knew better than to wander Graveridge’s streets on a foggy night. Everyone knew the warning: never follow an unfamiliar light. Yet here she was, clutching her shawl against the chill, her eyes straining to see through the oppressive gray fog that swallowed the cobblestones and every familiar landmark.

A faint glow flickered ahead. A lantern.

“Finally,” she muttered, her voice trembling with relief. Hours had passed since she’d lost her way, and the sight of a light—and possibly another person, sparked a fragile hope. She quickened her pace, her heels clicking against the cobblestones in the dense silence.

The lantern hovered at a distance, swaying slightly as though held by an unseen hand. “Hello?” Eliza called. “Can you help me?”

No reply. The light began to move, slowly, deliberately. It seemed to guide her, and she followed, reasoning that any light was better than being alone in the fog.

But unease gnawed at her. The stories of the Lantern Man, often whispered around hearths and over mugs of ale, crept into her thoughts. A ghostly figure, they said, who appeared on nights like this, his lantern luring the lost to their doom. It was just a legend, she told herself. Something to keep children indoors after dark. 

This light had to belong to a person… didn’t it?

Her steps faltered as she realized something unsettling: the light never grew closer. It stayed just out of reach, its glow dim and distant, the figure behind it nothing more than a shadow. Yet it moved with intention, leading her through streets and alleys she didn’t recognize.

“Wait!” she called, panic seeping into her voice. She broke into a run, her breath coming in short gasps, but the lantern kept its steady distance. Then, without warning, it stopped. It swayed once, twice, and went out.

Darkness enveloped her. Eliza froze, her heart pounding in her ears. She turned in circles, her hands outstretched, grasping at the emptiness. The fog pressed in, silent and suffocating.

“Hello?” she whispered, her voice cracking.

A sound broke the stillness, a whisper, low and close to her ear. It wasn’t threatening or kind, just a quiet statement: “You shouldn’t have followed.”

The next morning, Eliza’s shawl was found near the riverbank. Of her, there was no sign. 

The fog had lifted, leaving the streets empty and silent. But as the townsfolk went about their day, some swore they saw a faint light flicker in the distance, swaying gently in the mist… waiting.