The Lantern Keeper

It began with the flicker of a lantern on a fog-covered hill.

Clara Monroe had never believed the stories. She was a journalist, after all. Logic, evidence, facts—those were her tools. But when her younger brother disappeared three years ago during a hiking trip in the remote village of Densgrave, something shifted. The police had no leads. The locals claimed he’d wandered too close to Hollow Hill, a place they refused to enter after dusk. Clara thought it superstition—until she went there herself.

Densgrave was a place untouched by time. One road in, none paved. Locals spoke in quiet voices, their eyes darting toward the horizon as the sun began to fall. Clara asked about Hollow Hill, and the pub fell silent. One woman murmured a warning: “After dark, the lantern walks. Follow it, and you’ll never come back.”

That night, Clara didn’t sleep. She stood by the window of her rented cottage and watched the forest. Fog crept like fingers over the ground. And then she saw it.

A single lantern swaying gently in the mist. No hand holding it. No body. Just light.

Clara grabbed her coat, her boots, and her flashlight. She followed.

The light floated ahead of her like a will-o’-the-wisp, always close enough to see but never close enough to catch. Her flashlight flickered, then died. But the lantern glowed brighter. Warmer. It felt like it was leading her—not away, but deeper in.

Hollow Hill rose before her like the curved back of something sleeping. Trees thinned, and mist thickened. Then, suddenly, silence. Even the wind had stopped.

The lantern came to a halt at the base of an old, weathered tree with roots gnarled like grasping hands. Beneath it, a narrow stone door stood half-buried in the hill. The lantern hovered, then dropped gently to the ground.

Clara knelt. The door had no handle, only an inscription:

“What is lost is not always gone.”

She pressed her hand to the stone.

It opened.

The air inside smelled of earth, age, and sorrow. A staircase wound downward, lit by more lanterns—none held, all floating. As she descended, the whispers began. Soft, overlapping voices, too quiet to understand but too insistent to ignore.

At the bottom, she found a corridor. Along each side were alcoves carved into the rock. In them stood people—men, women, children—eyes closed, unmoving, bathed in the glow of floating lanterns above their heads.

Clara gasped. She knew one of them.

Liam.

Her brother stood just as she remembered him: twenty-two, wearing his hiking jacket, a faint smile on his face as though dreaming.

She ran to him. His skin was warm. He was breathing. But his eyes remained closed.

She reached for the lantern above him, and the whispers around her turned sharp, urgent. A shape appeared at the corridor’s end.

A figure cloaked in gray.

Its face was obscured by shadows, but it carried no weapon, no chains. Only a lantern.

“You shouldn’t be here,” it said. Its voice was neither male nor female. Timeless. Sad.

“You’re the Lantern Keeper,” Clara whispered.

The figure nodded.

“What is this place?”

“A refuge for the lost. Those who come willingly, or follow the light.”

Clara’s hands trembled. “My brother didn’t choose this.”

“Didn’t he?” the Keeper said gently. “The world is cruel. Heavy. Here, there is peace. No pain. No fear. Only memory.”

“I want him back.”

“Then you must give something in return.”

Clara looked around. Dozens—maybe hundreds—stood in those alcoves. Dreaming. Peaceful. Trapped.

“What price?” she asked.

The Keeper extended its hand. In it, a flame flickered.

“Your brightest memory. The moment you loved most. Give it, and he will wake.”

Clara hesitated. The moment came to her unbidden: the day Liam was born. She had held him in the hospital, a tiny bundle of life in her arms, and whispered, “I’ll protect you.” That memory had guided her through every storm.

She reached for the flame.

It burned cold.

She gasped as it sank into her skin. Her eyes stung with tears. The memory was gone.

Liam stirred.

He opened his eyes slowly, confused, then looked at her. “Clara?”

She wept, clutching him. “You’re safe now. You’re coming home.”

The Keeper stepped aside. The stone door opened again.

As they climbed, Liam leaned on her, weak but alive. Behind them, the corridor of the dreaming remained, quiet and glowing.

At the hill’s crest, they turned to look back.

The lantern floated into the air once more, returning to its silent post.

Clara stared, her chest aching.

She had saved her brother.

But when he hugged her and said, “Remember when you first held me?” she only smiled sadly.

She had no idea what he meant.