The Lantern at Hollow’s End

There’s a road outside the village that no one takes after dusk. It winds through the trees like a sleeping serpent — silent, cold, and shimmering faintly under the moon. The locals call it Hollow’s End, though no one remembers exactly why. Some say a house once stood there, some say a temple, and others whisper it was something far older.

I didn’t believe any of it until the night I saw the lantern.

It began as a dare — the kind made when the air is too still and the courage too cheap. My friends and I were sitting by the edge of the forest, trading ghost stories under the half-moon. The others talked big, but when I stood up and said, “I’ll walk to Hollow’s End,” the laughter died like a snuffed candle.

The air thickened the deeper I went. Trees pressed close, whispering in dry tongues. My flashlight flickered, throwing jittery shadows that leapt between the trunks like dancers. And then I saw it — a faint, golden light hanging in the fog ahead.

It was a lantern.

Old and brass, swinging gently as though carried by someone just out of sight.

I called out — no answer. The light moved away, slowly, as if inviting me to follow. Against all reason, I did.

The deeper I walked, the quieter the world became. No crickets, no wind, no sound at all except the faint creak of the lantern’s handle. The forest floor turned soft beneath my feet, and the air smelled like wet iron and rain.

Then, the trees broke apart, revealing a clearing.

In the center stood an ancient oak, gnarled and split down the middle. The lantern hung from one of its branches, glowing brighter now — almost alive. Beneath it, the ground was littered with trinkets: watches, lockets, rings, shoes. All rusted and half-buried in moss.

And something else.

A mirror.

Its frame was carved with twisting vines, the glass fogged but faintly reflective. I stepped closer, raising my flashlight. The moment the beam touched it, the fog inside cleared — and I saw myself.

But not me as I was.

This version of me looked older, worn, and hollow-eyed. Her clothes were torn, her skin pale as wax. And in her hand, she held the same lantern that now burned in front of me.

She mouthed something — three words I couldn’t hear but somehow understood.

"Take my place."

The lantern’s light flared white.

When I woke, I was standing at the edge of the forest again. The dawn was gray, the world silent. My flashlight was gone. So was my phone. And when I turned around to look back, I saw a figure deep in the trees — holding the lantern.

She looked just like me.

I left the village that morning, but the road followed me in dreams. Always the same: the forest, the lantern, and the whisper that curls through my sleep — a woman’s voice, hoarse and distant:

"Your turn will come again."

They say every light leads somewhere. Some guide you home.

Others wait for someone to take the flame — and carry it forever.