The Last Lantern

*** Inspired by a foggy walk I took near an abandoned rail bridge last autumn. ***

The town of Bellridge never shows up on any map. It did once — nestled deep within the Oregon mountains, famous for its coal railways and lantern-making foundry. That was before the fire.

Before the lanterns stopped glowing.

Before the bridge collapsed.

They say the last train out of Bellridge never arrived. That it disappeared into the mountain tunnel and never came back.

All that remains now is fog, rust, and a silence so thick you can feel it press against your chest.

But every few years, when the moon hangs heavy and orange in the sky — the kind of color that tastes like smoke — someone lights one of the Bellridge lanterns again.

And when it glows, they return.

It was supposed to be a dumb tradition. Senior Night. Campfire. Marshmallows. Urban legends.

When Ellie and her cousin Nolan pulled up to the base of the collapsed bridge, they expected maybe a little thrill, maybe some flirting from the other kids. But not this.

Not the silence. Not the frost clinging to branches in June. Not the strange copper smell in the air.

“Looks like we’re the first ones here,” Nolan muttered, pulling a folding chair from the trunk.

Ellie, holding her breath, stared up at the bridge.

The blackened wooden beams hung above them like a ribcage. Beneath it sat a rusted box — barely visible — half-swallowed by bramble and rot.

A lantern.

It looked like something out of a Civil War exhibit. Ornate. Twisted brass. A cracked glass belly with soot-stained sides.

“Dare you to light it,” Nolan teased.

“Why would I?”

“Because you’re the one who said ghosts weren’t real.”

Ellie rolled her eyes but took a step closer. Her boots crunched on brittle ground. The moment she touched the lantern’s brass handle, she felt a pulse. Faint. Like a heartbeat.

She froze.

But Nolan had already lit a match.

“Wait—”

Too late.

The flame hissed to life, flickering behind the smudged glass like it had been waiting.

And just like that, everything changed.

The air warmed — unnaturally. The wind vanished. The fog rolled in, low and fast.

Lights appeared. In the woods. Small, distant glows — like fireflies. But steadier.

Lanterns.

One by one, they blinked into existence, glowing orange through the trees.

And in the distance — footsteps.

Boots. Heavy. Marching in rhythm.

“I think… we need to go,” Ellie whispered.

But Nolan didn’t move. He was staring into the woods.

“Ellie… do you hear that?”

She didn’t want to.

But she did.

Voices.

Not shouting. Not whispering.

Chanting.

Low, guttural. Foreign syllables laced with pain.

The footsteps came faster now. Closer. Closer. Until the fog parted —

And the first figure stepped out.

Face covered by a scorched miner's mask. Skin gray with ash. A glowing lantern in one hand. A pickaxe in the other.

Behind him — dozens more.

Ellie grabbed Nolan’s hand.

“RUN!”

They sprinted back to the car, tripping through roots and black mud. But when Ellie turned to look — the car was gone.

So was the road.

Only the bridge remained. And below it — the box where the lantern once sat, now open like a grave.

Nolan dropped to his knees. “I didn’t mean to— I didn’t know—”

The chanting swelled.

Ellie, panicked, grabbed the lantern. Its light flickered violently — then extinguished with a sigh, like a final breath.

And silence returned.

Only the wind remained. And the distant hoot of an owl.

They were alone again.

Or so they thought.

The Bellridge Gazette (Recovered Archive, 1903)

“Two children found outside the remains of the old Bellridge bridge claim to have seen ‘lantern men’ chanting in the fog.

No signs of other participants were found.

The lantern was returned to its place.

The light must never burn again.”

( © 2025 by Muhammad Abdullah. All rights reserved. )

Author’s Note:

This story was inspired by a foggy walk I took alone last October near an abandoned bridge. I imagined what it would be like if the land remembered — if it had rules.

And what happens when we break them.

Thank you for reading The Last Lantern. If it chilled your spine, or made your breath catch for even a moment — I’ve done my job as a storyteller.

– M. A. (Muhammad Abdullah)

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