The Lantern of the Dead Road

The rain fell in thin, endless lines, turning the world into a blur of silver and shadow. Nathan Reed’s hands tightened on the steering wheel as his car tires hissed over the slick asphalt. The road ahead was empty, winding through the countryside like a black ribbon vanishing into fog. His phone had no signal, his gas tank was nearly empty, and the nearest sign of life had been twenty miles back.

It was close to midnight when he saw it—the glint of light ahead.

At first, he thought it was another car’s headlight, but it was too still, too steady. A soft orange glow flickered at the bend of the road, dim yet strangely warm against the storm’s cold silver. He slowed down, squinting through the windshield.

It was a lantern.

An old brass lantern stood in the middle of the road, its glass cracked, its flame burning unnaturally bright in the rain.

Nathan frowned and braked hard, his tires skidding slightly on the wet pavement. He stepped out, pulling his jacket tight against the cold. The storm hissed around him, but the lantern’s flame didn’t even flicker.

He looked around. No cars. No houses. Just the road stretching into blackness.

“Hello?” he called out, his voice thin against the rain. “Anyone out here?”

Nothing.

He hesitated, then picked up the lantern. The brass felt cold, almost painfully so, and heavier than it looked. The glass was warm under his fingers, pulsing faintly, like a heartbeat.

He carried it back to his car and set it on the passenger seat.

The moment he shut the door, the lantern’s glow grew brighter. The inside of the car filled with soft, golden light that chased away the storm’s gloom. His radio, dead for the past hour, crackled suddenly to life with static.

Then a voice whispered through it.

“Thank you for finding me.”

Nathan froze.

The voice was faint, layered—like multiple voices speaking in unison, echoing from far away. He turned off the radio, but the whispering continued, curling through the air like smoke.

“Who’s there?” he whispered.

Silence.

He swallowed hard, shaking his head. “I’m tired. That’s all. Just tired.”

He started the car again and kept driving.

The road twisted deeper into the woods. The storm faded behind him, replaced by an eerie calm. The lantern’s light seemed to guide the way, its glow stretching far ahead of the car like a golden thread.

After a while, Nathan noticed something strange.

The landscape was wrong.

He had driven this route before—he was sure of it. But now, landmarks had vanished. The gas station that should have appeared after ten miles was gone. The signs he passed had no words, just faded symbols.

The odometer ticked forward, but the miles didn’t seem to matter.

Then, in the distance, he saw someone.

A figure stood on the side of the road, drenched, shivering, their face hidden beneath a hood. Nathan slowed the car and rolled down the window.

“Hey! You okay?” he called.

The figure lifted their head. A young woman. Pale skin, dark eyes. Her lips moved, but he couldn’t hear her over the rain.

He leaned closer. “You need a ride?”

She nodded once.

Nathan unlocked the door. The woman slid inside silently, her clothes dripping water onto the seat. She didn’t smell like rain, though—she smelled like cold metal, like earth.

He tried to smile. “Rough night, huh?”

No answer.

He looked at her in the lantern’s glow. Her eyes were fixed on it, wide, almost fearful.

“You shouldn’t have picked it up,” she said softly.

His stomach tightened. “What do you mean?”

She turned toward him then, and he saw that her skin wasn’t wet—it was cracked, grayish, like clay left too long in the sun. Her hair clung to her face as though matted by something thicker than water.

“It’s not meant for the living,” she whispered. “That lantern finds the lost.”

Nathan slammed on the brakes. The car skidded sideways, coming to a stop in the middle of the road. He turned to her—she was gone.

Only the lantern remained, glowing brighter, almost blinding.

The radio hissed again. A man’s voice came through this time.

“You shouldn’t be on this road, Nathan.”

His heart stopped. “Who is this?”

“You know who.”

The voice was familiar. Too familiar. His brother’s voice.

But his brother, Michael, had died five years ago—on this very road. The same curve. The same storm. Nathan had been driving that night, too fast, too careless. He’d lost control, and the car had flipped into the ditch. Nathan had crawled out. Michael hadn’t.

He gripped the wheel, his breath shaking. “This isn’t real.”

The lantern flickered, and through its glow, he saw the shape of someone standing on the road ahead. A man, waving.

“Stop,” the voice said through the radio. “Come home, Nate.”

Tears burned his eyes. “You’re not real. You’re gone.”

The lantern’s light pulsed harder, and suddenly everything outside the car went black—except for the figure ahead. Michael.

His brother stepped forward, drenched but smiling faintly. “It’s okay. You can stop now. You’ve been driving too long.”

Nathan’s chest ached. His throat closed.

He stepped out of the car, lantern in hand.

The air around him felt heavy, unreal. The rain had stopped. Even the wind had vanished. The world was silent except for the faint hum of the lantern.

Michael stood a few feet away, his face pale but calm. “It’s time to go home, brother.”

Nathan’s voice trembled. “Home where?”

Michael pointed behind him. The darkness parted just enough to reveal a faint glow—warm, golden, endless.

Nathan took a step forward. Then another.

The lantern in his hand pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat. He felt its warmth spreading through his arm, his chest, his thoughts.

He could see them now—others waiting in the glow. Faces from his past. Friends. Family. All smiling.

Peace.

He took another step.

Then something inside him twisted, sharp and wrong. A memory flashed—the crash, the screams, the twisted metal. His brother’s hand slipping from his grasp.

He froze.

“No,” he whispered. “Not yet.”

Michael frowned. “You already stayed too long.”

The lantern flickered violently, its light flaring and dying in bursts. Nathan stumbled back. The glow ahead dimmed, replaced by shapes—shadows that weren’t human, stretching toward him with clawed hands.

He turned and ran.

The road behind him wasn’t a road anymore. It twisted into darkness, filled with whispers and flickers of pale light—lanterns. Dozens of them, floating like fireflies, each one held by someone lost, each face hollow and distant.

He sprinted toward his car, clutching the lantern. It burned in his hands now, searing hot, but he didn’t drop it.

He dove into the driver’s seat and slammed the door.

The engine roared to life—though he hadn’t touched the key. The radio screamed static, then went silent. The lantern’s light dimmed to a dull orange.

When he looked up, the road had changed again.

The forest was gone. The rain had stopped. He was parked in front of a small roadside shrine, flowers laid at its base. A wooden cross stood there, weathered and splintered, with his brother’s name carved into it.

Nathan stared at it, chest tight, the lantern still glowing faintly beside him.

Then he saw the inscription beneath the name:

“To the driver who never found his way home.”

He blinked. The words blurred. He touched his chest—and felt nothing. No heartbeat. No breath.

The lantern’s light swelled one last time, filling the car, washing everything in gold.

Then it went out.

At dawn, a truck driver found an abandoned car on the side of the old highway. Inside was a single brass lantern, still faintly warm, sitting on the passenger seat.

The man took it, thinking it looked antique—valuable, maybe. He set it beside him as he drove away.

Behind him, the road shimmered faintly in the early light, as if the shadows themselves were watching.

Somewhere deep in the fog, the lantern’s flame flickered back to life.