The Last Lantern

The village of Ashmoor had a tradition that went back centuries: every year, on the night of the first frost, they would light lanterns along the paths leading from the village to the woods. The lanterns were meant to guide wandering spirits home, allowing them one last visit with their families before winter truly set in. But there was a rule everyone knew: never stray from the path, and never follow the light of a lantern that suddenly appears alone.

Martha, a young woman new to Ashmoor, had always been skeptical of local superstitions. She had moved to the village after inheriting her grandmother’s cottage and considered the stories of ghosts and wandering lanterns charming but childish.

Still, as she walked back from the market that night, she couldn’t help but feel uneasy. The frost had come early this year, and the village paths were lined with glowing lanterns, their light soft and inviting. The cold gnawed at her bones as she pulled her scarf tighter and quickened her pace.

“Just stories,” she muttered to herself. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being watched.

Ahead, the last lantern flickered, its flame dancing in the chilly breeze. She was almost to the edge of the village when it suddenly sputtered and went out, plunging the path into darkness.

Martha hesitated, squinting at the spot where the lantern had been. Then, another lantern flared up in the distance, further into the woods, its glow warm and golden.

“Hello?” she called, hoping one of the villagers was ahead, playing a prank. But there was only silence.

The lantern bobbed, as though it were floating, beckoning her forward. Against her better judgment, she took a step off the path, then another. Her breath hung in the air as she followed the lone light deeper into the trees, her footsteps muffled by the soft layer of frost beneath her.

The lantern led her to a small clearing, where it hung from a low branch, casting an eerie glow over the trees. Martha approached cautiously, her heart pounding. The forest was deathly silent, and the cold felt sharper here, like a warning.

As she reached for the lantern, a soft voice whispered from the shadows.

“Martha…”

She froze, looking around. “Who’s there?”

The voice came again, closer this time, filled with a sadness that sent a shiver down her spine.

“Do you remember me?”

A figure stepped into the light, and Martha’s breath caught in her throat. It was her grandmother, her face pale and hollow, her eyes like empty wells. She wore the same scarf she’d been buried in, faded and frayed, as though it had been left in the earth too long.

“Nana?” Martha whispered, barely able to breathe.

Her grandmother’s face twisted into a sorrowful smile. “I waited… but you never came back to say goodbye.”

Martha’s eyes filled with tears. She had avoided the funeral, too heartbroken to face it, always regretting her choice but never able to return. “I’m so sorry… I should have…”

Her grandmother reached out a hand, cold as ice. “Come with me… stay with me…”

Martha took a step back, terror flooding her as she realized that the warmth of the lantern light was gone. The forest around her seemed darker, the trees closing in, trapping her.

“I… I can’t,” she stammered, backing away.

But her grandmother’s grip tightened, her voice now a hollow, echoing whisper. “Don’t leave me… alone.”

Martha screamed, pulling away and stumbling back to the path, where the village lanterns still flickered, their glow a distant safety. She ran, not daring to look back, not stopping until she reached the edge of the village.

When she finally glanced behind her, the woods were dark and silent, as though nothing had happened. But that night, the last lantern on the path stayed dark, and every villager knew what it meant: a spirit had been left behind, wandering, waiting for someone brave—or foolish—enough to return.