The Lantern Man
Every Halloween, kids in Hollow Creek dared each other to walk the old rail bridge at midnight. They said the Lantern Man waited there, swinging his light for a new face.
This year, only Leo went. He carried no flashlight—just a stolen matchbook and a grin. Fog swallowed the tracks behind him. Halfway across, a yellow glow bobbed ahead.
The Lantern Man stepped from the mist. His head was a hollowed pumpkin, flame dancing where eyes should be. Rusted nails pinned a burlap sack over his shoulders like a cape.
“Trade,” he croaked, voice like dry leaves. “Your face for safe passage.”
Leo laughed. “Take it.”
The pumpkin tilted. Flames roared out, searing hot. Leo’s skin blistered, peeled, and slid away in one wet sheet. The Lantern Man caught it, stretched it over his own rind like a mask.
Leo’s scream echoed as his skull cracked open, seeds spilling where brains had been. The new pumpkin head ignited, bright and eager.
Now two lanterns swing on the bridge. One still searches.
stake : siccasfuccc