🎃 The Lantern Keeper of Hollow Creek
The town of Hollow Creek had only one rule every October 31st:
Do not answer the knock after midnight.
It began a century ago when the bridge collapsed, drowning a wagon full of children on their way home from the harvest fair. The townsfolk rebuilt the bridge, but every Halloween night since, a lone lantern could be seen swaying in the fog over the water—where no living soul dared to walk.
They said it was Elias Crowe, the ferryman who once guided travelers across the creek. He vanished the night of the tragedy, but his lantern still glowed—a sickly orange light that never went out, not even in rain.
Most thought it was folklore. That is, until this year.
The autumn wind bit sharp through the trees as Clara, a newcomer to Hollow Creek, unpacked boxes in her creaky riverside cabin. She’d heard the warnings from her neighbors but laughed them off. “Ghost stories sell newspapers,” she’d said.
But as midnight came and the fog thickened, a sound echoed from the bridge—tap, tap, tap.
Slow, deliberate footsteps.
Then came the knock. Three heavy thuds against her door.
She froze. The lights flickered. Her phone died. And through the frosted windowpane, she saw it: a faint glow moving back and forth in the mist. A lantern, swinging as though carried by an invisible hand.
Against her better judgment, she opened the door.
There stood a man in a soaked cloak, his face shadowed beneath a dripping hat. He held out the lantern, its flame pulsing like a heartbeat.
“Your light,” he rasped, voice hollow as wind through reeds. “It’s gone out. Come… borrow mine.”
The next morning, the cabin door hung open, a lantern burning dimly on the steps.
The bridge, once silent, groaned again under phantom footsteps. And from the mist came Clara’s voice—soft, distant, calling for help.
Now, when the fog rolls in on Halloween night, two lanterns glow at Hollow Creek.
And the town has a new rule:
Do not answer the second knock.
👻 Stakecom: arcser