The Lantern Man
Every year, when the last leaf fell from the old oak by the crossroads, the people of Briar Hollow lit their porch lanterns. It wasn’t just for decoration—it was a warning.
Because that’s when the Lantern Man walked.
He wasn’t quite a ghost and not quite alive. Folks said he was once a farmer who’d struck a deal with something ancient buried beneath his pumpkin field. One Halloween night, desperate for a good harvest, he whispered his wish into the soil—and the soil whispered back. The next morning, his pumpkins grew monstrously large, their orange skins veined with black. But when he carved the first one open, it bled.
Now, every year on Halloween, the Lantern Man wanders the back roads of Briar Hollow, his head a burning pumpkin carved into a twisted grin. His lantern—made from the first cursed pumpkin—never goes out. It burns with a cold, green flame that smells like damp earth and regret.
If you see him, you’re not supposed to run. You’re supposed to light your own lantern and place it by the road. That’s the trade. Your light for your life. If your lantern stays lit till dawn, he’ll pass you by.
But if it flickers out… he takes your flame instead.
They say he walks the fields even now, his lanterns growing brighter every year—one for every soul who failed to keep their light alive. And if you listen on a windless night, you can hear him calling softly from the dark:
“Who will light the way… for me?”
Username : Nonikunyu