The Lantern Maker
In Hollowmere, no one let their pumpkins go dark. Everyone knew the rule — when a lantern’s flame died, something from the woods came to claim its light back.
Old Eliott Grange was the only one who never feared the dark. His lanterns burned longer, brighter — and they watched. Faces flickered in their glow, mouths twisting in silent screams.
One Halloween night, a boy named Thomas followed Eliott into the forest. Beneath the roots of an ancient oak, he saw them — rows of pumpkins, each with a human face pressed against the inside, their eyes still moving.
Eliott didn’t turn when he spoke.
“They burn so the town lives. The forest must feed, boy.”
Thomas stumbled back. “You steal their souls!”
Eliott smiled, lifting a knife slick with orange pulp.
“No, child. I shape them.”
The next morning, a new lantern sat on Eliott’s porch — small, trembling, and carved in the likeness of a terrified boy.
And that night, its candle burned brighter than them all.
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