The Lantern by the River
From the Pen of Thomas Miller
Every night, just past the last echo of the freight train, a faint orange glow drifts along the St. Johns River. Folks in Palatka call it the Lantern Man, though no one agrees on who he was—or what he’s looking for.
Phinnies Miller saw it once as a boy, fishing where the reeds whisper secrets. The light slid across the black water, steady as breath, and he swore he heard a voice say, “Don’t forget the promise.” He never told his daddy, but every year after that, on the same night, he left a candle burning in the window of his small house on Reid Street.
This year, the flame burned lower than usual. Phinnies was tired—old bones, old ghosts. The town was quiet, the river calm. But around midnight, a knock came at the door. No footsteps, no shadow—just the sound.
He opened it. There, on his porch, floated the same lantern he’d seen decades before, its handle rusted, its light soft but alive. Inside the glass, instead of a wick, a single firefly flickered. And in its glow, he saw a face he recognized—his father’s, smiling faintly, holding out a second lantern.
The night swallowed the porch in silence. When morning came, the house was empty, but down by the river two lanterns drifted side by side—burning bright against the mist.