“Run… run… "Don't look back…”
The voice is a desperate whisper, barely audible over the wind. A young woman, Clara, stumbles through a dense, fog-choked forest. Her lantern swings wildly in her hand, casting jagged shadows that seem to twist and claw at her. Behind her, a chilling chant grows louder—three voices, female, harmonising in an unnatural, guttural tone:
“By fire’s glow and shadow’s flight, we claim your soul before the night…”
Clara trips, her lantern shattering on a gnarled root. The flame sputters but doesn’t die. In its flickering light, three silhouettes emerge from the mist—tall, cloaked, their eyes glowing like embers. One steps forward, her voice a hiss:
“You can’t outrun the Witches’ Lantern, child. Your light is ours now.”
Good evening, my brave listeners, and welcome to another Eerie Tale with Cosette. Tonight, we venture into the shadowed woods of Blackthorn Hollow, where a lantern’s glow is no promise of safety, and three witches hunger for more than just your fear. Settle in, dim the lights, and let’s unravel the chilling tale of The Witches’ Lantern.
In the autumn of 1893, Blackthorn Hollow was a sleepy New England village, nestled in a valley where the trees seemed to whisper secrets. The townsfolk avoided the woods after dark, for legends spoke of the Three Sisters—witches who had haunted the land since the days of the witch trials. They were said to be bound to a cursed artefact: a lantern that burnt with an unnatural flame, one that could steal the soul of anyone foolish enough to carry it.
Clara Hawthorne, a bold young woman of twenty-two, didn’t believe in such nonsense. She was a schoolteacher, practical and sharp-witted, with no patience for superstition. But when her younger brother, Elias, vanished into the woods chasing a strange light, Clara had no choice but to follow. The townsfolk warned her, their faces pale: “Don’t take a lantern, Clara. The Sisters will find you.”
Watch Episode 9 - The Witches’ Lantern
Clara ignored them. She grabbed her father’s old brass lantern, lit it, and plunged into the forest. The air grew colder with every step, the trees closing in like skeletal fingers. Her lantern’s flame flickered but held steady, casting a warm golden glow. At first, she called Elias’s name, her voice echoing unanswered. Then she heard it—a faint giggle, high and childlike, coming from deeper in the woods.
“Elias?” she whispered, her heart pounding. The giggle came again, but now it sounded… wrong. It was too sharp, too gleeful, like a child mimicking something sinister. Clara pressed on, her lantern swinging. The path twisted, and the air grew thick with the scent of damp earth and something sweeter, like rotting fruit.
Then she saw it: a faint glow in the distance, not golden like her lantern, but a sickly green. It bobbed between the trees, beckoning her. Clara’s instincts screamed to turn back, but the thought of Elias kept her moving. The green light led her to a clearing, where a crumbling stone well stood at the centre, covered in moss and carved with strange, spiralling runes.
The green light hovered above the well, pulsing. Clara’s lantern flickered violently, as if fighting to stay lit. Then, from the shadows, three figures emerged. They were tall, their faces obscured by hooded cloaks, but their eyes glowed like coals in the dark. The first witch, her voice smooth as silk, spoke:
“Clara Hawthorne. You’ve brought us a gift.”
Clara clutched her lantern tighter. “Where’s my brother? "What have you done with Elias?”
The second witch, her voice sharp and mocking, laughed. “Oh, sweet Elias. His light burns within our lantern now. And yours will join it.”
The third witch, her voice deep and guttural, stepped closer, holding a lantern of her own. Its flame was that sickly green, writhing like a living thing. “Light for light,” she intoned. “Soul for soul. The Lantern demands its due.”
Clara’s breath caught as she realised the truth. The witches weren’t just after Elias—they wanted her, too. The lantern in her hand grew heavy, its flame dimming as the green light pulsed brighter. She backed away, but the witches began to chant, their voices weaving together in a hypnotic rhythm:
“By fire’s glow and shadow’s flight, we claim your soul before the night…”
The air thickened, and Clara’s vision blurred. Her lantern’s flame sputtered, and she felt a tug deep in her chest, like something was being pulled from her very core. She stumbled, dropping the lantern. It shattered, and the flame leapt upward, merging with the green light above the well. The witches’ laughter filled the air, sharp and triumphant.
But Clara wasn’t ready to give up. She remembered a story her grandmother once told her—a tale of the Three Sisters’ weakness. They were bound to their lantern, and if its flame was extinguished, their power would falter. Clara’s eyes darted to the well. The green flame hovered above it, unguarded.
With a cry, she lunged forward, ignoring the witches’ shrieks. She grabbed a loose stone from the well’s edge and hurled it at the lantern. It struck true, and the lantern fell into the well, the green flame hissing as it hit the water below. The witches screamed, their forms flickering like shadows in a storm.
“Elias!” Clara shouted, peering into the well. A faint golden light rose from its depths, and with it, the shape of her brother, pale but alive. She pulled him out, his small frame trembling. The witches’ screams faded, their forms dissolving into the fog.
But as Clara and Elias fled the clearing, the wind carried a final whisper:
“The Lantern will burn again…”
Back in Blackthorn Hollow, the townsfolk never spoke of the Three Sisters again. Clara and Elias never returned to the woods, but on quiet nights, Clara swore she could hear a faint chant on the wind. And sometimes, in the corner of her eye, she glimpsed a flicker of green light, waiting.
And so, dear listeners, the tale of The Witches’ Lantern reminds us: some lights are better left unlit. Thank you for joining me tonight on Eerie Tales with Cosette. Until our next chilling story, keep your lanterns close… and your courage closer.
