Chapter 4: The Lantern-Eyed Monster

Dad still had a splint on his leg. Mom went down to the cellar to help Dad, just in case he couldn’t get up on his own. Only Grandma and I were left upstairs.

I watched as she moved around the kitchen, checking the locks again and again. She kept glancing at the clock, murmuring under her breath. The floor creaked with every step, and the old wall clock ticked out the seconds, slow and loud.

The north wind howled outside, like a pack of ghosts. I thought I heard something rustling outside—maybe footsteps, maybe just the wind.

The wind rattled the windows, and every shadow seemed to stretch and twitch. I held my breath, straining to hear—sure I could make out something, or someone, moving just beyond the porch.

My grandma called out nervously, “Who’s there?”

Her voice was steady, but I could see her knuckles white on the pitchfork. The silence that followed was so thick you could hear the clock ticking in the next room.

After a moment, the sound stopped. Suddenly, there was a knock at the door.

It was sharp and insistent, echoing through the quiet house, the wood vibrating under each knock. My heart leapt into my throat, and I pressed closer to Grandma.

My grandma picked up the pitchfork and called out again, “Who is it?”

She stood her ground, pitchfork ready. I admired her courage, even as I shook behind her.

“Mabel, open up—it’s Old Ben,” came a voice from outside.

His voice was familiar, gruff and impatient, just like always. But there was something off about it, like he wasn’t quite himself.

My grandma relaxed a little and leaned down, whispering to me, “He probably knows we have rice and came to borrow some. We only have two scoops left. Even if the rice came from an unknown source, it’s better than nothing. Old Ben’s a sly one—we can’t let him have our rice.”

She frowned, lips pressed tight. I could see her mind racing, weighing our options.

I asked, “Grandma, how did Old Ben know Grandpa isn’t home?”

The question slipped out before I could stop it. I saw her eyes widen in realization.

She smacked her leg. “Right! Could it be that thing pretending to be him?”

She backed away from the door, eyes darting to the peephole. The fear in her voice made me shiver.

I ran over and peered through the small hole. I could make out a pair of dirty bare feet and a muddy leg.

The skin looked strange, almost gray in the porch light. The feet shifted restlessly, toes curling in the mud.

“I can’t tell if it’s Old Ben, but it’s definitely a person,” I told my grandma.

I tried to sound braver than I felt. My voice wobbled, but I stood my ground.

She nodded, went to the door, and called out, “Ben, whatever you need, just say it from outside the door.”

She kept her voice steady, not giving an inch.

“Mabel, I’m here to borrow rice.”

The voice sounded more desperate now, almost pleading.

“We don’t have any. Go borrow from someone else!”

She folded her arms, standing firm.

Old Ben’s voice turned nasty. “Don’t play games—I know you have rice. Open up and give me half! Or I’ll tell the whole town you have rice, and they’ll tear your family apart for food!”

His words hit like a slap. The threat was real—folks in Maple Heights were hungry enough to do anything.

Old Ben was ruthless and shameless. He meant what he said, and no one dared cross him.

Everyone in town knew Old Ben was trouble. He’d steal the shirt off your back if you let him, and he had a way of turning folks against each other when times were tough.

My grandma trembled with anger. “Fine! Take it—take it all! But after eating this rice, your family might not live long either.”

She glared at the door, voice shaking with fury and fear. Her words hung in the air, a warning and a curse.

I ran inside to fetch the rice for my grandma, trying to comfort her. “If we give the rice to Old Ben, maybe that thing will go after him instead. Maybe it’ll be full and leave us alone.”

I handed her the rice, hoping my plan made sense. My grandma managed a weak smile, brushing my hair back from my forehead.

My grandma couldn’t help but laugh. “How do you know so much, you little rascal?”

She ruffled my hair, her laugh shaky but real. For a moment, it felt almost normal—like we could joke our way out of this mess.

I followed my grandma to the door. She unbarred it, opened the latch, and handed the rice out.

The door creaked open, and she thrust the bag of rice into the fog. The cold air rushed in, sharp and biting, and I caught a whiff of something foul.

The moment the door opened, a gust of wind brought a stench of blood and rot.

It hit me like a slap, thick and choking. My stomach lurched, and I staggered back, covering my nose.

I called out softly to my grandma, but she seemed frozen, not moving or even turning her head.

She stood in the doorway, arm outstretched, staring into the fog. Her eyes were wide, and her lips moved silently, as if she were praying or pleading.

For no reason, my heart pounded. I turned and ran back inside.

Something deep inside told me to run, to hide. I bolted down the hallway, calling for my mom and dad.

My mom and dad had just come up from the cellar. My mom had removed my dad’s splint, and he was trying to walk without a crutch.

He leaned on her shoulder, grimacing with every step. They both looked up as I burst into the room, breathless and wild-eyed.

When I told them what happened, my dad grabbed a stick and followed me to the door.

He moved fast, despite his limp, and my mom trailed behind, wringing her hands. The house felt smaller, the walls closing in around us.

In the thick fog, my grandma stood in the doorway as if about to close the door. She leaned forward, half her body outside, trembling all over.

Her dress fluttered in the wind, and I saw her knuckles white on the doorframe. She looked like she was caught between worlds—inside with us, or outside with whatever waited in the fog.

My dad walked up and gently tugged her. “Mom, what are you looking at? Close the door and come in!”

His voice was soft, but urgent. He reached out, wrapping his arm around her shoulders, trying to pull her back.

As he pulled, my grandma collapsed backward into the yard.

It happened so fast I barely saw it. One moment she was standing, the next she crumpled, her body folding like a rag doll.

The flesh from her head, face, and upper body was gone, blood pouring out, and her lower half still twitching with pain.

Blood spattered the porch and the grass, bright and shocking against the white fog. My mom screamed, and I stumbled back, covering my mouth to keep from throwing up.

Outside the door loomed a huge black shadow, its body covered in countless tiny red lanterns—eyes, blinking like traffic lights in the dark. Next to each pair of red lanterns was a blood-red mouth. As soon as these mouths saw us, they grinned, shaking a half-severed leg and foot in their hand—it was Old Ben’s.

The thing was bigger than any man, its shape shifting and writhing in the mist. The red lanterns blinked and winked, mouths opening wide with sharp, glistening teeth. The leg dangled from its hand, dripping blood onto the porch.

My dad froze, then lunged forward, slammed the door shut, and bolted it. At the same time, the door began to shake violently. The thing outside pounded hard against it.

The whole house shook with the force of its blows. My mom dragged me back, and my dad braced his weight against the door, sweat pouring down his face. I could hear the thing’s voice, deep and guttural, echoing through the wood.

“Open up! Give me back my meat! Eat rice, return meat! Eat rice, return meat!”

The words rattled the windows, growing louder and more frenzied. I buried my face in my mom’s coat, and for the first time, I truly believed the stories were real—and that no prayer or lock could save us now.