The Warm Lantern
My flashlight beam wavered as my hands began to shake. I swung the light toward a small wooden crate serving as a nightstand. Resting on it was a small, battery-powered LED lantern. I stared at the tiny power indicator. It was glowing a steady, defiant green.
I reached out, my fingers trembling, and brushed the top of the lantern. The plastic was warm. Not just “left on” warm, but “recently held” warm. The heat transfer was unmistakable. The occupant hadn’t left for the day; they had vacated the cellar the moment they heard my shovel hit the iron. They were likely still in the yard, perhaps standing just beyond the rim of the hatch, looking down at the light of my flashlight dancing against the dirt walls.
Panic, sharp and electric, flooded my system. I didn’t look at the photos again. I didn’t look for a name. I lunged for the ladder, my boots slipping on the muddy rungs. I climbed with a frantic, animal energy, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I scrambled out of the hole, the sunlight blinding me for a split second, and I didn’t stop to close the hatch. I ran.
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