Lantern

The adults always told the children to stay away from the fog that would roll in. There never seemed to be a rhyme or a reason for when it came, and the where was no better. Sometimes, they would see it rolling down from the distant mountains; sometimes it would come in from the lake right at their doors, before the fishermen would get out to their boats in the early mornings. The only thing that was consistent was the chill and death it brought with it to any of those foolish enough to be caught outside. Every door and window in the town was sealed with a thick tar-like resin twice a year to ensure not a wisp made its way inside.
Some of the elders would say that the fog was whipped up by an evil witch that always kept one of her wicked eyes on their doors. In order to ensure that naughty children straightened up their acts, they would say that the witch used the mist to snatch away misbehaving children, and would feed their bones to her hell-hounds. But, these were just old tales. What they did know for certain was that it never damaged crops or the buildings themselves, and even the livestock always made it through just fine. It was like whatever made it wanted only one very specific thing: People.
Oh and there were plenty of fools all too happy to feed it. Some would try to go in after loved ones they had lost to the fog, and there were those who were growing old or ill and couldn’t bear the agony in growing more and more feeble so wanted to go out on their own terms. No one could fault those folks. The ones that received fault and no pity were the wannabe heroes that would come parading in like they were there to fight some great cataclysmic evil. No one missed them.
And even if anyone did, there were never bodies to send back for those who ventured out. Everything would be gone the moment the fog cleared up. Trails of footsteps would simply end in the middle of line going in one direction. It was as if the person dissolved, disappeared, or were perhaps whisked into the sky. At the end of every trail of footprints, however, something was left behind: A lantern. They were heavy, made of a black metal that seemed like iron and a thick frosted glass for each of the four sides. They were completely impenetrable with no candle inside that anyone could see, and no mechanism for turning on a gas or a spark to be set. Always one for each soul that was outside either intentionally or not.
People had taken to bringing them to the cemetery by the old Church, leaving them in place of headstones as a reminder of the power of the fog. One of the Elders called it a trade. A vessel for a vessel.
The family who kept the cemetery and lived on its grounds said the lanterns would glow the night before the fog would roll back through; Ghastly greens and unnatural blue would splash color against all the simple white stones. It seemed, to them that the fog lit a wick that no one could find.
At least, that’s what they said.