in the spirit of Halloween i have made a ghost

The boardwalk once led to a ferry town called Gannet’s Toll. The bridge was free, the ferry was not; promises—debts, dowries, oaths—were the real currency. On a winter evening, the town held a “Lantern Wedding,” a ritual engagement between the town and the water: lanterns down the pier, vows shouted across the ice to ensure a safe thaw.

That year, the magistrate lied. He promised to forgive the fishermen’s debts, lit the vow-lantern anyway, then doubled the levy the next dawn. The thaw came fast. Three boats under. Seven people gone. The town bound its grief into a Bride of Light—a scapegoat and a sentinel—shaped of candles, salt, and borrowed garments. They pushed the effigy across the ice to “marry the tide” and carry their broken word away.

The effigy didn’t dissolve.

She stood up.

She learned the town’s language by listening to all the apologies they never made aloud. She learned the shape of promises by watching hands as they lied. The Bride stayed after the town left. Her name is a sound lanterns make when wind dies: Lumen Eidola.