11/02/2025
The Lamplighter of York
The city of York had always been a place of strange mysteries. Beneath its cobbled streets lay the bones of Roman soldiers, Viking warriors, and medieval monks. Its crooked buildings leaned together as if whispering secrets, and in the twisting alleys, the past never truly seemed gone.
But of all the oddities that York possessed, none was more enigmatic than the Lamplighter.
Every evening, just as the sun slipped behind the Minster’s towering spires, he would appear—a tall figure in a dark coat and wide-brimmed hat, carrying a long pole tipped with a flickering flame. He would move from street to street, lighting the gas lamps that lined the ancient roads, bringing pools of golden light to the encroaching dusk. Some said he was a ghost, a remnant of an older time. Others whispered that he was a man cursed to walk the city forever, doomed to chase away the darkness but never escape it himself.
The truth, however, was far stranger.
Jonas Blackthorne had been the Lamplighter of York for as long as anyone could remember. His face was weathered, his hands rough with age, but his eyes burned with a quiet intensity. He never missed a night, never failed to light a lamp. And though the world had moved on—electric lights now shining in the grander streets—his gas lamps still flickered in the forgotten corners of the city, where the past refused to be erased.
For Jonas, the task was more than duty; it was a ritual. Each flame he lit was a barrier against something unseen, something lurking in the deep shadows that stretched across York’s ancient stones. He never spoke of it, never warned the townsfolk. They did not need to know. They only needed to stay in the light.
One evening, as autumn winds howled through the Shambles, Jonas noticed something odd. The lamps, which usually burned steadily, flickered unnaturally. Their flames wavered, dimmed, as if something unseen was trying to s***f them out.
Jonas tightened his grip on his pole and moved faster. He reached the next lamp and struck the flame to life, but for the first time in decades, a chill ran through him. The shadows at his feet twisted, curling away from the light like living things.
Something was coming.
As Jonas turned onto Whip-Ma-Whop-Ma Gate, a figure stepped out of the fog. He was a man, tall and thin, dressed in an old-fashioned coat. His face was pale, his smile too sharp.
“Good evening,” the man said, his voice smooth as oil. “Still tending the lamps, I see.”
Jonas paused. He knew everyone in York, but he had never seen this man before. And yet, something about him felt familiar.
“That I am,” Jonas replied carefully. “And you are?”
The stranger chuckled. “Just a traveler. Passing through, as it were.” His gaze drifted to the nearest lamp, where the flame shuddered. “Funny, isn’t it? How the dark always finds a way back.”
Jonas felt a cold weight settle in his chest. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”
The man tilted his head. “Oh, but you’ve held it back for so long, old friend. Don’t you ever wonder what happens if you stop?”
Jonas said nothing. He simply turned and walked away, moving to the next lamp, relighting the next flame. But he could feel the stranger watching him, the weight of his gaze pressing against his back.
And as Jonas worked through the city that night, the shadows stretched longer than ever before.
Long ago, before Jonas had taken up the pole and flame, there had been another Lamplighter. His name was Elias Crowe, and he, too, had walked the streets of York, tending the lamps, keeping the darkness at bay.
Jonas had been a boy when Elias vanished. One evening, the lamps had gone unlit, and when people searched for him, all they found was his coat and hat, left neatly by the river’s edge. Some said he had grown old and wandered away. Others whispered that the darkness had finally taken him.
But Jonas had always known better. He had seen the shapes in the shadows, the way they reached for Elias in his final nights. And when no one else dared, Jonas had picked up Elias’s pole and continued his work.
Because he understood something that no one else did: the lamps were not just for light. They were a barrier. A wall against something ancient, something hungry.
And now, after all these years, it was coming for him.
It began with the wind. A howling, unnatural gale that whipped through the city, rattling windows and s***fing out candles. The lamps flickered violently, their flames struggling against the sudden onslaught.
Jonas moved as fast as he could, relighting each one, but for every lamp he kindled, another went out. The shadows moved like living things, swirling, stretching, whispering.
And then he saw him—the stranger from before, standing at the edge of the Minster’s great square. His smile was wider now, his eyes darker.
“It’s time, Jonas,” the man said softly. “You’ve fought long enough.”
Jonas gritted his teeth. “I will not let the darkness take this city.”
The stranger sighed. “It was never your fight to win. You are but a man. The dark is eternal.”
And then, with a flick of his hand, every lamp in York went out.
The city was plunged into blackness.
Jonas stood alone in the darkness. The air was thick, suffocating, filled with whispers that slithered through the streets. He could feel them—things with no shape, no form, but endless hunger.
But he was not afraid.
Reaching into his coat, he pulled out a single match. The last one. He struck it, and in that tiny flame, he saw every night he had walked these streets, every moment he had kept the darkness at bay.
And then, he touched the flame to the wick of his pole.
The fire roared to life, blinding and golden, not just a flicker but a blaze. The shadows shrieked and recoiled, twisting away, fleeing into the cracks of the city. The stranger’s grin faltered, his form flickering like a dying candle.
Jonas took a step forward, driving the fire into the night. “You do not belong here,” he said.
The stranger hissed, his form unraveling. “You cannot do this forever.”
Jonas thrust the flame forward, and with a final, wordless scream, the darkness shattered. The lamps flared back to life, one by one, pushing away the night. And when the last flame was rekindled, the stranger was gone.
When the morning sun rose over York, the city was as it had always been. People went about their lives, unaware of the battle that had raged in the dark.
Jonas stood on the city wall, watching the dawn. His hands trembled, his breath came in ragged gasps, but he had won.
For now.
He turned, walking back into the city, his pole in hand.
There would always be another night. Another shadow waiting to creep in.
But as long as he walked the streets, as long as he lit the lamps, the darkness would never win.
For he was the Lamplighter of York. And he would never stop.
( I write these fictional short tales in an attempt to create curiosity and encourage travel. I hope you enjoy it )
https://www.seymourtravels.co.uk/2026tours-1
I lead small group tours throughout Britain and parts of Europe. Seymour Travels, my own company, provides this.
