It was an impossible flame.
It should not have burned, not in a rain storm. Nothing should have burned in the clinging damp.
Seamus knew he should not follow it. He knew should have stayed away from it, but he was soaked through. Tramping through the bog, knee high in muddy water. He just wanted to go home and be dry.
It looked like a lamp, like a hearth fire. It looked like warmth.
Maybe it didn’t mean him any harm. Maybe down into the depths was the best way out.
When they went looking for him, there was no trace of the will o’ the wisp, and no trace of Seamus.