I sat near the back, fingers locked tight around the strap of my duffel. My head leaned back , my eyes closed as I listened to the crashing waves. As much as I could hear them as the engine wheezed beneath me, coughing into the fog. But the sound never seemed to go far. Everything around us felt muted, like the ocean itself had forgotten how to echo.
There hadn't been land in sight for over an hour now.
If there was even land to see.
I shifted, stretching out my legs. THe bench creaked under my weight, damp and splintered. Salt hung thick in the air, seeping into my coat, my hair, my lungs. The ferry looked to give up the ghost at any moment, battered wood, peeling paint, rust bleeding down every metal edge.
The captain hadn't said a word after I boarded. He just pointed at the bench and turned away like I was already someone else's problem. I didn't even know his name.
Fine by me.
The coat hung heavy across my shoulders, secondhand and still carrying the ghosts of a dozen strangers before me. It was two sizes too big, but it covered everything that needed covering. I held it tightly around me, pressing my hand against my side. I felt the crinkle of the letter folded deep in the inner pocket.
Still there. Still real.
I opened my eyes to see the fog begin to thin ahead of us, just enough to reveal a shadow on the horizon. At first, it barely looked real. A jagged black shape, hunched and broken like a wounded animal.
The Lighthouse.
It grew larger as we crept closer, rising out of the mist like a cracked bone.
Tall. Gaunt. Its upper window stared out at the ocean, blind and accusing even in the receding daylight. I tightened my grip on the strap, fingers stiff and aching. My boots scraped against the deck as I stood.
The boat shuddered to a stop, and the captain finally moved. He tossed a rope ladder over the side without ceremony. He didn't offer a hand. Didn't say goodbye. Just turned back to his wheelhouse like I was already gone.
I heard the faint mutter. "...gone before dark."
I slung the duffel over my shoulder and climbed down, the rope wet and slimy in my gloves. The ocean lapped at the rocks below, black and sluggish. I jumped the last few feet onto the stone, my boots slipping slightly on the seaweed, my knees jolting from the impact. When I turned around, the boat was already pulling away, swallowed back into the fog.
No second thoughts.
No real chance to change my mind.
Ahead of me, the path up from the rocks was barely there. A thin strip of gravel smothered under moss and dirt. The lighthouse loomed ahead, its skeletal silhouette framed by the low sky. Beyond it, tucked against the hillside like an afterthought, squatted the keeper's house. Two stories, weathered boards, windows boarded up on the second floor. It looked abandoned. Forgotten.
Perfect.
I started walking. The mud beneath sucked at my boots with every step. No birds overheard. No insects in the trees. Just the faint whine of something mechanical deeper inland. The old tower, maybe. I remembered reading about it in the welcome packet. Technology untouched since the seventies. Like everything else here. The mist crawled low across the ground, coiling around the edges of the path. It clung to my ankles, cool and damp.
I pulled my coat tighter. Reciting an old mantra. One foot in front of the other. Don't look back. The duffel thudded against my hip with every step, heavier than it should have been. I hadn't brought much. A few changes of clothes, maybe. A battered notebook, pens. Essentials.
No photographs. No souvenirs. Just the letter, crinkled and half forgotten against my ribs. "Congratulations! You have been selected..." Selected. Like I'd won something. Like this was a prize.
I snorted softly under my breath, but it didn't sound much like laughter. The island rose in front of me, vast and silent, wrapped in mist and old salt. It didn't care why I was here. It didn't care who I was, or what I'd done to get here. It only cared that someone had come.
I kept walking.
The house smelled like dust and old sea water.
I tried the handle, but the door refused to budge. I pushed it open with my shoulder, boots thudding lightly on warped wooden planks. The hinges groaned in a long wounded protest, but the door gave way.
Inside, the air was stale. Heavy. Like whatever life had once filled this place had been scraped out and left to rot. The living room was small. At first glance a sagging couch slumped against one wall and an iron stove crouched like a forgotten animal in the corner. Above the fireplace hung a cracked mirror, mercifully too tarnished to reflect anything clearly. I let the door swing shut behind me and dropped my duffel onto the floor. The sound echoed longer than it should have, like the house was tasting the noise.
I scanned the room automatically, the way I'd been trained. Corners, windows, floorboards. The windows were covered in yellowing lace curtains, so thin I could see the shape of the mist pressing against the glass. No light outside. Just the slow, thick breathing of the fog. "Cheerful," I muttered under my breath. To my right, a short hallway stretched deeper into the house, ending at a set of stairs leading up. A hand painted sign, barely legible under layers of dust, pointed:
"Kitchen ->"
"Stairs ^"
I chose the kitchen first.
The kitchen looked like it had been lifted straight out of a history book and left to die. A wood burning stove. Metal cabinets rusted at the edges. A cracked porcelain sink with a faucet that looked more ornamental than functional. Still, it was clear that someone , maybe whoever came before me, had tried to clean.
A crate of canned goods sat on the counter. Peaches, corned beef, soup with labels faded to near nothing. Neat stacks. Reminded me of military precision. There was a radio on the kitchen counter, nothing more than an old tabletop model from the fifties or sixties, its plastic casing yellowed and spiderwebbed with cracks. I stared at it for a long moment, a faint ringing in my ears.
The dial was set to Channel 7-C. I didn't touch it.
Back into the hall. Up the stairs. The steps creaked under my weight. Halfway up, I had to duck under a low, splintering beam. Everything smelled of salt and mildew. The second floor was worse.
Two doors on either side of the landing. The first opened onto a small bedroom. A bare mattress, striped dresser, a window boarded over with uneven planks welcomed me. The second was locked. I rattled the handle instinctively. No give. Painted over so many times the door and frame seemed fused together.
A thin, angry line of scratches marred the doorframe, just below the handle. Long, shallow gouges like some animal had tried desperately to claw their way out. Or in. I backed away without thinking. Swallowed hard.
"Probably just...rats," I said aloud, voice rough int he empty hallways. My eyes returning to the scratches.
"Big ones." The floor beneath me creaked, and I froze. I waited. But nothing else moved.
Back downstairs.
Near the door, I finally noticed the desk. Simple. Heavy oak, the kind you'd expect in a principal's office from the forties. Its surface was mostly clear, except for a single yellow envelope. Handwritten across the front, in looping cursive. "To the Keeper."
My stomach tightened for no good reason. I slid my thumb under the flap and pulled out the letter.
Greywick Isle Lighthouse Authority
Custodial Appointment Notice
To the Honored Keeper,
It is with due satisfaction that we appoint you as Custodian of the Greywick Isle Lightstation, effective immediately upon receipt of this notice.
Your duties shall encompass the maintenance, illumination, and general safekeeping of the Greywick Light, its adjoining structures, and all operational apparatus contained therein, namely:
- The principal lighthouse beacon
- Keeper's residential quarters
- Auxiliary generator station
- Telegraph and radio transmission facilities
Standard provisions have been furnished. Supplementary resupply shall be conducted on a bimonthly basis, weather and sea permitting. Communications are to be maintained exclusively through Transmission Channel 7-B. Urgent dispatch requests must be submitted via coded signal; responses cannot be assured.
The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
Be advised that Greywick Isle remains classified under the Coastal Preservation Charter, Act of 1632, as a Restricted Holding. Unauthorized visitation is strictly prohibited. Custodial discretion is paramount.
In the event of circumstances requiring withdrawal from station, you are instructed to consult Protocol 19-A,, detailed within the Operations Manual stored in the Lightkeeper's Hall.
Orientation materials for your perusal and instruction have been prepared and await your attendance within the lighthouse entry chamber. You are hereby required to engage with said materials prior to commencement of your official duties.
We extend to you our gratitude for your service in preserving the sanctity and purpose of the Greywick Light.
Yours in faithful duty,
Greywick Isle Lighthouse Authority
Lighting the Way since 1632
I set the letter down and stood there for a long moment, feeling the weight of the island settle into my bones.
The instructions were clear enough.
Find the lighthouse.
Play the Orientation.
Begin nightly operations.
Simple.
So why did it feel like I was already too late for something? I grabbed my duffel again, slinging it over my shoulder. Time to see the Lighthouse.
The mist had thickened while I was inside.
It clung to the ground in slow, lazy coils, seeping into the seams of my coat, my boots, deep into my bones. By the time I stepped back onto the crumbling path leading up the rise, my jeans were already damp to the knees. The lighthouse loomed ahead, tall and skeletal against the bruised sky.
I adjusted the duffel on my shoulder and started forward. The gravel underfoot shifted and popped with each step, loud in the deadened air. No birds. No insects. Not even the sea anymore. Just the soft wet sound of my own breathing.
Halfway up the path, I paused.
Somewhere beyond the tree line, further than the radio tower, a low and drawn out howl rose into the air. Not a dog. Not a wolf either, unless wolves in this part of the world had learned how to cry like dying men. It cut off sharp, like someone had clamped a hand over the sound. I stood there a moment, pulse thudding stupidly in my ears, before muttering to myself.
"Wind. Just the wind." The words sounded hollow, even to me.
The lighthouse door was warped wood, paint peeling long, curling strips. Someone had nailed a heavy iron ring to the front, probably back when the world was still young. Though who would be knocking in a deserted island.
“Yeah...best not think about that."
The door itself hung slightly ajar. Not enough to swing open in the breeze, but enough to show a thin black line of darkness beyond. I hesitated. The smell was stronger here. Not just salt in the air, but oil and something else. Something sour. Metallic. Like old blood left too long in the sun. A familiar smell. "Nothing good ever starts with a door like that," I muttered.
Still, I stepped forward. Still, I pushed it open. The hinges screaming. High and raw, making me wince at the sound and looking over my shoulder. The fog silent and still behind me. Inside, the air was colder than it had any right to be. Not just cooler. Just, wrong somehow. Dead air, heavy as stone. The entry hall was a narrow corridor, the walls lined with old photographs in cracked frames.
At a glance, most were too faded to make out. Dark shapes standing stiffly in front of a lighthouse that looked identical to this one.
As I passed, I caught a glimpse of one photo that hadn't decated as badly. Three men stood side by side, all wearing the heavy wool coats of old lighthouse keepers. One of them stared directly at the camera. His face was blurred not by damage or age, but by something wet dragged across the emulsion. His features smeared like a handprint. I stopped. Took a half step back to look again. I could see his face more clearly now. Just three men, grainy and grey.
"Tired," I muttered, adjusting the grip on the duffel.
Near the base of the spiral staircase, a massive iron construction winding up into the tower's throat, I found what I was looking for. A battered reel to reel recorder, perched on a small table bolted to the floor. A sign above it, hand painted in red. "Orientation Materials. Play Before Proceeding."
The machine looked barely functional. Rusted edges, cracked reels, the tape sagging under its own weight. I stared at it for a long moment. The house around me breathed, perhaps the sea wind sliding through cracks I couldn't see.
"Let's get this over with," I said, voice low and steady. I pressed play.
The recorder gave a dry mechanical whine as the reels caught and spun.
At first nothing but a low and thick hiss, the sound of old tape breathing in slow and cracked static.
I leaned against the table, crossing my arms over my chest, forcing myself to be still.
The voice, when it came, startled me anyway.
"Welcome, Keeper."
Male. Clipped. Too calm.
The kind of voice that belonged to old Cold War broadcasts and public service announcements warning you how to duck and cover.
"You have arrived at Greywick Isle Lighstation, Custodial Station Number 14 under the Coastal Preservation Charter, Act of 1632"
The words rolled out slow and steady, like they'd been repeated a thousand times.
A script no one had bothered to update.
I shifted my weight, boots creaking faintly on the old wood.
The hissing under the voice rose and fell, like faint breathing.
"Your assignment carries significant historical, operational, and moral weight. Please conduct yourself accordingly."
Historical, operational and moral weight.
Christ.
I let out a slow breath through my nose.
If this was the organization's idea of a pep talk, it needed work.
The tape clicked softly, and the voice continued.
"Primary Rules for Continued Occupancy."
My eyes drifted to the wall, he photos, the cold spiral of the staircase behind me.
The words kept coming.
"Rule number one. The Light."
"Light the lighthouse every night, without fail. Even on clear nights. Even if the sea seems empty. The illumination is not solely for navigational purposes."
"Absence of light invites attention from sectors not mapped by ordinary means."
I frowned, a small tight pull at my forehead.
Sectors not mapped?
Just superstition. Maritime ghost stories. Every isolated place had them.
Still, I shifted a little closer to the machine, leaning in to listen.
"Rule number two. The mirror."
"Room Three houses a mirror of particular sensitivity. After midnight, avoid visual engagement with the reflection."
"Eye contact may facilitate cross observation and contamination by nonresidents."
My gaze flicked instinctively toward a door a cross the hall. It was heavy, painted gray, a tarnished brass number 3 nailed crookedly at eye level.
I looked away before I could think too much about it.
"Rule number Three. Late Visitors."
"At 0300 hours each Friday, it is expected that attempts will be made at the keeper's entrance."
"Do not respond."
"Do not vocalize."
"Sound and acknowledgement serve as invitations under certain maritime doctrines."
A soft scrape echoed behind the walls as the tape turned, the age of the lighthouse sliding slowly through the pipes.
I told myself it was just old settling noises.
Old wood and old weather.
Nothing more.
"Rule number four. The radio."
"Unauthorized transmissions may be received on the radio systems. These transmissions will often mimic familiar voices. Responding affirms receipt and may initiate unauthorized contact protocols."
A chill spidered up my spine at that one, uninvited. I remember the dusty radio in the kitchen, its cracked plastic face, its dial frozen stubbornly on Channel 7-C.
I swallowed dryly. Shifted my feet.
The recording carried on, calm and oblivious.
"Rule number five. The Second Light."
"Should you observe a secondary beacon or light illumination not recorded in your charts, you are to immediately cease all external activity, proceed to the basement secure zone, and await sunrise."
"Under no circumstance should the lighthouse beacon be on during these occurrences."
"Noncompliance may result in misidentification, or worse, identification."
The tape stuttered.
The speaker's voice warped. It was slow, dragging, like pulling through molasses.
"Mis-i-dent-ca."
"C-ca."
A shriek of static ripped through the hall.
I recoiled instinctively, my hand flying to cover my ear, heart hammering.
Through the static, the faint sound of speaking echoed.
Something wet and desperate, clawing through the hiss and crackle.
A voice?
Voices?
It was fast, too garbled and too broken to understand. I tried to hear what the recording was trying to say. Frozen. Every muscle locked tight.
The machine sputtered.
A high, metallic whine drilled into the silence.
And then, as suddenly as it broke, the recording continued.
"Rule number seven. Photographs."
"Personal photographs are prohibited."
"Images found on the premises which do not belong to the assigned Keeper must be destroyed without close inspection."
"Smiling subjects may indicate compromised temporal stability."
I stared at the recorder, my throat dry. I shook my head slightly, couldn't' be sure if it had said something.
I opened my mouth, closed it again.
"Old tape," I said finally, forcing the words through a dry, tight throat. "Old equipment and just...weather damage. If it weren't superstitions...they'd at least use new equipment."
The tape clicked onward.
"Rule number eight. The Spiral Stair."
"If auditory phenomena are perceived on the lighthouse's spiral staircase. This including, but not limited to..running, knocking, or pacing, you are to ascend the staircase immediately."
"Descent during these incidents may lead to spatial misalignment."
My gaze drifted to the base of the iron stairs behind me. My gaze lingering on it, but the next click of the type drew my attention back to it.
"Rule number nine. Internal Fog Breach."
"Should coastal fog breach the integrity of the Keeper's residence, extinguish all lights and maintain absolute stillness."
"Apparitions emerging from the fog are to be disregarded. Vocalization of a familiar or distressing nature are to be presumed deceptive. Be assured that any sounds of weeping are not without reason."
Another soft click.
The voice softened, grew almost...intimate.
"We thank you for your faithful service to the preservation of Greywick Light."
"And extend our highest regard for your continued vigilance."
The tape sputtered once. It tried to rewind and then stopped with a final and exhausted whine.
The house fell silent again, heavy and expectant.
I stood there, my breath fogging faintly in the colder air.
Staring at the recorder.
Listening for something. Anything. Anything to move.
Nothing did.
"Right," I muttered after a long moment, my voice absurdly loud in the dead air. "Welcome to Greywick."