The Last Lightkeeper
His voice was as steady as the tides as he spoke. Although he was a small guy, the water had left lines on his face that like etchings in driftwood, and his eyes bore the sorrowful burden of someone who had seen too many ships disappear into the ocean. He was referred to by the locals as a relic, a ghost holding onto the remains of a vanished world. Elias ascended the tower's spiral staircase every evening. He went even though he didn't have to because the light would still shine regardless of his presence. Whispering to the sea, he checked the backup generators and polished the glass.
He would rap on the brass railing and say, "Still watching," The wind was colder than usual one October night, and the clouds swirled over the moon like black smoke. After making tea and lighting a fire in the stove, Elias sat by the window and gazed out at the waves. Something didn't feel right. The air had a hum that was neither natural nor mechanical, like a note played just out of earshot. Uncomfortable, Elias stood. He noticed it through the fog. A vessel. Not just any ship, though. There were no lights, no radio signal, and no name on the bow of this one. It cut through the water with little wave or sound, its hull black as ink, and it went too effortlessly.
The hair on Elias's arms stood on end. He grabbed his old pair of binoculars. Even though the glass lenses were scratched, he could still see details, such as frayed sails and brittle timber, even if there was no breeze. The ship was out of date by a hundred years. He then noticed the crew. Or what was supposed to be one. On the deck, figures moved, too tall, too motionless. As though the mist had formed itself into men's memories, they turned together, their faces hazy and pale. Pointing straight at the lighthouse, one figure lifted an arm. Elias staggered backward. On the floor, the tea cup broke. Breathless, he hurried up the stairs of the tower. He looked out to sea once more at the top, but the ship was gone.
Only mist. Only waves. However, the uneasiness persisted and grew more intense as the night grew darker. Elias didn't sleep that night. The odd hum persisted throughout the walls, throbbing like a heartbeat. He examined the wiring, the generator, and even the antiquated foghorn. There was silence. It was all wrong. As he had done for decades, he took his journal to the shore at daybreak. He took notes on everything he observed. "A phantom ship was spotted. 0200 hours. black hull. No wake. Not a light. Crew: unclear but human-like. disappeared in the fog. Shutting the book, he gazed at the horizon.
Days went by. Not another sighting. It was written off by the locals as the idle chatter of an elderly guy. The storm then arrived. It came suddenly, a black storm that engulfed the heavens. The sea rose like an unchained beast as the wind screeched through the trees. The harbor was filled with destroyed boats. The weight of the wind caused the lighthouse to groan. The light failed in the confusion. When Elias ascended to the tower, he discovered the backup power mysteriously dead and the bulb broken. A small layer of salt covered the lens, as though the water had risen high enough to touch it.
He lighted the ancient kerosene lamp, a memento he had refused to discard. A weaker beam of light was sent across the sea as its flame flickered against the glass. However, it was something. The horn of a ship resounded through the storm. Long, low, and desperate. Elias held onto the railing and looked out to sea. The ghostly vessel reappeared. It was closer this time, though. Too near. With unfathomable speed, it approached the rocks. It couldn't stop. "No!" Elias yelled, the wind stealing his voice. He dashed over to the radio. Not moving. He gave the flare gun a try. stuck. The only thing he could do was to ring the emergency bell, which was incorporated into the tower's foundation a century ago. It rolled over the waves in a deep, melancholy tone.
The ship trembled. It twisted just enough to avoid the worst of the rocks, but not enough. Nevertheless, the hull made a metallic scream as it scraped across the stone. Then there was quiet. Just as abruptly as it had arrived, the storm passed. On the shore, Elias could find no wreckage. No people. The only things left on the sand were seaweed and a long, greasy black feather. He wrote it down in his notebook. ---
Winter arrived. The lighthouse survived. Elias grew older. He ceased sharing his observations with the villagers. But he continued to observe. The ship would return once a month. Never the same evening. The route is never the same. However, the crew, hum, and pointing figure are consistently the same.
Every time, he rang the bell. And the ship turned every time.
---
The lighthouse was deserted until a maintenance team visited years later to inspect the automation system. Elias had left. He had made his bed. He had his boots beside the entrance. On the desk, his journal was open. "They'll come whether we watch or not," the final entry stated. However, if we observe, perhaps they will remember to turn away. The feather next to it. They looked for him. No trace was ever found. He wandered into the sea, according to some. Some people think the ship finally arrived to get him. However, fishermen claim to hear the bell from Farrow's End on stormy evenings when the fog creeps in and the wind sings through the pines. It's still ringing.
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