The Lighthouse Keeper

No one had manned the Hollow Point Lighthouse in decades. The paint had peeled in long strips from the tower, the windows were cracked, and the spiral staircase groaned with every gust of wind. Locals said the light still worked, shining faintly over the cliffs at night, but no one had been there to turn it on.

I was a journalist, chasing a story that smelled of decay and mystery. Hollow Point had everything I wanted: isolation, history, a tragedy no one liked to talk about. The disappearance of the last keeper, Jonas Carrow, had never been solved. He vanished one stormy night fifty years ago. Only the lighthouse remained, standing stubborn against the ocean wind.

I arrived at dusk. The sky bled crimson over the cliffs. Waves crashed below, sending white foam into the air. The lighthouse loomed above, a black silhouette against the dying light.

“Hello?” I called, stepping through the rusted gate. My boots crunched over gravel. The wind ripped at my coat. The tower door stood open just enough to admit me.

Inside, the air smelled of salt, mildew, and something faintly sweet—like decaying flowers. The spiral staircase rose before me, metal steps slick with moisture. I switched on my flashlight and began to climb.

Halfway up, the beam caught something on the wall. A series of scratches, etched into the plaster:

LEAVE WHILE YOU CAN

I froze. “Probably graffiti,” I muttered. My own voice sounded hollow. The wind howled through broken windows, and the steps beneath me creaked.

As I climbed higher, I noticed something strange. Shadows weren’t matching the shapes of the steps. Each step cast two shadows: one mine, one elongated, slithering along the wall like ink in water. I shook my head. “Get a grip,” I whispered.

The staircase ended at the lantern room. The glass was dirty, cracked in places, but I could see the storm rolling in across the ocean. And in the middle of the room, a figure sat on the floor.

Jonas Carrow. Or someone—something—that looked like him. His uniform hung in tatters. Skin pale as bone, eyes wide and unblinking. His hands rested on his knees, fingers twitching.

I froze. “Mr. Carrow?” I asked.

He tilted his head slowly. “I’ve been waiting,” he said. His voice was low, raspy, and carried a strange resonance, like it came from the walls themselves.

“I… I’m a journalist,” I stammered. “I just—”

“You shouldn’t be here,” he interrupted. “No one should be here.”

The wind slammed against the tower. Glass rattled, and the shadows on the walls began to move independently, stretching, twisting. I backed up. “I need to leave,” I said.

“You already have,” Jonas replied. “You just don’t know it yet.”

The flashlight flickered. When it returned, the room had changed. The windows no longer showed the ocean, but an endless black void. The lantern above me burned with a pale, green light. And I could hear it—whispers coming from everywhere, like dozens of voices pressed against the glass:

COME CLOSER… STAY… FOREVER…

I stumbled backward toward the stairs. But the staircase was gone. In its place, the floor stretched endlessly, narrowing into darkness. I could hear Jonas moving behind me, slow, deliberate footsteps that didn’t quite match his pace.

I turned, and he was closer. “You can see them,” he said, gesturing to the shadows that now crawled along the walls. Shapes hunched, crawling, writhing. Faces flickered—distorted, screaming, frozen in fear. “They watch. They wait. They collect.”

“Collect what?” I asked, my voice shaking.

“Souls,” he whispered. “Curiosity, fear, life itself. The light calls to them… calls to you.”

I ran toward the far wall, desperate, but the shadows lunged, swarming. They were almost liquid, sliding under my boots, wrapping around my legs. I screamed. Something cold gripped my ankle—stronger than anything human. I fell.

Jonas knelt beside me. His hand grazed my cheek. Cold. Deadly cold. “You came willingly. That makes it easier.”

The whispers grew louder. Voices overlapping:
YOU’RE HERE… YOU’RE MINE… YOU CAN’T LEAVE…

I scrambled to my feet and bolted toward the only remaining window. I smashed it, glass spraying across the floor. Below, the cliffs dropped hundreds of feet to the jagged rocks and crashing waves. I could escape—maybe.

But the window led not to the cliffs. Only darkness. Black. Endless. I could hear water, but no splash. Only the whispers.

I turned. Jonas was there, standing, stretching impossibly tall. His face was still human, but his mouth opened wider than it should have. His shadow split into dozens of shapes, reaching for me.

“You wanted the story,” he said. “You wanted to see. Now you’ll belong.”

I ran toward the lantern. Its light burned brighter, blinding, and the shadows recoiled. I threw myself into the center of the room, knocking the lantern over. It rolled, light spilling across the walls. The shadows shrieked, twisting back into the walls like ink being swallowed.

Jonas screamed—a sound not human. His body bent, twisted, then dissolved into shadow, leaving only the green glow of the lantern.

I thought I could escape. I ran down the stairs—finally, the staircase had returned. Each step echoed, and I reached the front door. It opened to the cliffside, the storm still raging. I stumbled into the rain, not looking back.

---

The next morning, the Hollow Point Lighthouse stood empty. The town below said the storm had passed, nothing lost. I walked into the diner in town, soaked, shivering, and tried to tell someone what I’d seen.

“Lighthouse? Hollow Point? No one’s been up there in fifty years,” the waitress said, polishing a mug. “They say it’s haunted.”

“Haunted?” I asked. “By who?”

“By the keeper,” she said. “Jonas Carrow. They say curiosity kills. Or traps. Or worse.”

I didn’t answer. I knew it. And I knew I wasn’t the only one.

That night, back in my motel, I tried to sleep. I kept the lights on, doors locked, windows shut. But then I heard it: a soft knock.

At the window.

And through the glass, faint but unmistakable, a lantern glowed in the fog. Swaying. Waiting.

I didn’t sleep that night. I haven’t slept well since.

Because I know it will come for me again. The lighthouse doesn’t forget. The keeper doesn’t forget. And the light… the light calls, and I will answer.