The Lightkeeper

The sea was tame, for now. The incessant pounding of waves on the rocky shores had subsided, its steady beat replaced with the far-off cries of gulls. The sun was climbing above the horizon, and until its last beam conceded to the inevitable twilight, the calm waters would stay.

The lightkeeper extinguished the last lantern inside the tower with a swift exhale. There would be no need for them until dusk returned. This was her second task of the morning, and she began making breakfast with what little food she had left. The biweekly crates of supplies the village sent her were to be delivered later that day. It was a temporary break from her repetitive schedule. The distance from shore wasn’t far– only three miles, close enough that children were often the ones to deliver her rations.

As her eggs sizzled in the frying pan, she riffled through scrap paper and tattered paperbacks for the novel she borrowed from one of the delivery girls, Ethel. Ethel had a quick mind and a quicker wit, and she reminded the lightkeeper of herself twenty-odd years ago. Ethel wasn’t the one transporting her supplies most days, but she had the latest paperbacks ready every time to trade just in case.

She was running her thumb along the pages of the book, reliving the events of the novel and wondering what Ethel might bring if she was rowing out to the lighthouse when the smell of burning reached her nose, and the lightkeeper hastily removed the pan from the stove. She sighed. If they weren’t the last set of eggs until the afternoon, she would have no problem tossing the scorched breakfast on the rocks for the gulls to find. Today, a mound of salt and pepper would have to do the trick. She transferred the sorry excuse for a meal onto a plate and curled up on the dilapidated armchair by the window to eat, a necessary part of her daily routine. This window faced east, toward the mainland. Although she was never the type to seek out the company of others prior to taking this role, she sometimes missed the predictable chaos of her hometown.

It was a Saturday morning, and with that in mind, she could reasonably imagine the current state of the town. The children, ecstatic about their one day of freedom between school and church, were undoubtedly racing about the market in the square, each one begging their parents for a taste of whatever sweet the shopkeeper was selling this week. Mrs. Johanas was likely haggling the price of cod with Jack Pierson (a losing game that she entertained each week without fail).

There was no reason to wonder about her own family– whoever arrived with her supplies was sure to have a letter from her mother as well. She stood, going back to the dining table that now functioned almost exclusively as a desk, rummaging around once more until she located the letter she wrote a few days earlier. The eggs eaten, she scrubbed her plate and set it in the sun to dry before starting on the rest of her tasks.

Her daily schedule consisted of chores that weren’t essential but helped keep the boredom from setting in entirely. She was not the permanent keeper; the older man who typically ran this lighthouse had requested a summer off. He was her mother’s cousin, and, knowing how much his family missed him, the lightkeeper offered to take his place for a few months so he could have shore leave. Although he excelled at the nighttime duties, the general tidiness of the tower was severely lacking when she arrived. The amount of sediment that drifted inside the lighthouse was infuriating and made daily sweeping a must. It didn’t take long, and once she tidied up the two indoor floors there was little else to do until the boat arrived with supplies, and so she curled up once more in the armchair for a much-needed nap.

The lightkeeper awoke to rapid knocks on the door and animated chatter. The sun had peaked and begun to fall westward. Blinking away the sleep– she usually got a few more hours in– she stood and opened the door, grateful for the excited, smiling faces that were waiting for her.

“Miss Evans!” Ethel said, holding a small crate with one arm, and a novel and a letter with the other.

“It’s nice to see you,” the lightkeeper said, hoping the warmth in her tone came across. Her months of solitude had dampened her social skills enough to be cause for concern, but this visitor wasn’t quick to judge. Ethel was nearly sixteen, and thanks to her academically inclined and wealthy parents, she was to leave for university any day now.

“Hello, Miss Evans,” said Ethel’s younger brother, James. Unusually strong for his age, he was her most frequent delivery boy. The other children came in groups of three to fight the waves out to the lighthouse, but he held his own against the tide with his sister’s help. James held a larger crate with both hands, and the lightkeeper opened her door wider to let the two inside. James hefted the crate on the floor with a thud, and the lightkeeper winced. Loud noises were frowned upon in the lighthouse, as they might attract unwanted visitors.

“James, I hope you aren’t carrying my eggs,” she said.

He laughed sheepishly. “I don’t think so,” he responded. Ethel carefully set her crate on the floor next to James’ and the letter and novel on the desk. The two assisted her in unloading the supplies, scarcely paying attention to the sun slinking away to the horizon. They filled her in on the town gossip: who was in trouble this week at school? did someone steal Mr. Heron’s chickens? the Gleeson family is thinking about moving away, did you know?

It was so mundane, and the lightkeeper once again found herself missing the mainland. The constant conversation was a welcome solace from the silence she was accustomed to. Even after the rations were all put away, the siblings lingered until the sun was nearly flush with the ocean.

At last, the lightkeeper noticed the time. “You should have left hours ago!” she exclaimed. “It’s far too late to travel back, not with the weather being as unpredictable as it has been.” Their mother would kill her if she allowed them to row back to shore in the dark.

“We could stay here tonight? That may be safest, Miss Evans,” Ethel replied. There was a gleam of mischief in her eyes.

Of course, the lightkeeper should have known. The few times Ethel had delivered supplies over the summer, the girl had expressed a desire to spend the night in the lighthouse, just for fun. Cunning as she was, she asked the lightkeeper every question she could about the novel she had borrowed. With this being the last supply run before the lightkeeper returned to shore and Ethel left for university, this was her last chance.

“Yes! Oh please let us stay, we promise we won’t bother you,” James, although likely not in on his sister’s scheme, was quick to offer support.

The lightkeeper sighed. There were plenty of spare quilts tucked away in a chest upstairs for the colder months, and the chairs had enough cushions to serve as makeshift mattresses. As long as they kept silent all night, this was the safest place for them until dawn.

“I suppose,” she conceded. James cheered, while Ethel simply smiled. “But, you must stay quiet tonight, and you absolutely cannot look outside until the sun begins to rise, do you understand?” They nodded eagerly.

Everything in or around the lighthouse was cause for excitement– Ethel fawned over the spiral staircase leading to the second floor, James marveled at the smell of a coming storm when she took them to the upper catwalk to have a look at the sea from above. The lightkeeper threw together a quick supper of eggs and toast, the easiest thing to stretch between three people. Despite its simplicity, the children ate with gusto, praising her mediocre cooking skills all the while. They even offered to clean up, and she kept one eye on the sea as the sky steadily darkened. When the final traces of sunlight faded, she set about lighting the lanterns around the lighthouse, saving the topmost lamp above the catwalk for last.

Sending the children to bed was no easy task. They were bursting with energy. Ethel begged to stay awake longer in order to reread part of a novel she borrowed in the months prior, and James kept getting up to take one last look at the sea. The lightkeeper almost gave in. A sizable wave crashed against the base of the tower and slammed her back to reality. She apologized for the lantern that would need to leave burning near the window. With the two cozied up under piles of quilts, the lightkeeper returned to the main floor, retrieved the crossbow and makeshift quiver from beneath the floorboards, and then returned to the catwalk.

The storm only manifested as light rain instead of the squall she expected, but even the thin mist was a problem. She dug a stocking cap out of her pocket to offer a bit more warmth, cursing all the while. The lightkeeper leaned on the rusting metal rail lining the catwalk, breathing in the cold sea air while scanning the water surrounding the tiny island. It would be hard to see, tonight.

A flicker of movement caught her eye to the right. She hefted the crossbow to the ready and directed her attention to a stranded gull picking at the remains of a battered fish. She allowed her hold on the bow to loosen ever so slightly until a ghastly hand broke the surface of the waves to snatch the bird and start to drag it under. She took aim and shot without thinking. There was a muffled cry from the creature, and the hand disappeared beneath the waves, leaving only a ruffled gull. She smiled. Each and every arrow that found its mark ignited a warm feeling within her gut, a pride she had yet to lose.

Her first night as lightkeeper was a rude awakening. There was a violent storm, and the lightning strikes were her only source of light when the wind frequently blew out the lamp. She hadn’t known what she was getting into– her mother’s cousin neglected to mention the horrible creatures she now battled nightly– and the things almost succeeded in climbing up the walls of the tower. Jagged claw marks at the steel foundation served as a cruel reminder of the incident.

A crossbow usually did the trick– the common creature was the size of a person and one shot was all it took. There was a harpoon pinned to the wall of the staircase, which she initially thought was morbid decoration. This weapon was reserved for the largest ocean beasts, the likes of which she only encountered once all summer.

It was a true deep-sea horror, with dead eyes the size of her head and tentacles that could snap the lighthouse clean in two. She struck with the crossbow and quickly realized a meager arrow only enraged it. The harpoon was her only prayer. Thankfully, the beast was more interested in eating its dead companions than her, and she drove it back to the depths by dawn.

With James and Ethel in the house, she hoped tonight would not be the time for its return.

The lightkeeper walked around the catwalk, searching the shore for more signs of the undead. The first clean shot of the night made her keen for more. She wondered how dull her life would be upon returning to the town in a few weeks, unable to tell anyone of her victories at sea. Her friends, family, and neighbors were best off without the knowledge of what lurked below the surface of the waves.

Another creature breached, this time providing a larger target with its entire upper torso in full view. She struck it down with ease and made another loop. Three more beings were slinking their way up the rocks on the other side, faces contorted in a permanent scowl. Three more beings returned to the waters with arrows firmly planted in their sea-soften skulls.

Throughout the summer, the lightkeeper allowed herself to wonder where they came from. Were they another species? That was her first theory, one that was disproven the previous week when she identified one of the beings as a man from a nearby town who went missing last winter. She hadn’t slept much since. The faces of the creatures she now knew to be drowned men and women haunted her dreams.

Then, there was the question of why her crossbow stopped them in their tracks. Could the doomed dead die twice? Another creature’s hand burst through the surface. She took aim and shot.

The children told her, among the other news, that a young boy from town went missing in the past week. She prayed she would not count him among her slain tonight.

The moon, a small sliver of its full self, reached its pinnacle and began its descent. The rain cleared, and her task became a game rather than a struggle. How quickly could she locate, aim, and dispose of a creature? The rotting bodies piled up on the rocky shore. The air warmed, and the change in temperature seemed to drive the creatures off. A typical night brought at least forty: by the time the moon kissed the western horizon, she only counted thirty-six.

As the sun teased its reappearance and the attack on the lighthouse ceased, it was time for her first task of the morning. The lightkeeper slung the crossbow over one shoulder and the quiver over the other before returning inside and to the main floor of the lighthouse, briefly ensuring that James and Ethel were still fast asleep on the way.

The decaying bodies would attract seagulls, which, in turn, would attract more creatures that night. The easiest way to stop the unfavorable cycle was to push the corpses back into the sea. After pulling on leather gloves, the lightkeeper began the grueling task of sending the creatures back to their watery graves. Although she tried not to look at their faces, she often failed and silently mouthed thanks each time the features were not those of a child. As she hauled the final body back to the waterline– this creature, in particular, gave her an unexpected challenge, nearly reaching the halfway mark between the water and the base of the lighthouse– there were footsteps across the rocks behind her.

“Miss Evans?” Ethel asked, her voice shaking.

The lightkeeper continued dragging the body to the sea. “I did not realize you were awake.” She drew in a breath to calm herself.

“Only for a few minutes. There’s no curtains inside, so the sun woke me,” Ethel said. Her eyes were firmly locked on to the creature the lightkeeper was holding, and her overall complexion was swiftly turning a sickly shade of green.

“Ah, I apologize. I should have realized you would be up soon.” She reached the waves at last, but hesitated before giving the creature its final heave into the sea. “Would you like to help me?”

Ethel took a few steps forward, paused, and then took a few more until she stood a foot away. She appeared ready to flee at the drop of a hat. “What– what is this? Did you kill him?”

The creatures appeared far less human upon closer inspection. The lightkeeper vomited multiple times her first few nights while dragging them to sea. Their skin was grey, almost purple, and various parts were missing– ears, chunks of their arms or legs, even entire fingers or eyes. Something was always just off enough to take notice of. A limb was too long, or too short. There was an extra nose, occasionally, and some had too many pupils trapped in their ghastly eyes.

“I watched you last night,” Ethel admitted after the lightkeeper hesitated. “I saw them climbing out of the water, but I pretended to sleep when you came back down.”

“I did kill it,” the lightkeeper confirmed. Ethel had returned to silence. “But in a way, I saved it, too. They’re already dead, but when I kill them, they finally get to rest.”

“Do you do this every night?” Ethel inched a bit closer, brows scrunched as she took in the creature the lightkeeper held. This one was missing half of its jaw, and it smelled distinctly of rotted fish.

“Every night,” she replied. “Someone has to protect the lighthouse, so our boats can find their way. When I leave, it will be Mr. Smitz’s job again.”

Ethel’s cheeks were reverting back to their original shade. “Fascinating,” she murmured.

“Would you like to help me?”

Ethel nodded and took hold of the creature’s arms to lift it off the ground. Together, they carried it the rest of the way to the sea, where it sank rapidly.

Neither spoke for a moment, just watched the sun rise over the land in the distance.

“Shall we go wake your brother?” The lightkeeper asked, and Ethel nodded again. “And please– don’t tell anyone about this. It’s better if they don’t know.”

“They wouldn’t believe me,” Ethel said. The light was returning to her eyes, and her mouth quirked into a small smile.

“That, too. Let’s get some food in you two, and send you on your way before your mother throws a fit.”

“It’s too late for that, Miss Evans.”

The lightkeeper laughed. “Well, be sure to tell her I did my best to keep you safe.”

“I know. I will,” Ethel promised. The lightkeeper began walking back to the lighthouse’s entrance, and after a brief look over her shoulder, Ethel followed. Once inside, the lightkeeper led Ethel on her rounds to extinguish the lanterns around the tower before cooking breakfast and waking James.

Utterly oblivious, James filled the air with talk of what he would do that week at school while the other two ate in silence. Though he tried to stall before leaving the tiny island, the lightkeeper shooed them off immediately for fear of the wrath she would receive from their mother the minute she set foot on shore again.

“You’ll do well at university,” the lightkeeper took Ethel as her brother dragged the boat to the shoreline.

Ethel smiled. “I hope so.”

“Don’t forget what I told you, last night.”

“I’ll never tell a soul.” With that, Ethel followed her brother, holding a book the lightkeeper was willing to part with until they met again.

“Goodbye Miss Evans!” James called as they rowed away. Ethel echoed him from where she sat purposefully in the center of the boat.

The lightkeeper watched as the boat shrank to a tiny speck in the distance. Her own departure was fast-approaching, too. Here, it was her, the sun, and the creatures that lurked beneath. It was easier that way, away from the controlled chaos of the simple life that awaited her.

Perhaps, in the coming weeks after she returned, she would miss the maddening repetition of her days and the thrill of her nights while at sea. The waters were calm, and the gulls swarmed in the distance. When she could no longer see the boat, she returned inside, looking forward to a new novel and a much-needed nap.