The Last Light

The lighthouse had been quiet for years. That was the first thing I noticed as I stood at its base, staring up at the weathered stone tower that seemed to pierce the sky. The second thing was the absolute stillness. No birds. No wind. Only the distant sound of the sea, crashing into the jagged rocks below.

I had taken the job without much thought—after all, who needed company when you had isolation as beautiful as this? My friends had warned me that I’d go stir-crazy, but I craved the solitude. The daily grind of city life had worn me thin, and the idea of nothing but ocean and sky was more appealing than I could put into words.

The old man who handed me the keys said little. He was the previous keeper and had lived here alone for over thirty years. He was weathered like the stone of the lighthouse, his skin dark and wrinkled from the sun and salt air. His eyes were the color of the sea before a storm.

“Mind yourself,” he said, his voice gravelly as he thrust the heavy iron keys into my hand. “Keep the light burning. That’s your job now.”

“Anything else I should know?” I had asked, more to be polite than because I was concerned.

He hesitated, his gaze shifting to the tower. “Just keep the light burning,” he repeated, more slowly this time. There was something in his voice—something I couldn’t place. But before I could ask, he was gone, hobbling down the uneven path that wound back toward the mainland.

Now, as I stood in the shadow of the lighthouse, I shook off the uneasy feeling his words had given me and began to climb the narrow spiral staircase to the top. It was exhausting work—each step groaning under my weight, the air growing thicker the higher I went. The stone walls were slick with age, moisture dripping down them like sweat.

Finally, I reached the top, where the great lantern loomed above me. It was a thing of beauty—an old Fresnel lens that had been guiding ships safely through the fog for over a hundred years. The light had gone out when the previous keeper left, but tonight it would burn again.

After lighting the beacon, I settled into the small, cramped living quarters beneath it. The room was sparse—a single bed, a wooden desk, and a small stove. A thick book of log entries lay on the desk, the pages yellowed and curling with age. I flipped through it absentmindedly, reading the names of previous keepers, their notes about the weather, ship sightings, and repairs made to the lighthouse. The last entry was from a month ago, written in the same shaky hand that had given me the keys.

*The fog is back again. Thicker than ever. It presses against the windows. I hear it at night—the creaking of the tower. But I’m not alone anymore. I can hear them… in the fog.*

I paused, staring at the words. I could almost hear the old man’s voice in my head, whispering them as I read. I brushed it off as superstition—thirty years alone could do that to anyone.

The night passed without incident, though I kept the small oil lamp beside me lit as I slept. The waves below the cliffs were a constant lullaby, and by morning, I had almost forgotten the strange entry in the logbook.

The next day was spent checking the lighthouse’s mechanisms, cleaning the lantern’s glass, and ensuring everything was in working order. As dusk settled over the sea, a thick fog rolled in from the horizon. It swallowed the ocean, erasing the line where water met sky. Soon, it was all around the tower, pressing against the windows, smothering the sound of the waves.

I was in the living quarters, reading by the light of the oil lamp, when I heard it.

A sound, distant at first. A scraping, like something dragging itself along the stones outside. I set the book down and listened, my heart quickening. The sound came again, louder this time. Closer.

I stood up and went to the small window that looked out over the ocean, but all I could see was the thick, swirling fog. The sound grew louder still—a rasping, grating noise that sent a chill down my spine. It was coming from the base of the lighthouse.

“Probably just the wind,” I muttered to myself, though I didn’t entirely believe it.

But as the minutes ticked by, the noise didn’t fade. It seemed to circle the tower, as if something—or someone—was walking around its base, dragging a heavy, sharp object along the stones. I thought of the old man’s words, and a cold sweat broke out across my skin.

I grabbed the lantern from the desk and made my way downstairs, the staircase creaking beneath my boots. The air was thick with the smell of salt and damp stone as I descended. The sound was louder now, echoing through the stone walls. My heart pounded in my ears as I reached the bottom of the staircase and opened the heavy iron door that led outside.

The fog was so thick I could barely see my hand in front of my face. I held the lantern high, its weak light barely cutting through the mist. The scraping sound had stopped, and the silence that followed was somehow worse.

I took a deep breath and stepped outside, my boots crunching on the gravel path that led around the lighthouse. I moved slowly, cautiously, listening for anything that might explain the noise. But all I could hear was the distant roar of the sea, muffled by the fog.

I completed a full circle around the base of the tower and found nothing. No footprints. No signs of movement. Nothing but the thick, suffocating mist.

As I turned to head back inside, I heard it again.

“Did you hear that?”

I froze. The voice was faint, almost a whisper, but clear as day. It came from somewhere in the fog, just beyond the reach of the lantern’s light.

My heart leaped into my throat. I held my breath, straining to listen, but the voice didn’t come again. For a moment, I stood there, trembling in the cold, damp air, my breath coming in short, shallow bursts.

Then, something moved.

I saw it out of the corner of my eye—just a flicker of motion in the fog. Something tall and dark, shifting in the mist. I turned the lantern toward it, but the light reflected off the swirling fog, obscuring whatever it was.

I backed away slowly, my mind racing. I tried to convince myself that it was nothing—a trick of the light, my imagination playing tricks on me. But deep down, I knew better.

“Did you hear that?” the voice came again, closer this time.

I spun around, nearly dropping the lantern. My pulse was hammering in my ears. The voice was wrong—too soft, too far away, but close at the same time. It felt like it was right behind me, yet carried on the wind, echoing off the stone.

I bolted for the door, slamming it behind me as I stumbled back inside the lighthouse. My hands were shaking, my breath ragged. I leaned against the wall, trying to calm myself, but the silence inside the tower felt even more oppressive than the fog outside.

For hours, I sat at the bottom of the staircase, clutching the lantern and staring at the door. My thoughts raced, trying to make sense of what I’d heard, what I’d seen.

Was I going mad? Had the isolation already begun to get to me?

Finally, exhaustion overtook my fear, and I climbed back up to the living quarters. I collapsed onto the bed, though I knew sleep would be impossible.

The next few days passed in a blur of fog and silence. I kept the lighthouse running—checked the lantern, recorded the weather—but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching me, waiting just beyond the veil of mist. Every night, the voice would come again, faint and distant at first, then closer, always asking the same question.

“Did you hear that?”

I stopped going outside after dark. The sounds continued, circling the lighthouse, always just out of sight. Scraping. Dragging. Sometimes, I thought I could hear footsteps—heavy, deliberate footsteps—following me as I moved through the tower.

I didn’t write any of this in the logbook. I didn’t want to leave a record of my fear, my growing paranoia. If I ever left this place, I didn’t want anyone to know how close I had come to losing my mind.

But then, one night, the voice was louder. Clearer.

I was sitting at the desk, staring out the window at the swirling fog, when I heard it.

“Did you hear that?” the voice asked, and this time it was unmistakable. A whisper, but so close I felt the breath of it on the back of my neck.

I spun around, knocking the lantern off the desk. The room plunged into darkness as the light shattered on the floor, and in that moment, I knew I wasn’t alone.

The scraping sound came again, louder than ever, echoing up the stairwell from below. Something was in the lighthouse. Something had found its way inside.

I grabbed the small oil lamp from the desk, my hands trembling as I lit it. The dim light flickered, casting long, twisted shadows across the walls. The air in the room felt thick, heavy, as if the fog had seeped inside, filling the space with an oppressive weight.

The voice came again, but this time it wasn’t a question.

It was a command.

“Come down.”

I backed away from the staircase, my heart hammering in my chest.