The Lighthouse on the Point

The waves roared. Elliot gripped the steering wheel and grieved on the mountainside road. He crossed the vast bridge on the coastline, uncertainty was on his mind as he looked out to the horizon. A silence hummed. He continued as a fog embraced the road ahead.

He drove until he finally saw a vast lighthouse in the distance. Far toward the ocean. It was situated on what looked like a tall rocky island with a road winding up the side. It’s not really an island, it’s connected to the coastal mountain by an outstretched strip of land before rising up again. A strange formation by Mother Earth.

Elliot reached the top, parked his car and walked toward the back of the giant lighthouse as he was told to. A small wooden door. He knocked three times, then heard it unlock. He paused before opening the door and going inside.

Jazz music echoed inside the room. Elliot noticed the area was closed off from the rest of the lighthouse; its own little section instead. A cozy spot with a spiral staircase in the corner which gave Elliot a creepy vibe.

An old man walked around to the counter of what looked like a bar. He must have been the one who unlocked the door. 

“What’ll ya have?” the old man asked from afar. He wore a black suit with a black bow tie. Strange attire for a place that looked over a century old.

Elliot surveyed the room as he walked toward the man. He noticed a record player. He sat on a stool and reached in his leather jacket’s pocket, grabbing a note he’s been holding onto for months. His hand shook with anxiousness as he took the note and handed it to the old man.

The old man accepted the piece of paper, unfolded it and took a second to read. 

“Okay,” he said. He rubbed his scruffy white beard. “Give me a minute and I’ll be right back.” 

Elliot nodded. He was told there wouldn’t be much conversation here. The old man went to the back and Elliot hummed along with the jazz tunes. He was nervous, not knowing what he got himself into.

The old man came back with a white bottle in hand. He popped the cork and poured its contents into a glass. 

“Here,” he simply said as he handed Elliot the drink. It was a clear liquid, didn’t look like liquor and had a slight opalescent glow.

“Thanks,” Elliot said. He looked at the glass and then looked at the man. “I’m Elliot, by the way. What’s your name?”

“John.”

Hmm, simple man with a simple name. 

Elliot drank the liquid. Confused, it tasted like water. 

“Okay,” John said. “Go to that staircase and hold on for a few seconds.” 

Elliot was perplexed. What a strange request. This wasn’t part of what was previously described to him. He got out of his seat and ambled toward the staircase. “Make sure you close your eyes while you hold the rail, too,” John added.

As Elliot walked, the music turned off. Elliot glanced back at John and saw him holding a lifted needle from the record player. The staircase was of black metal, stretching high past the ceiling and toward the top of the lighthouse. Dark. Quiet. Elliot stared at the somber shadows that engulfed the stairs above. He held onto the rail and closed his eyes. He began to hear subtle taps in a rhythmic motion coming from the top of the stairs. His body leaned, then shook, like the twitch that grazes one’s body when about to go into deep sleep. This caused Elliot to open his eyes, disoriented and looking back at John who smiled at him.

“You were standing there for damn near 5 minutes!” John said. 

“That long?” Elliot said. The moment felt like 5 seconds. 

“Yup. Alright, now come back tomorrow.”

Elliot tried to shake off the daze from his head. He took a moment to think, wiped his eyes, then walked over and reached for the door to leave.

~ ~ ~

Elliot spent the rest of the night laying in bed with his eyes locked onto his motel room’s ceiling. His body idled yet his mind raced. He kept thinking back on the time he first got the note. A man he befriended at an antique store. About 2 hours north of where Elliot currently was. 

The antique store was located in a small town that appeared stuck in time. “The First Hollywood” as locals called the neighborhood—Chaplin filmed many of his silent films in the area before the movie industry shifted down to Southern California. Elliot was on a visit to this town and found his way in many of its dusty old shops. He was looking for books when a shopkeeper spoke with him in one the aisles.

“I’m Henry,” the man said to Elliot after helping him find an old book in stock. 

“Thanks for the help.” 

“I’m sorry to mention this so out of the blue,” Henry added, “but I noticed the puffy eyes. I know what it’s like,” he said with an empathetic tone.

The two conversed for almost an hour. No other customers there for some reason. During this time, Elliot never did mention what happened that caused his puffy eyes, but Henry’s warmth and alluring demeanor enticed so many words to come out from him as they conversed about many topics.

“Anyway, whatever it is you’re going through. I can tell it’s serious.” Henry grabbed a piece of paper and wrote in it. He folded the sheet and gave it to Elliot. “Just for you. You only.” His warmth suddenly layered with a bleak coldness in his eyes. Elliot took the paper but didn’t read it. Henry grinned. “I know a place, if you ever feel like you can make the drive,” Henry continued and described the lighthouse. It didn’t sound appealing.

“Go there around dusk. Around the back is a small entrance, just knock and go in. You’ll see some fellow, most likely old—I’m actually not sure who stays there these days—but give him the note and drink whatever he gives you.” 

Elliot raised his eyebrows like Henry was crazy. “Don’t worry, it’s a bar,” Henry said. “Then you will need to go back the next morning; you’ll receive something that I know will help you. The main reason for going there. But I can’t tell you exactly what it is.” 

All Elliot could do was look at Henry. What the hell, he thought to himself. Dumbest thing he’d ever heard, but he appreciated the amusing gesture and the helpful talk. He was sure he’d never entertain the idea of going to that lighthouse.

Thanks, Henry. 

Elliot broke his gaze from the ceiling, stopped reminiscing, looked to his left at the bedside table. The note was right next to the lamp. Elliot reached over to turn off the light, then went to sleep.

~~~

The next morning, Elliot returned to the lighthouse. More beautiful this time around compared to the grim haze from the night before.

“Good morning, bro!” John said. Still wearing a black suit, but noticeably different.

“Don’t call me bro.”

“Yeah, whatever.” John reached from under the counter and passed an item to Elliot. “Here. For you.” He looked serious now.

Elliot observed the area again. No music this time. Same smell of old wood. A faint sound of the rushing Pacific Ocean outside, then he finally looked at what John passed to him.

It was an envelope. Elliot grabbed it and sat down on the same stool from last night. He opened it up and unfolded the paper inside. It was a letter. A cold chill trickled down the back of his neck. The letter was typed from a typewriter. 

Elliot started to read the letter and his heart sank. He paused in shock, his lips trembling. Tears built up in his eyes, then he read some more as the tears began falling. He set the letter firmly onto the counter so he could re-read it over and over again.

He couldn’t believe it.

A letter to Elliot, dated the night before, typed by his father who passed away almost a year ago. 

His dad mentioned the lighthouse; happy to see Elliot wearing his dad’s old leather jacket last night; hoping the best for Elliot, and more. He automatically knew this wasn’t John playing some dumb prank, because the letter mentioned things only Elliot and his mother and father would now.

He froze. How is this possible?

“Who was up there typing last night?” Elliot asked, remembering the tapping noise he heard while holding the staircase rails. “I heard a typewriter!”

John cleared his throat. “No one is really up there, Elliot.” 

Elliot’s eyes glared at John. He continued to explain. “The letters appear at the bottom of that staircase each morning.” John had a blank expression on his face. “And I know what you’re going to eventually wonder. I’ve tried to spend the night up there and even installed cameras at one point, but nothing and no one ever appears when this lighthouse is being watched. There's not even a typewriter to begin with.” 

“What is even happening right now?” Elliot asked. Still wiping his tears.

“People like me have been trying to figure it out for decades.” John shrugged. “The place comes alive in its own way when left alone.” 

“The drink?” 

“Legend says the bottles have been around for hundreds of years. Even before this lighthouse was built,” John said. “People like you come in rarely. It’s probably been 70 or so years since someone last came in with a note like yours. Obviously I aint been here that time, but last I heard it’s been that long.”

John wiped his hands with a towel and loosened his bow tie. “I believe my job here is finally done.” He walked to one of the other doors near the bar, pulled a comb from his suit jacket and combed his hair.

“Where are you going?” Elliot asked.

“The next room, of course!” John said. “Been waiting almost my whole life to get a chance to move on from this place.” John pointed toward the back room where he got the white bottle from. “That door right there is where the bottles are if you’d like to check em out.”

Elliot’s heart began to race. He folded up the letter and put it back in the envelope. John grabbed the doorknob for the next room, then looked at Elliot one last time. 

“Nice knowing you, Elliot. Up to you if you’d like to stay here for a while, or you can go home.”

Elliot watched John leave. 

He put the envelope in his jacket pocket, stood up and took a moment to think. He wiped the rest of his tears, then walked over and reached for the door.