The Knock of Drowned Men

The lighthouse on Blackthorn Isle stood like a sentinel against the endless Atlantic, its beam slicing through the fog-shrouded night every twenty seconds. Elias had tended it for twelve years, ever since the maritime authority shipped him out here to escape the clamor of the mainland. The island was a speck of jagged rock, no bigger than a football field, lashed by waves that crashed eternally against the cliffs below. No trees, no soil for gardens—just the tower, the keeper's cottage, and the relentless roar of the sea. Seagulls wheeled overhead by day, their cries a mocking chorus, but at night, the world fell silent save for the water's thunderous heartbeat.

Elias sat in his armchair by the oil lamp, a dog-eared copy of Moby-Dick open on his lap. The clock ticked toward midnight. He'd just refilled the lantern oil and climbed down from the lantern room, his joints aching from the spiral stairs. The isolation suited him; no neighbors to bother, no news of wars or pandemics filtering in via the shortwave radio, which he'd let die weeks ago. Tonight was particularly still—the wind had died with the sun, leaving the air thick and unmoving. He sipped black tea, the steam curling like ghosts, and turned a page.

Then came the knock.

It was faint at first, muffled by the cottage's thick oak door, but unmistakable: three sharp raps, like knuckles on wood. Elias froze, his cup halfway to his lips. The sound echoed in his chest, louder than the waves for that split second. He set the book down slowly, heart thudding. Who—or what—could be knocking? The supply boat came once a month, and that was due in two weeks. No fishermen braved these waters after dark; the currents were treacherous, swallowing vessels whole. And the island had no dock for casual visitors. He glanced at the window, but the curtains were drawn against the chill. Another knock, insistent now, followed by a low scraping, as if something heavy dragged against the doorframe.

Elias rose, his slippers whispering on the worn floorboards. The cottage was small—a single room with a kitchenette, bed alcove, and the door leading out to the path up to the lighthouse. He grabbed the iron poker from the fireplace, more out of habit than bravery. "Who's there?" he called, his voice cracking like dry kelp. No answer, just the waves crashing below, and a gull's distant screech that sounded almost human. He edged toward the door, the poker raised. The knocks came again—rap-rap-rap—each one pulling him closer, like a tide dragging at his ankles.

What if it was a survivor? Shipwrecks weren't unheard of; bones of old wrecks littered the reef. But in this calm? Unlikely. Or maybe an animal—a seal, battered by rocks, pounding with its flipper. Elias had heard tales from old keepers of seals that mimicked knocks to lure men out. Superstition, he told himself, but his hand trembled on the latch. The air grew colder, seeping under the door like icy fingers. He pressed his eye to the peephole, but the night was ink-black, the beam's sweep not due for another ten seconds.

The knocking stopped. Silence pressed in, broken only by his ragged breathing. Curiosity warred with fear. Twelve years without incident, and now this. He unbolted the door with a click that seemed to echo across the ocean, yanked it open—and staggered back.

Standing on the threshold was a man, or what looked like one. Soaked to the bone, his clothes clung like sodden weeds: a fisherman's oilskin coat, torn and barnacle-encrusted, trousers ripped at the knees. Water dripped from him in steady rivulets, pooling on the stone step, but there was no splash from the waves nearby—no recent storm to explain it. His face was pale, almost translucent, with eyes like polished abalone shells, reflecting the lamplight in unnatural glints. Salt crusted his beard, and his hair hung in lank strands, woven with bits of seaweed. He smiled, lips blue and trembling, revealing teeth that seemed too sharp, too many.

"Evening, keeper," the man rasped, voice like gravel under waves. "Lost me way. Ship went down out there." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, toward the horizon where the sea met the stars in a seamless void. No lights, no debris. Elias gripped the poker tighter. "How'd you get here? The currents—"

"Swum, o' course." The man's grin widened. He stepped forward uninvited, water sloshing from his boots. Elias blocked the door. "Wait. You're... alive? No one's made it from a wreck to this rock without a boat." The intruder chuckled, a wet, bubbling sound. "Alive enough. Name's Harlan. From the Sea Widow. Sank hours ago. Felt the pull o' your light, followed it."

Elias's mind raced. The Sea Widow—he'd heard garbled radio chatter about a coastal trawler overdue. But hours ago? And swimming miles in the dark? Impossible. Harlan's skin glistened, not with sweat, but with an oily sheen, like fish scales under moonlight. As the lighthouse beam swept around, it caught his eyes—pupils slitted, like a cat's, or something deeper from the abyss. "Come in, then," Elias said, against his better judgment. "Dry off. I'll radio the coast guard."

Harlan shuffled inside, leaving a trail of seawater that didn't evaporate, didn't soak into the rug—it just spread, inching toward the floorboards like living ink. Elias shut the door, the latch clicking like a trap springing. The room felt smaller, the air heavier with the tang of brine and something fouler, like rotting kelp. Harlan collapsed into the armchair, unbidden, his weight making the frame creak. "Kind o' you," he murmured, eyes fixed on the book. "Moby-Dick, eh? Chasin' whales. But the sea chases back, don't it?"

Elias poured tea, hands unsteady, and handed it over. Harlan took it but didn't drink; he just held the cup, steam rising, while droplets from his sleeve plinked into it. "Tell me what happened," Elias pressed, hovering by the radio. Harlan's gaze shifted, locking onto him. "Storm came sudden. Waves taller'n the mast. Men screamed, but the gulls... the gulls laughed. Then the deep called. Pulled us down." His voice dropped to a whisper. "But I answered."

A chill crawled up Elias's spine. Outside, the waves seemed louder, crashing not just against the cliffs but clawing higher, as if the sea itself listened. He flicked on the radio—static hissed, then nothing. Dead. Harlan's lips curled. "No signal tonight. The water's jealous. Doesn't like sharin'."

Elias backed toward the kitchenette, poker still in hand. "You're not right. Your eyes—"

Harlan stood slowly, unfolding like a sail in wind. Water poured from him now, flooding the floor, swirling around Elias's feet. It was cold, unnaturally so, and in it, Elias saw flashes—shadowy shapes, tentacles uncoiling in the depths, eyes like Harlan's glowing from the murk. "The knock was the invitation," Harlan said, advancing. "The sea sends heralds. You've kept the light too long, burnin' away the dark. Time to join us."

Panic surged. Elias swung the poker, but Harlan's hand shot out, grip like iron barnacles. The man's skin split, revealing not blood but seawater cascading out, filled with tiny, writhing forms—eels? No, smaller, like leeches with eyes. Elias screamed, but the sound drowned in the roar outside. The cottage door rattled, not from knocking now, but from something massive pounding against it—waves? Or worse?

He broke free, bolting for the spiral stairs to the lantern room. Harlan—or whatever it was—followed, sloshing up the steps, the water rising behind like a tide. Elias reached the top, slammed the iron hatch, but the beam swept around, illuminating the horror below: Harlan's form melting, reforming into something tentacled, mouths opening in its flesh, whispering promises of the deep.

The island trembled. Waves crested the cliffs, seagulls swarming in a frenzied cloud, their cries a cacophony that mocked his terror. No one would hear—no mainland ears, no rescue. The sea had come knocking, and now it claimed its due.

As the water breached the hatch, Elias clutched the lantern glass, the light flickering. In the beam's glare, he saw the horizon alive—not empty, but teeming with shadows rising. The stillness was broken forever. And in the abyss, the gulls laughed on.