The Last Lightkeeper

The lighthouse on Blackstone Cliff hadn’t been manned for decades. Automation took over, and the stories of lightkeepers faded into memory like sea mist at sunrise. But Eliah Marren, a retired mariner with a face weathered by time and tides, volunteered to tend it again—not because the light needed him, but because he needed the light.

After the death of his wife, Eliah had retreated from the world. The empty rooms of his coastal cottage echoed with silence too loud to bear. So when the local council offered him the chance to live in the old Blackstone Lighthouse as a “historical caretaker,” he said yes. It was supposed to be ceremonial—keep the place clean, give the occasional tour. But Eliah took it seriously. Every night, he checked the lens, polished the brass, and logged the beacon’s performance as if ships still depended on him.

The lighthouse stood like a sentinel above crashing waves, its spiral stairs groaning under Eliah’s weight each evening. He came to love the rhythm of the sea, the creak of timbers, the cry of gulls overhead. But on the 37th night, something changed.

At exactly 2:17 a.m., the light blinked.

Eliah noticed it in the logbook the next morning. The rotation cycle was off by a fraction—enough to catch the attention of someone who watched closely. He dismissed it as mechanical variance and tightened the gears. But the next night, it happened again. A pause. A flutter. A blink.

By the fourth night, Eliah sat in the lantern room with a thermos of coffee and a pair of binoculars. The sea below boiled in moonlight. He waited.

At 2:17 a.m., the light blinked twice.

Two quick flashes. Not a malfunction—an intentional signal. Eliah's heart pounded.

Morse code.

He scrambled for his old naval logbook and began decoding. The pattern came again, clearer now:

H-E-L-P

Eliah didn’t sleep. The next day, he radioed the coastguard. They laughed gently. “Probably a reflection. Or your equipment's just glitching, old man.”

But Eliah knew signal code. And he knew when someone was crying out.

That night, the message changed.

B-E-L-O-W

Eliah peered down the jagged cliffs. No boats. No figures. Just water and stone.

But then came another flash: N-O-T-A-L-O-N-E

He descended the cliff steps with a flashlight, heart hammering like storm drums. The rocks were slick, but he moved like a younger man, driven by something older than fear. At the cliff’s base was an outcrop barely visible at high tide. A rusted hatch lay there, half-buried under moss and time.

Eliah pried it open.

A tunnel yawned below, reeking of salt and rust. He stepped inside.

The air grew colder. The walls whispered with wind and waves, but something else—breathing? Footsteps?

Then a voice: faint, female, trembling.

“Hello?”

Eliah froze. “Who’s there?”

A figure emerged from the shadows. Young, gaunt, and wrapped in a coat far too big for her.

“I’m Anna,” she said. “They locked me in here.”

Eliah’s mouth went dry. “Who?”

She glanced behind her. “The ones who come at night. From the sea. I signaled the light.”

She held up a cracked mirror. "It was all I had."

Eliah led her out, step by shaking step, until they burst into moonlight. Anna collapsed into the grass, breathing the free air like it was her first breath.

In the weeks that followed, the authorities discovered a hidden network of sea caves—used by smugglers during the war, forgotten by time, but not by the few who still carried its secrets. Anna had escaped a group that never expected to be found.

Eliah became a local legend. But he never claimed heroism. He just went back to the light.

Every night, it spun faithfully, casting its glow into the dark. Eliah never saw another strange blink again.

But he always watched.

And somewhere deep inside, he hoped—if ever someone needed help again—they would know where to look.

Toward the light.