The Lighthouse Keeper’s Journal

The heavy thud of James's boots echoed through the long, narrow hallway of the lighthouse as he pushed open the door to his new post. The air inside was stale, smelling faintly of sea salt and old wood. The lighthouse hadn’t been manned in years, and dust hung thick in the air, swirling like the fog that clung to the outside windows.

James dropped his suitcase near the door and gazed out the nearest window. The ocean stretched endlessly, dark and churning beneath a sky that was already gray. A dense fog rolled over the water like a living thing, creeping closer to the shore.

“I’ll get used to it,” James muttered to himself, pulling the collar of his jacket closer. This was what he had signed up for, after all—peace and solitude, away from the bustle of the world. A few weeks of quiet isolation would do him good. At least, that was what he thought.

As he moved further into the lighthouse, he noticed something odd in the small sitting room adjacent to the kitchen. An old, leather-bound journal lay on the table, dusty and forgotten. Curious, James flipped it open, and his eyes scanned the first page.

"Keeper's Journal," it read in neat, precise handwriting. The name beneath it was smudged, but the date was clear—three years ago.

The previous keeper. The one who never left. The one they said had disappeared without a trace.

The entries started out simple enough: maintenance notes, descriptions of the weather, and daily routines. But as the journal went on, the tone shifted. The handwriting became jagged, panicked, scrawling across the page.

Entry #34: "The fog is worse tonight. It’s thicker than ever. I swear I saw something in it. Something moving. Watching."

James frowned as he read the next few entries, each one more frantic than the last. The previous keeper, Edgar, had become obsessed with the fog. He started hearing voices in it, seeing figures that weren’t there. And then, in the later entries, the descriptions of the creature began.

Entry #56: "The Mistfiend. That’s what it is. It lives in the fog, waits for the thickest nights to come close. I’ve seen it. Its eyes… glowing red in the mist. Its form... always shifting, but its claws—those claws are real. It watches me. Waits for me."

A chill ran down James’s spine. He glanced out the window, where the fog was creeping closer to the base of the lighthouse. It couldn’t be real. These were just the delusions of a lonely man who’d spent too much time alone.

But then, from somewhere deep in the fog, he heard it—a soft scraping sound, like claws on stone.

James froze, heart pounding in his chest. The scraping noise was faint, but it was unmistakable. He slowly rose from the chair, peering out of the small window, but all he could see was the dense fog swirling outside.

The sound stopped.

He waited, holding his breath, straining his ears for any hint of movement. But the fog was silent now, lying thick against the ground, creeping over the jagged rocks that surrounded the lighthouse like a gray blanket. James let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

"It’s nothing," he told himself. "Just the wind."

But Edgar’s words haunted him. "It watches me. Waits for me."

James shook his head and closed the journal. It was probably just a story—a fiction created by the previous keeper’s isolation and fear. He stacked the journal on top of a few other papers, determined to ignore it for now, and headed upstairs to get the lighthouse’s beacon going before nightfall.

The day passed slowly, with James settling into his new routine. He checked the machinery, tested the light, and made sure everything was in order for his first night. Despite the eerie journal, he found comfort in the repetitive work. It grounded him, made him forget about the strange noises from earlier.

But as night crept in, so did the fog.

James stood at the top of the lighthouse, watching the light cut through the swirling mist, casting ghostly beams into the dark. Below, the fog had thickened to the point where he could no longer see the ground. The ocean was invisible, its roars muffled by the heavy fog.

The scraping noise returned.

This time it was louder, closer.

James's pulse quickened. He grabbed the flashlight that hung by the door and hurried down the spiraling staircase. The sound followed him, a slow, deliberate scraping, as if something sharp was being dragged across stone.

Reaching the bottom, he shone the flashlight through the window. The beam flickered against the swirling fog, but there was nothing to see—just mist and shadows.

But then, in the far corner of his vision, something moved.

A shape, tall and shifting, appeared briefly, then melted back into the fog. James blinked, heart racing. He pointed the flashlight in its direction, but it was gone. All that remained was the impenetrable wall of fog pressing against the windows.

He fumbled for the journal, flipping to the final pages.

Entry #72: "The fog is alive. It hides the creature—no, it is the creature. The Mistfiend takes form from the fog, its body twisting and shifting like smoke. But its eyes… its eyes are the only constant. Red. Burning. Watching me, always."

James snapped the journal shut, his hands shaking. He’d seen the shape. The glowing red eyes. Edgar wasn’t mad. He wasn’t imagining things. There was something out there in the fog.

A knock echoed through the lighthouse.

James jumped, dropping the journal. His breath hitched as he looked toward the door. The knock came again, this time louder, followed by a dragging sound like claws scratching at the wood.

He moved slowly toward the door, his mind racing. He reached for the handle, but before he could turn it, a heavy thud shook the door from the other side.

James stumbled back, heart pounding. He glanced at the windows—fog-covered and dark. But the thumping persisted, growing louder, more aggressive, until it rattled the very walls of the lighthouse.

Then, silence.

James stood frozen in the center of the room, clutching the flashlight like a lifeline. He stared at the door, waiting for whatever came next. Minutes passed, but nothing happened. The thumping had stopped, replaced by the oppressive quiet of the fog.

Suddenly, from behind him, a low voice whispered.

"Let me in."

James whirled around, his blood running cold. The voice was faint, coming from inside the lighthouse, as though the fog had seeped through the walls. The air grew thick, heavy with moisture, as the temperature dropped. His breath came out in visible puffs.

The whisper came again, closer now.

"Let… me… in…"

James backed up, his legs trembling as the fog began seeping under the door, curling like tendrils around his feet. He stumbled, his back hitting the wall as the fog coiled up his legs, cold and suffocating. And then, in the center of the mist, he saw them—two glowing red eyes, staring up at him from the ground.

The Mistfiend had come.

It rose slowly, its body forming from the swirling fog, shifting from mist into something more solid. Long, thin arms stretched out from its body, ending in sharp, claw-like fingers that scraped against the floor. Its face was a twisted, shifting mass of fog, but its eyes burned red, fixed on James with an unrelenting hunger.

James scrambled backward, but the Mistfiend lunged forward, its claws reaching for him.

He screamed.

Hours later, the lighthouse stood silent, the beacon cutting through the now-clear night sky. Inside, the journal lay open on the floor, a single line scrawled across the last page in jagged, frantic handwriting:

"It’s my turn now."

The End...