The Lighthouse Keeper

The fireplace behind him snapped, sparks flinging up like dandelion seeds, floating across the space between man and blaze. A spark landed on his oilskin jacket, flickering for a moment, then extinguishing, the ash slowly drifting down to land on the aged and distorted floorboards below. The man held a carving knife in his left hand, the wooden handle aged and cracked. The block of wood in his right hand was beginning to resemble a sitting cat, tail flicked over the back. Wood shavings flew up from the piece, falling in a small pile on the floor.

As he worked, he hummed an old sailor’s song, rocking gently back and forth, the wooden bench creaking beneath him. The man’s skin glowed in the firelight, shining as if oiled. The scent of burning wood, sea salt, and sage permeated the air, sinking into the wood floor and furniture, and the man’s skin.

Various potted plants lined the edges of the room, most in different stages of either thirst or decay. A small stack of hastily chopped firewood sat near the fire, and a poker leaned against the wall, black with ash. A carved cuckoo clock perched on the wall, the engraved birds watching the fire flicker in the hearth, ticking their pleasure. Rain pounded on the roof and waves smashed against the rocks right outside the house, adding to the gently symphony.

The only other piece of furniture in the room besides the bench was a gilded metal frame featuring a stretched canvas. The center of the canvas held the painting of a beautiful dark woman softly smiling. Surrounding her were abstract brush strokes of color. In the bottom right corner, the name “Etta Ward” was painted in gentle script, alongside the signature of the painter. The man looked at her from time to time.

On the bench next to the man, a dark cat purred loudly, rumbling the creaking wood. The man looked up from his carving, the cat’s paw partially developed in the wood, and reached an old weathered hand to stroke the real cat’s head. Yellow eyes drooped closed in pleasure.

As the clock chimed three, he set down his carving and stretched his legs, knees and ankles joining the cacophony of the other sounds in the house, and pushed himself to standing. It was time for the final check of all equipment before a night of rest. He pulled on the mud-spattered rubber boots with the hole in the right heel, grabbed his lantern, and opened the door. A deadly gale rushed in, irritating the blaze, causing it to jump and snap. The man slammed the door shut promptly, protecting his precious fire.

The bang of thunder deafened his ears momentarily while rain slashed at his face. This was a storm unlike most he had seen during his sixteen years on St. Britta. He sloshed through the puddles, making his way towards the lighthouse, obscured by the heavy rain. He ran his hand along the worn cedar fence, feeling his way blind in the storm. A strike of lightning illuminated the lighthouse, peeling white and red paint searing his retinas. The image of the lighthouse still fresh on his eyes, he wandered towards where he thought it would be, his lantern illuminating only a few feet before him. He fumbled with the key on a chain around his neck to try and unlock the door. Waves and thunder crashed behind him. Finally, he got the door open and slammed it shut behind him, breathing heavily. He pulled his hood off his head and wiped his face, trying to see through rain-stung eyes.

He began his ascent up the steps, bleary-eyed and dripping, his rubber boots tapping on the stone steps. The circular stairwell was worn in some places, rocks missing after being trod for so many years. As he climbed, gravel pattered down the steps, disturbed by his feet.

Reaching the landing, he pushed open the metal door to the lantern room, the sound of the storm quickly filling his ears yet again. Warming his hands by the fire of the lantern, he checked the oil, ascertaining that it would run just until he woke up a few hours later. He spun the beam around, searching the waters for any boats that had made a mistake to leave port in this weather. Spotting nothing, he began to return the light to its normal position facing out to sea, but an odd shape caught his eye on the sandy shore of his little island. He narrowed his eyes and leaned forward, directing the light to try to get a better glimpse through the storm.

The shape moved weakly, independent of the strong easterly gale. It was alive. His eyes widened and he spun around, buttoning his coat as he raced down the stairs.

Finally reaching the door, he flung it open and slammed it shut, not even taking time to lock it up again. He kicked through the puddles and gravel as he made his way to where he thought the shape he saw would be. As he came closer to the sea, he saw it: a dark shape coated in sand and washed up weeds. He carefully walked toward it and pushed it with his boot. The object had give: fleshy give. He pushed it a bit harder and it moved on its own. He stumbled backwards, brandishing the knife he always kept on him, waiting for the thing to move again.

“Hello?” He called to it, shouting over the storm. “Who’s there?”

The thing moved yet again and the man glimpsed a fleshy arm underneath the mass, coated in seaweed. Slowly, the thing raised itself up to reveal a woman, dark hair falling in strands all around, eyes crazy with salt water.

He raised his lantern higher to reveal more of the woman. Dark crimson blood was oozing from a cut in her shoulder and her clothes were shredded from the sharp rocks. She was beyond skinny and her ribs stuck out from her body. Clumps of sand were deeply imprinted in her ghostly flesh.

“Where am I?” the woman croaked. “And who are you?” she asked, fixing startling blue eyes on his dark ones. Her skin looked pale like the belly of a dead fish that washed up on shore after a rain. Something about her skin almost seemed to glow and shine in the low lamplight..

“This is St. Britta Island. I’m the lighthouse keeper here.”

The woman glanced up, the beam of the lantern just outlining the shape of her face. It seemed both sharp and soft at the same time. “Oh,” she said dismissively.

The man paused for a moment, taking in the woman’s raggedy clothing and disheveled appearance. Her skin was bruised and bleeding in places and shadows haunted hollow pockets of her face.

“What happened to you? Where did you come from?” he asked the woman hesitantly.

She hesitated, the rain pelting her face. “I come from the mainland. A man… hurt me,” she said, pausing as if thinking about what the man did. “I got in my little row boat and went out to sea to escape him, but then the storm came in and my boat was capsized. I don’t remember anything else.”

The man, uncertain at the woman’s story, softened his gaze regardless, seeing her fear and pain.

“Please, come inside and warm up by the fire. I’ll find you some warm clothes and bandages for your wounds. You can stay until morning, and then I’ll take you back to the mainland, and to the authorities to get all of this checked out,” he said, motioning to the upturned boat farther up the hill on the side of the house, paint peeling and color fading.

The man slowly led the young woman towards the house with her leaning on his arm for support. Every step she took seemed to be her first, and it seemed to pain her to put her legs straight. Perhaps she had fractured a bone in the storm?

As the man pushed the front door open, the wind whipped in and slammed the door against the wall behind it, rattling the windows. The cat yowled from the next room. The man closed the door behind him and the woman, grumbling about the damages.

Once inside, the woman immediately moved to the fire, holding her hands near to the flames to get some warmth in. She was shaking as if she had a fever.

The man moved quickly to his bedroom, pulling a pair of trousers out of the drawer that had grown small on him. He also pulled an old, soft shirt from his armoire, one that would inevitably keep the poor woman warm. Rummaging through an old box, he also found some socks that looked like they matched.

After gathering the clothing, the man returned to the main room, where he saw the woman seated at the bench, his dark cat clutched in her arms, eyes wide and tail thrashing.

She smiled up at him, ice blue eyes flashing in the light. She bent down while maintaining eye contact, her nose to the cat’s skin, and breathed in deeply.

“He smells delicious.”

She dragged her long fingernails down his spine with noise which can only be described as skin being ripped, and the cat widened his eyes at the man, as if begging for help. The woman lowered her nose to the cat’s skin and inhaled audibly again, eyes closed in pleasure.

The man blinked in astonishment and began to stride towards the woman to rescue his cat. “Would you mind setting George down, please?” he asked the woman.

She simply sat there, a smile plastered on her face and stroked the cat’s back even more. The man could swear he heard the ripping of skin as her nails dragged through the cat’s fur.

The fire popped behind the woman, and the man startled back to the current moment. He walked closer to her and grabbed the cat from her arms, setting him down on the floor. The cat bolted away, his yellow eyes shining like lanterns in the dimly lit home. The man decided to still be cordial: even if this woman was evil, it’s best to serve the evil with good in order to heap burning coals on their head.

“I have some stew leftover from my dinner, if you would like to have some before we go to bed,” the man said, moving towards the kitchen area to grab a bowl and spoon for the woman.

“Oh yes, that would be lovely,” she said, rising to follow him.

Handing her the bowl and spoon, he continued, “And also, here are some clothes that might be close to fitting you, miss,” he motioned to the pile he had set on the kitchen counter. “They won’t be perfect, but they will be better than the wet things you have on now.”

She took the bowl and clothes from him hungrily, as if they themselves were food. “Thank you for your generosity,” she said, and promptly returned to the fire, ladling out stew generously to her bowl.

The man stayed quiet. That stew was supposed to last him the rest of the week. At least he could bring her to the mainland tomorrow, weather permitting, and pick up some more food to last the rest of the week.

The woman sat on the bench, aggressively shovelling the stew into her maw. Bits of food splattered everywhere and broth dribbled down her chin, but she didn’t seem to mind. The man leaned against the wall facing her.

“Do you have a name?” he asked the woman.

“Lorelei. And yours?” she responded, mouth full of cooked carrots and potatoes.

“Cassius Ward.”

“How long have you been at this lighthouse by yourself?”

The man hesitated. “I haven’t always been alone,” he said, motioning to the painting hung on the wall. “My wife lived here with me for ten years before succumbing to pneumonia. The cold wasn’t good for her. Etta’s buried back home in Georgia.”

“Did you paint that yourself?” the woman asked.

“No, a good friend did back on the mainland.”

“It’s a beautiful painting.”

A moment of silence permeated the house, broken only by the cuckoo clock and the patter of rain on the roof.

“Thanks,” the man whispered.

The woman resumed devouring the stew, eating as if she hadn’t in weeks.

The man cleared his throat. “Where are you from?”

The woman froze for a moment, then continued slurping the stew, tongue flicking in and out as she tasted each bite in a disturbingly serpentine way.

A piece of chicken lay forgotten on the counter, having been flung in the woman’s mad attempt to fill her stomach. The man studied it: the glistening rawness of the morsel. Her mouth moved up and down, up and down, crushing the food into an unintelligible pulp. Specks of partially chewed food flew across the table, creating a spatter of muted color on the mahogany wood. The man’s stomach rolled.

After a moment, she set the bowl down with a clack. “Thanks so much for the food, can you show me where to sleep?”

He paused for a moment, considering what to even say. Eventually, he settled on, “Yes, of course, follow me.”

The woman set her spoon down, picked up the clothes offered to her, and followed the man into the side storage room where he had prepared a bed of sorts for her.

“Sorry it’s small, this house wasn’t really built for visitors. And we don’t get visitors much anyways,” the man said.

“It’s alright,” the woman said with a smile. “I’ve had worse.”

The man bunched his eyebrows in confusion, handed her the blanket for her to sleep with and left, shaking his head as he went.

After she had gone to bed, the room was silent. Just the heavy breathing of the fire kept the man company.

The man shook his head in wonder and walked back to the bench, floorboards creaking beneath him. The clock on the wall ticked gently to reassure him. He picked up his carving and resumed the cat, scraping at the wood to bring the figure to life.

The cat hopped up onto the bench, joining the man once he determined it to be safe, and began vigorously washing himself as if to rid himself from the woman’s presence on his skin.

“Quite a peculiar incident we’ve had tonight, isn’t it, George?” the man asked his cat quietly so as not to wake the woman. The cat eyed him and meowed placidly, continuing to bathe.

“It’s been awhile since we’ve seen anyone outside of the grocer and butcher.” The cat rubbed against the man’s leg, purring in agreement. The man bent to look at the cat’s back, parting the long hair on both sides, and found several long marks on his cat’s skin. Although they weren’t bleeding much now, they had definitely gone through the first layer of skin and scabs were beginning to form. Crusted blood had dripped down the skin and matted the fur together.

The man winced on behalf of his cat, and rubbed the cat’s head in consolation. The cat purred louder and let his eyes droop closed, “We’ll have to give you a good brush tomorrow morning to get those mats out, alright George?”

The cat gave a gentle mew and cuddled closer to the man, breathing contentedly.

After a little while, the man set down his carving and stretched, arching his back to mirror his cat, who was doing the same movement. The clock read 3:49. He yawned and began to go towards his bedroom, the cat following his every step, tail waving back and forth.

He removed his clothes and looked at himself in the mirror, which cracked after .

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted something in the mirror that made him turn back for another look. Besides the cracks running across the center from when Etta threw a hairbrush at him during an argument in the prime of their marriage, the man could see several deep scratches lining the back of his arm. He narrowed his eyes in confusion and drew closer to the mirror to have a better look. He couldn’t remember ever getting scratched. It wasn’t currently bleeding, but had left a brown stain on his shirt. He turned the sleeves inside out and made a mental note to soak it tomorrow morning when he had more energy. Drawing back the covers on his bed, he lowered his aching body down to rest.

As he laid in bed, wishing sleep to come to him, the image of the woman’s face in the seafoam and sand wouldn’t leave his mind. He clutched the blankets to his chin, squeezing his eyes shut to banish the thoughts of where she came from, and why such a peculiar woman was out at sea alone. What banshee would come here to his island like that?

His cat snuggled close to his face, purring in contentment, unaware of the nightmarish thoughts plaguing the man. The man clutched the cat close to him and prayed that he would fall asleep. After an hour of tossing and turning, he finally succumbed to turbulent rest.

The next morning, he woke promptly at 7:30 with the sun mid-rise across the horizon. As he exited the bedroom, rubbing his dry scalp, he saw the woman already seated on the bench, a pot of water boiling over the fire. The firewood pile had been restocked with dry wood, but where she got it, the man had no idea. Everything must have been soaked with the storm, which just contributed to his confusion.

The pile of wood shavings near the fireplace had been swept up, and a glass of what the man assumed was tea was steaming by the window in the kitchen. The windows were open, the smell of wet earth and worms mixing with the wood smoke and sunshine. The man glanced around at all the woman had done with amazement.

“Good morning,” she said, raising her glass of tea to him in toast, her teeth shining almost too brightly in the early morning light. There was something on the plate in front of her, but the man couldn’t see what it was.

Birds chirped and seagulls called outside, joining in the orchestration of waves and wind. But something was off. Something was different than it was last night.

The man narrowed his eyes at his surroundings, trying to see what had changed. As he glanced around, he couldn’t see anything that was different. Everything else was where he had left it and nothing looked disturbed. Ascertaining that he must just be crazy or tired, he smiled at the woman, appreciating the change of behaviour.

“Good morning. How did you sleep?” he asked the woman.

“Quite well, actually. I haven’t slept that well in a long time,” she said, stretching her arms above her head with a yawn.

“Good. I’m very glad. We’ll head for the mainland after breakfast, if that’s alright with you?”

The woman nodded, and sipped more of her tea.

The man moved to grab the cup of tea. He blew the steam from the cup and took a sip. It tasted almost metallic, even coppery. What did she put in here? He glanced down at the liquid. It was bright red.

A crow called three times outside and others joined it.

He looked up and out the window in alarm and saw what the crows were looking at.

George.

The man raced outside, not even bothering to close the door behind him. He could feel his heartbeat in his throat. He looked closer at his best friend of almost ten years in horror.

His cat was split chin to pelvis, the entirety of his skin removed from his body and sat out to dry. The top of the cat’s head had been cracked open, the brain matter spread on the pelt to tan it. The man’s jaw dropped open in horror. Blood was still dripping from his cat’s dead body, coagulating in a pool on the porch.

The organs had been removed and placed in a bowl. The man had cut up enough hogs in his day on the farms that he knew that the heart and lungs were missing from the bowl. He felt bile rising in his throat.

The cat’s tail had been hastily nailed to the eave and his arms and legs had been splayed out, attached to the building in an upside-down cross shape. The cat’s mouth hung open in a silent scream, teeth stained with blood from his apparent beating.

The man could feel tears spilling out of his eyes in horror of what had become of George.

The woman appeared behind him, still clutching the cup of tea and smiling. The man looked at her, bleary eyed, and said, “How could you?” He began to sob, his heart felt as if it was breaking in half.

The woman grinned and shrugged. “I was hungry. He smelled tasty.”

It was then that the man noticed she held the carving knife that he had used just the night before. He backed away and felt for the knife he always kept on him.

“Missing something?” the woman asked, motioning to the table behind her which held his knife.

The waves on the beach crashed in anticipation of what was going to happen, urging on the coming bloodshed. Seagulls and crows screamed like spectators, perched on every high place where they could get a good glimpse of the action. The sound of hundreds of birds flapping their wings was deafening.

The woman’s eyes focused on his. Like a predator: a shark watching a trapped fish.

He took a breath, and turned to the body of his cat. He slowly unpinned his cat from the wall, pulling the nails out as gently as possible, and took George’s lifeless body into his arms, cradling him like a newborn child. The tears welled again, but the man knew he wanted one more thing.

“Can I ask something?”

The woman nodded, a grin still plastered on her face. She looked hungry.

“Could I see the painting of my wife one more time?”

The woman hesitated, then nodded and motioned to the door. The man moved inside and stood before the painting of his wife. Her eyes sparkled in the early morning glow, and the colors surrounding her made her skin pop as if she were still alive. He reached out a hand to touch his wife, and that was when he felt the knife enter his chest cavity from behind.

It drove the breath out of him and he felt all of his nerves tingling. And then the pain came. He coughed, and blood splattered the painting. He tried to inhale, but found that it was harder than normal to breathe in. He kept his eyes on Etta, wanting the last thing he saw to be his beautiful wife. Even as Cassius was falling, he clutched George close to him and kept his eyes on Etta.

He could almost hear her call his name. “Come home, Cassius.”