She Never Left the Lighthouse

I should’ve never taken that job.

But when your savings run dry and your rent is three months overdue, even a caretaker position on a remote Maine island starts to sound reasonable.

The ad said: “Temporary lighthouse keeper needed. No experience required. Two-week stay. Food and lodging provided.”

Too good to be true? Absolutely.

But I answered it anyway.

When I arrived, the boat captain wouldn’t even dock.

He stopped a few feet out and gestured for me to jump into a small dinghy.

“You’ll find the keys inside,” he muttered, eyes fixed on the waves. “Don’t go upstairs after dark.”

I laughed. Thought he was messing with me.

He didn’t laugh back.

The island was barely more than a hunk of rock—gray, jagged, and wind-scoured.

The lighthouse stood tall and crumbling, its white paint peeling like sunburnt skin.

Inside, it smelled like old seaweed and something… sweeter. Like rot.

I found the keys on a hook shaped like a seagull.

Everything inside was ancient but intact—wooden floors, oil lamps, even a dusty logbook that hadn’t been touched in years.

I signed in. "Jamie Whitlock. March 4th, 2024. Two-week caretaker shift.”

Below my entry was a faint, faded name.

“Mira Lane. June 11th, 1997. Never signed out.”

That first night, the storm rolled in like a freight train.

Thunder cracked so loud I thought the tower would split in half.

Waves crashed against the rocks, echoing up through the floorboards like something was pounding from beneath.

I tried to sleep but couldn’t.

It wasn’t just the weather.

It was the footsteps—soft, deliberate, circling above me on the spiral staircase.

The captain's warning came back: Don’t go upstairs after dark.

But I had to see.

Lamp in hand, I climbed the stairs.

Each step groaned like it was protesting.

The higher I went, the colder the air became, like the warmth was being pulled out of my lungs.

When I reached the top, the lens room was dark.

Glass windows rattled, and the sea beyond was black and endless.

Then I saw her.

A pale figure standing by the window, hair soaked, dress clinging to her like wet tissue paper.

She turned to me slowly.

Her eyes weren’t just empty—they were hollow.

No pupils. Just darkness.

I dropped the lamp.

It shattered, flames licking at the floor, and by the time I stumbled back downstairs—she was gone.

I tried calling for help the next day.

No signal.

The radio was just static.

And the boat wasn’t due back for another 12 days.

I searched the whole lighthouse—top to bottom.

No trace of her.

But I found something else.

Behind a loose panel in the wall, there was a journal.

Its leather cover was warped with water damage.

Inside were entries dated 1997.

All signed Mira Lane.

Most of them were boring: complaints about the isolation, howling winds, missing birds.

Until the final entry:

“I saw her again last night. She keeps trying to call me to the lens room. Says I need to stay and keep the light on. But the bulb burned out. There’s no light. Only her. And now… I’m staying. Whether I want to or not.”

That night, I didn’t sleep.

The air turned ice cold again, though the fire was roaring.

The footsteps returned, louder, closer.

And then she spoke.

Not with words—

With a voice in my head, whispering like sea foam against glass.

"Light the way, Jamie. Don't let them crash. If you leave… they’ll all drown.”

I covered my ears. Screamed.

But the sound wasn’t external.

It was me.

She was inside me.

I haven’t left the island.

The boat came two days ago. I watched it from the lens room and didn’t wave.

Didn’t move.

The lamp doesn’t work, but I sit in that room every night now.

Because if I don’t, I hear the screams.

Hundreds of them—lost sailors who never made it to shore.

I’m not sure who Mira Lane really was.

But she never left this place.

And now…

neither will I.