The Lantern Keeper

**The Lantern Keeper**

It started with a flicker.

Emma had taken the job at the lighthouse on a whim. After months of city life—its relentless noise and suffocating crowds—she craved solitude. The ad promised "peaceful isolation" and "breathtaking views," tucked away on a rocky cliff overlooking the ocean. What it didn’t mention was the strange feeling that settled over her the moment she stepped inside.

The lighthouse itself was beautiful, if weathered. Its white walls bore scars from decades of salt spray, and the spiral staircase creaked underfoot as she climbed to the lantern room. From there, she could see miles of open water, endless and vast. It was mesmerizing, almost hypnotic. But something about the place felt... wrong.

On her first night, Emma lit the lantern as instructed, casting a golden beam across the waves. She watched it sweep the horizon, steady and rhythmic, like a heartbeat. Yet when she turned to leave, she noticed something odd: the light seemed dimmer than before. Frowning, she adjusted the wick, but the glow remained faint, almost feeble.

That’s when she heard the knocking.

At first, she thought it was the wind rattling the shutters or the old wood settling. But the sound came again—sharp, deliberate taps against the glass panes of the lantern room. Peering out, she saw nothing but darkness and the restless sea below.

“Hello?” she called, her voice swallowed by the void outside.

No answer. Just the tapping, growing louder and more insistent. Finally, unable to ignore it any longer, she opened the window and leaned out. Cold air rushed in, carrying with it the scent of brine—and something else, metallic and sharp. Blood.

A figure hung suspended in midair just beyond the ledge, its face obscured by shadows. Its arms were stretched toward her, fingers crooked like branches. Emma stumbled back, slamming the window shut. When she looked again, the figure was gone.

Shaken, she locked herself in her quarters for the rest of the night, trying to convince herself it was some trick of the light, a hallucination brought on by exhaustion. By morning, the memory felt distant, almost dreamlike. Determined to put it behind her, she threw herself into her work, tending to the lighthouse and exploring the surrounding cliffs.

But the knocking returned the next evening.

And the next.

Each time, the figure grew closer, its features becoming clearer. Beneath the hood of its tattered cloak, its eyes glowed faintly green, like embers smoldering in ash. Its mouth never moved, yet Emma swore she could hear whispers on the wind, calling her name.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” they murmured one night, their tone mournful rather than threatening. “This isn’t your place.”

“What do you want?” she demanded, clutching the edge of the lantern table. Her hands trembled, though whether from fear or anger, she couldn’t tell.

“The light,” it replied simply. “Give it back.”

Confused, Emma stared at the lantern. “What are you talking about? This has been guiding ships for years!”

The figure tilted its head, regarding her with an expression that might have been pity—or hunger. “Not all who follow the light seek salvation.”

That night, sleep eluded her. Every creak of the floorboards made her jump; every gust of wind sounded like the scrape of nails on glass. She began researching the lighthouse’s history, poring over old records in the tiny library downstairs. What she found chilled her to the bone.

Decades ago, the lighthouse keeper had vanished without a trace. His body was never found, but locals whispered of strange lights seen offshore, luring ships to their doom. Dozens of vessels had wrecked on the rocks since then, their crews lost to the depths. Some claimed the keeper had made a pact with something ancient, trading his soul for eternal life. Others said he’d been consumed by whatever dwelled in the deep.

By the third week, Emma couldn’t deny the changes happening around her. The lantern grew brighter each night, its flame burning hotter and hotter until the metal casing scorched her fingertips. Shadows moved where none should exist, pooling in corners and slipping through cracks in the walls. And the knocking—it never stopped.

One stormy night, it became unbearable. Lightning split the sky, illuminating the figure standing just outside the lantern room. Its cloak billowed despite the lack of wind, and its glowing eyes pierced through the rain. This time, Emma didn’t retreat. Instead, she grabbed the oil can used to fuel the lantern and hurled it at the creature.

The impact sent it reeling, dissolving into smoke. For a brief moment, the room fell silent. Then, the whispers returned, louder and angrier than ever.

“Foolish girl,” they hissed. “You cannot escape what you’ve awakened.”

Panic surged through her. She grabbed the nearest object—a heavy wrench—and smashed the lantern. Glass shattered, spilling fire across the floor. The light extinguished instantly, plunging the room into darkness.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then, a low rumble shook the tower, growing louder until it drowned out even the storm. The walls cracked, splitting apart as if the very foundation were being torn asunder. Emma fled down the spiral staircase, each step crumbling beneath her feet. Behind her, the whispers rose to a deafening crescendo.

She burst through the front door just as the lighthouse collapsed in on itself, vanishing into the churning sea below. Gasping for breath, she staggered back, watching as the waves swallowed the ruins whole.

When dawn broke, the ocean was calm once more. No trace of the lighthouse remained. But as Emma turned to leave, she caught sight of something bobbing in the shallows—a single piece of driftwood, carved into the shape of a lantern. Its surface gleamed wetly in the sunlight, untouched by the chaos.

And engraved upon it, barely visible, were three words:

**“It’s not over.”**