The Last Lightkeeper

The Barrow’s End Lighthouse stood alone on a jagged cliff, battered by wind and sea. It had once been vital—guiding ships safely through the foggy waters of Black Hollow Bay. But now, in the age of satellites and sonar, the lighthouse had been decommissioned, left to rot above the crashing waves.

Elliot Granger, a retired coastguard with no family and too many regrets, took the job as caretaker for the structure. Officially, he was there to oversee its slow demolition, keep looters away, and log its condition. Unofficially, it was a quiet exile—a place to be forgotten.

He arrived in early November, under a sky the color of old bones. The air smelled of salt and mildew, and the cries of gulls echoed like ghosts around the crumbling tower. The interior was damp, wallpaper peeling like burnt skin, and the spiral staircase groaned beneath each step.

At first, Elliot felt peace in the isolation. He logged daily entries into his maintenance journal. "Windows still intact. Lens assembly untouched. Beacon room dry." He walked the spiral stairs, watched the storms roll in, and read old logbooks filled with neat cursive written by men long dead.

Then, on the seventh night, the light came on.

It was well past midnight when the beam swept across the bay—bright and rotating, just like it had years ago. Elliot sat bolt upright in bed, his heart hammering.

He stumbled up the stairs, breathless, the beam illuminating the black sea through broken panes. When he reached the top, the light was spinning on its own. The mechanism groaned like something waking from a long sleep.

He pulled the kill switch—nothing. The generator was dead, disconnected weeks ago.

That night, he didn’t sleep.

—

The light came on again the next evening. And the one after. Each time, the beam cut through the night with impossible energy.

He began hearing footsteps above him when he was on the ground floor. Once, he found a trail of wet footprints on the spiral stairs. No one else was there. He checked the doors. Locked. Checked the cameras. Static.

Worse were the voices.

Faint, distant, carried on the sea wind. “You let them drown… you let them drown…”

Elliot knew the guilt. In his final year of duty, a distress call had come from a yacht caught in a storm. He hesitated. By the time he responded, they were gone. Three people. A mother and two children.

The rescue team had found their wreckage near Barrow’s End.

He had buried the guilt, but now the lighthouse whispered it back. Every night the beam turned, the voices returned. “You left them,” the wind hissed. “You watched.”

—

On the twelfth night, Elliot awoke to the sound of the beacon horn blasting—a low, drawn-out wail that shook the glass in its frames. He rushed upstairs, yelling into the storm, “Who’s there?!”

No one answered. But the beam stopped mid-rotation… and pointed straight at the ocean.

It didn’t move. It shone directly into the abyss as if showing him something.

He followed it.

—

Elliot climbed down the cliffside path, flashlight trembling in his hand. The sea churned below, black and cold. The beam illuminated something floating in the water—three shapes, just beneath the surface. Pale arms. Dark, matted hair. Faces turned upward, lips blue.

He screamed.

Then they opened their eyes.

—

He woke up at the foot of the lighthouse. Soaked. Alone. Salt crusted around his lips. He had nearly drowned.

Back inside, everything was dry. The beacon room was quiet. The horn was silent.

But a page was torn from his journal.

It had been written in someone else’s hand.

“We're still down there.”

—

Elliot stopped sleeping. He spent his days staring at the sea, and his nights barricading the door to the tower. The light now turned on every night, precisely at 12:06 AM. It no longer rotated.

It always pointed out to sea.

Sometimes, just before dawn, it turned toward the cliffs… and then toward him.

He tried to call for help, but the radio only emitted the sound of waves and whispers.

On the last night, he walked to the top of the tower. The door to the beacon room stood open. The light was on. There was someone standing inside, silhouetted by the spinning lens.

It was a girl. Maybe eleven. Soaked to the bone. She turned slowly.

“You’re the lightkeeper,” she said, her voice gurgling like seawater.

“No,” Elliot whispered. “I’m not.”

She smiled. Her eyes were white as milk.

“You are now.”

—

When the demolition crew arrived three weeks later, the lighthouse was empty. No sign of Elliot. Just his journal, soaked through with seawater, sitting in the lantern room.

One entry was legible.

“I finally saw the light.”

—