The Light that Calls

An ancient lighthouse that was surrounded by weather sat tucked away in a forgotten corner of the world between windswept cliffs and the constant breaking of waves. It was known as Beacon’s End. A lighthouse had been there forever, with its light darting out into the blackness each night as long as anyone could remember, keeping ships away from the sharp cliff that would shred ships apart. It was an interesting story of a beacon, not one of hope.

Nobody remembered old Elias for longer than he had kept the lighthouse. His silver beard and sunken eyes shook as they turned the keys of the lantern’s brass. It wasn’t a keeper of the lighthouse, it was a prisoner, whispered the townsfolk.

The light wasn’t any kind of beam had been what she said; it was a terrible power. Sometimes people would disappear in the fog, some who went out too close to the lighthouse at night. Children scared each other into sneaking up behind the cliffs and catching the light that peeked out from behind rocks. But none ever came back.

When I was in town, there was a young woman, an unmarried woman called Clara who was so tired of the rumours. She told herself, trying to stay calm, to silence the fear sitting on her lap, ‘You’re just a lighthouse’. The tales of disappearances were too far fetched, too superstitious even. So that evening as the sky darkened and the stars showed, they started to blink, she went to see for herself.

The wind started to blow, but howling so loud in her ears that it sounded like a giant ball trying to forcibly turn her back. Under almost violently, the sea crashed against the rocks below the cliffs. The raced to the top, her pulse quickened but she wanted to find out what was at the top.

With a groan it seemed years since it’s been touched, xxxxcreeed opened the door to the lighthouse. The air inside was getting thick with the salt and the mildew. The only sound was the dim distant throbbing of the machinery that powered the light, the walls were stone and very cold.

She looked and saw him, Elias, staring at a glowing lantern in front of him.

“Why are you here?” His voice was a rough wood splinter, old.

She forced herself to fall in another direction, and stepped forward. “I wanted to see the light… I wanted to see what all the stories are.”

Elias didn’t reply. But instead he pointed to the lantern. He whispered, ‘calling the light.’ “It is never satisfied. It demands a price. It always demands a price.”

Clara wasn’t sure what he meant and frowned. I saw the lantern light flicker.

She seemed to wonder why she came and asked “Is it true? Can you really disappear?”

Elias’ gaze locked with hers. In his eyes flickered a something that wasn’t human, not quite — ancient and dark. Then, slowly, he nodded.

“The light isn’t just guiding ships,” his voice trembled now. “It brings… something. Something from the depths. It calls and doesn’t stop. It takes.”

Again, she looked at the light, but more closely. It twisted with the plane and wavered like a beast across the sea. ‘In the light’s glow, she saw something below, something below that moved, that writhed and flopped like it was trying to escape,’ he read.

Elias stood up with knees cracking like old wood. His voice quivered as he told me he’d seen them all. “The ones it calls. The ones it takes.”

Through the lighthouse a loud crash reverberated and the walls shook. Her heart raced, stumbled back as a hand on her shoulder gave her pause. A roar off the sea below was growing louder, as if something was about to rise from the depths.

With a flash, the lighting in the room also became strong. There was a chill down Clara’s spine, cold air in death, for that was what it was. She had looked; he wasn’t in the cell. Elias was gone. It wasn’t some light … I don’t think it was … It was a shape, black, moving out of shadow, and those eyes … those eyes had this red glimmer … of unnatural hunger.

The last thing Clara saw was the silhouette of Elias’s face, mouth frowny smiling out of the hollow doorway of the lantern’s reach as it ate her up.

The light was dimmed and the lighthouse was quiet the next morning. I didn’t see Clara of Elias, though. Like the faintest sparkle of Beacon’s End, the only light there was, and the distant echo of the waves crashing against the cliffs.