The Lighthouse Keeper's Last Log

Prologue: The Storm Warning

US Coast Guard Bulletin - October 28, 1987

"Hurricane-force winds expected off Blackwater Point. All vessels seek immediate harbor. Lighthouse Station 17 manned by Keeper Elias Hargrove (62), 28-year veteran."

The storm hit at 9:47 PM.

Waves taller than the lighthouse itself smashed against the rocks. The wind screamed like a dying animal. And at exactly 11:13 PM, the great Fresnel lens went dark.

For thirteen minutes, Blackwater Point belonged to the dark.

Then the light returned.

But Elias never made another log entry.

Chapter 1: The Unexplained Gap

Maintenance Log - Station 17

"11:13 PM - Primary lens failure. Backup generator engaged at 11:26 PM. No damage to mechanism. Fuel levels unchanged."

I found my grandfather's journal in the damp cellar of the decommissioned lighthouse. The pages for October 28 were stuck together with something that wasn't seawater. Peeling them apart revealed his frantic handwriting:

"11:14 PM - The stairs are creaking but the door's still barred. God help me, I can hear it humming the storm."

"11:19 PM - It's mimicking the radio static. Getting closer. The walls are sweating black—"

The next page bore a single sentence, written so hard the pen had torn through the paper:

"THE LIGHT ATTRACTS THEM BUT THE DARK LETS THEM IN."

Chapter 2: The Black Tide

Marine Biologist Report - Blackwater Point

*"Unidentified substance coating rocks post-storm:

High levels of baryte and decomposed chitin

Bioluminescent properties when agitated

Contains traces of human hemoglobin"*

The townsfolk called it "the bad tide."

After the storm, the beaches glittered with strange obsidian shells that crumbled to black powder when touched. Fishermen reported their nets coming up full of dead crabs—all missing their eyes.

Old Captain Vickers refused to go near the point. "That weren't no hurricane in '87," he'd mutter. "Hurricanes don't leave footprints in solid rock."

I found those footprints leading from the tide line straight to the lighthouse door.

Each one sunk three inches into granite.

Each one filled with that same black ooze.

Chapter 3: The Final Entry

Forensic Analysis - Hargrove Journal

*"Page 47 contains fingerprint impressions in non-human fluid. DNA degraded but shows similarities to:

Deep-sea tubeworms

Pre-Cambrian fossilized lipids

Unknown biological marker"*

Grandpa Elias's last words weren't words at all.

They were drawings.

A towering silhouette with too many joints

The lighthouse lens shattered from the inside

Dozens of stick figures floating in a black sea

And at the bottom, a single line of symbols that made my eyes water to look at.

The local university's linguistics department identified it as a bastardized form of Proto-Indo-European—the root language of civilization.

Their translation:

"WE WAITED IN THE DARK BETWEEN STARS. NOW WE WAIT IN YOUR WALLS."

Chapter 4: The New Keeper

Coast Guard Disciplinary Report - 2023

"Cadet R. Hargrove (granddaughter of E. Hargrove) found illegally occupying Station 17. Claims to be 'continuing research.' Possessed unauthorized lighthouse maintenance keys and grandfather's service revolver (1 shot fired)."

I sit where Grandpa Elias sat.

The lens still turns. The light still burns.

And sometimes, when the fog rolls in thick, I hear it—the humming. Not from the sea.

From inside the walls.

The new generators never fail. I've made sure of that.

Because I've seen what comes ashore in the dark.

And I've read what Grandpa wrote on the last unstickied page:

"The light isn't to guide them home."

"It's to keep them AWAY."

Epilogue: The Light Goes Out

USCG Maintenance Alert - Current

"Station 17 lens malfunctioning. Unexplained black residue on mechanism. Keeper non-responsive to radio checks."

They'll come at dawn.

They'll find the door barred from the inside.

They'll note the fresh scratches on the lens housing.

And if they're smart, they won't linger when the backup generator kicks on.

Because everyone knows—

—you never look directly at the light when it first comes back on.

Not unless you want to see what's looking back.