The Forgotten Lighthouse

The boat rocked against the jagged waves as Samuel Dorne approached the island. The lighthouse stood defiantly on the edge of a rocky cliff, its once-bright white paint now peeling and streaked with rust. It had been twenty-five years since he last set foot on this land, and now it belonged to him. The inheritance papers had been clear—his great-uncle, the previous keeper, had left him everything.

Samuel’s fingers traced the coarse wood of the dock as he stepped onto land. The air smelled of salt and something else—something old, forgotten. The wind whispered through the broken shutters of the lighthouse, carrying a ghostly murmur that sent a shiver down his spine.

Inside, dust blanketed every surface. The air was thick with neglect, but something else lingered—a presence, perhaps. Samuel ignored the creeping unease and set about restoring the place. He lit the lanterns, fixed the rotting stairs, and reassembled the massive glass lens that once cast light far into the sea. As he worked, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched.

The first sign of trouble came that night.

Samuel awoke to the rhythmic creaking of floorboards. He grabbed a lantern and ventured downstairs, his heart hammering. The light flickered as if a breath of wind passed through the hall, though the windows were shut tight. Then, a voice—faint, distant—called his name.

He turned sharply, but the room was empty.

The next day, Samuel found an old logbook buried under a pile of rags in the storage room. The pages were yellowed and brittle, filled with his great-uncle’s scrawling handwriting. As he flipped through the entries, one passage stood out:

The lights have returned. I see them dancing beyond the reef. I hear their voices in the wind. They want something.

Samuel frowned. Lights? Voices? He shook his head, dismissing the words as the ramblings of a lonely old man. But that night, he saw them.

Far beyond the reef, ghostly lights flickered across the water. They drifted in and out of the mist, moving with an unnatural rhythm. Samuel’s breath hitched as he realized they weren’t reflections or distant ships—they were something else. Then came the whispers, curling through the night like tendrils of fog, seeping into his bones.

"Samuel... help us..."

The voices sent a chill through his core. He staggered back, gripping the railing of the lighthouse balcony. He wanted to believe it was the wind playing tricks, but the sheer clarity of the words told him otherwise. Against his better judgment, he grabbed a lantern and made his way to the shore.

The waves lapped gently at the rocks, the lights hovering just beyond reach. Samuel took a hesitant step forward when his foot struck something solid. Kneeling, he unearthed a rusted anchor chain, half-buried in the sand. Attached to it was a waterlogged wooden box. With shaking hands, he pried it open.

Inside were the remains of a journal, its pages ruined by time and salt, yet a few words remained legible:

They must not be forgotten. They wait for justice. They wait for peace.

A sudden gust of wind howled through the shore, and Samuel swore he felt a hand brush against his shoulder. The whispers grew insistent, pleading. He knew then that the island held a secret far older than his great-uncle’s tenure.

The next morning, Samuel took the journal and scoured the lighthouse for answers. Buried beneath floorboards in the main hall, he found them—a set of letters detailing the fate of a shipwreck from nearly a century ago. The wreck had been covered up, the souls lost to the sea without proper burial or remembrance.

That night, Samuel climbed to the top of the lighthouse and lit the great beacon for the first time in years. The golden light cut through the mist, illuminating the restless waters. The ghostly lights flickered, wavered—then, one by one, they vanished.

The whispers ceased.

Samuel stood in silence, watching the waves roll in. The lighthouse, once forgotten, had fulfilled its duty once more. And so had he.