The Crooked Visitor

I took the job at the Whetstone Lighthouse because it paid well and promised isolation. My predecessor had left abruptly, leaving behind a logbook filled with mundane entries about weather and passing ships, except for the final page. It was blank, save for a single line in faint pencil: ‘It knows the tide schedule.’ I dismissed it as a prank and settled into my new life, a two-week stint on a desolate rock off the coast of Norway.

On my third night, I was reading a dog-eared thriller in the living quarters when a persistent tapping began from the direction of the window. But the window was sealed and shuttered against the storm outside; the sound was too rhythmic, like a finger counting out a message in Morse. I turned, and there, pressed against the glass, was a hand. Not a normal hand—the fingers were too long, the palm too smooth, and the nails were black and curved like talons. But by the time I blinked, it was gone, leaving only a smear of dried salt that hadn’t been there before.

I forced myself to sleep, chalking it up to fatigue. But the next morning, I found wet footprints leading from the main door to my bed, stopping at the footboard. The prints were barefoot, about the size of a small child’s, but the stride was impossibly wide—the kind of stride that would require a body twice my height. I followed the trail back, but it ended at the door, which was still locked from the inside with the heavy iron bolt.

The lighthouse itself seemed to resent me. The lamp’s reflector, which should have rotated smoothly, would occasionally let out a high-pitched whine, and I could swear I saw a shape inside the glass housing—a dark, hunched figure that flickered with the lens. When I climbed to inspect, the glass was hot to the touch, but no birds were scorched. Just my own breath fogging the view, and the faint impression of a face left in the condensation, smiling.

My only contact with the mainland was a radio check at noon. The same jovial voice, ‘All clear, Whetstone.’ But the weirder I felt, the more I looked forward to that call. One day, I asked him if anything had ever gone wrong out here. He hesitated, then said, ‘Old Whetstone? The Fresnel lens is said to have a ghost. Sailors used to say it dances in the beam.’ He laughed, but it was forced. I didn’t laugh.

That night, I was in the kitchen, boiling water for tea, when I heard a scuttling behind me. I turned too fast, and the kettle hissed steam. There was a thing in the corner—a creature about two feet tall, with a body like a plucked chicken, but with a face that was disturbingly human. It had a mouth with far too many teeth, and it was moving its lips as if trying to speak. But what came out was a low buzz, like a broken radio. I threw the kettle at it, and it vanished into the wall, leaving a scorch mark in the shape of a hand.

I tried to call the coast guard, but the line was dead. I checked the emergency battery, and it was fine. The radio, though, would only hiss, and through the hiss I could hear a faint hum, which modulated into something that sounded like a melody—but not one I knew. It reminded me of the sound the lighthouse made when the lamp rotated, but deeper, more organic.

I’ve stopped trying to sleep. The last few nights, I’ve sat on the edge of my bed, watching the door, waiting. And I’ve seen it—the shadow that waits at the foot of the bed. It’s not just a shadow, but a presence, about three and a half feet tall, with a distinct forehead ridge and hollow eyes. It doesn’t move, just stands there, as if waiting for me to acknowledge it. And when I finally did, as I stared into its darkness, it turned and walked through the solid oak door as if it were a mist.

I tried to leave. The weather was clear, so I took the small rowboat out, intending to head for the mainland. But after an hour of rowing, I noticed the lighthouse was no closer, and the sun had not moved. I checked my compass—it spun. I checked the sky—the stars were in the same position as they’d been when I’d left. I rowed for another hour, and the lighthouse remained fixed on the horizon, mocking me. There is no mainland. There is only this rock, and its resident.

Tonight, I heard it breathing outside my door. I gathered my courage and opened it. The hallway was empty, but on the floor was a puddle of seawater that hadn’t been there, and floating in it was a small plastic boat—the kind you’d give a child. It had a paper flag, and on it was written, ‘You’re trapped.’ I didn’t write that. I don’t know who did.

I’ve been up for two days now. I’ve started to see it more clearly—the crooked visitor. It’s always at the periphery, waiting. The radio crackled an hour ago, and I heard my own voice, but slow and warped, saying, ‘Let me in.’ I didn’t say that. I was alone in the room. I’m starting to think that maybe the ghost was right, and that I should have read the tide schedule, because this is the high tide of something terrible, and I am the only one here to greet it.