The Lantern at the Landing

It was the tail end of a wet season in the port town of Voss, where the cobbled streets shimmered with salt and the fog rolled in like a persistent guest. I was working the night shift at the harbormaster’s office, logging cargo manifests, but the real job was keeping the signal lantern lit atop the old clocktower. The tower was a squat, brick relic from a century past, its face cracked like old leather, and its spiral staircase creaked with every step. I lived in a cramped one-room apartment at the tower’s base, but the lantern room was my true domain.

That evening, a storm was brewing, the kind that made the harbor lights dance and the gulls scream. The harbormaster, a gruff man named Elias, had left early, muttering about the barometer drop. I climbed the stairs with my thermos of bitter coffee and a half-eaten sandwich, ready to settle in for a long, howling night. The wind rattled the panes, and the rain began to slash against the glass. I lit the wick of the great brass lantern, its flame steady and warm, and watched the beams sweep across the black water. It was a lonely job, but I found comfort in its predictability.

Around midnight, between the thunderclaps, I heard a new sound. It was a knocking, three rhythmic taps, like a knuckle on wood, coming from the door at the bottom of the stairwell. I froze, listening. The knocking came again, more insistent. I knew no one would be out in this storm—not at this hour. But something was there, and the knocking grew louder, more frantic, until it became a pounding that shook the tower’s foundation. I grabbed my oil lamp, its flame trembling, and descended the stairs, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Through the small, grimy window beside the door, I saw nothing. Just the empty, rain-slicked courtyard below. The pounding ceased the moment I placed my hand on the iron latch. I hesitated, then unlocked the door and swung it wide. The wind howled in, but there was no one there. I stepped out, the rain stinging my face, and scanned the darkness. That’s when I saw it: a figure, tall and impossibly thin, standing at the edge of the courtyard, where the shadow of the tower fell. It was drenched, its clothes clinging to a frame that seemed to bend at unnatural angles. It held a lantern, too, but its flame was a sickly, greenish hue. It didn’t move. It just stood there, watching me.

I called out, ‘Who’s there?’ My voice was swallowed by the rain. The figure lifted its lantern, and in its light, I saw its face—or what should have been a face. It was a smooth, pale void, like an unblemished canvas, with no eyes, no nose, no mouth. Yet I felt its gaze, cold and probing. I stumbled back into the tower, slammed the door, and bolted it. The pounds returned, not on the door, but on the walls all around me, as if the entire structure was being struck from within. I scrambled back up the stairs, my lamp swinging, casting monstrous shadows. The noise followed, climbing with me, until I burst into the lantern room, breathless.

There, in the corner, stood the figure. It had somehow gotten inside, no longer holding its lantern. Instead, its right hand was raised, and in its palm was a small, ordinary brass key, glinting in the lantern’s light. It offered the key to me with a slow, deliberate gesture. I looked at the door to my room, and my blood turned to ice—the door was slightly ajar, and from within, I heard a faint, scratching sound, like nails on wood. The figure tilted its featureless head, and for the first time, a sound escaped it: a low, guttural hum, like the growl of a dying engine. It spoke, its voice a dry rasp that seemed to come from everywhere at once: ‘You left it unlocked.’

I realized then that the knocking had come from inside my room all along. The thing at the door had been me, trying to warn myself. But it was too late. The key in the figure’s hand was the key to the chain I had on the door downstairs, a chain I never used, but had seen hanging there many times. The scratching from my room grew louder, and the figure began to fade, dissolving into the shadows. I heard a slam from below, the sound of the iron door swinging shut, and then the rattling of the chain. I rushed to my room, threw the door open, and found the floor covered in wet footprints, leading from the window to my bed. On the pillow lay a single, crimson feather, like from no bird I’d ever seen.

I didn’t stay that night. I ran down the stairs, through the courtyard, and didn’t stop until I reached the harbormaster’s office. I told Elias everything, but he just laughed, saying I’d been spooked by the storm and the old tower’s drafts. But the next day, when I returned to gather my things, I found the tower’s lantern extinguished, and on the glass, traced in soot, was a word: ‘Beware.’ I quit that day, and I’ve never set foot near that tower again. Sometimes, on quiet nights, I still hear that three-tap knock, and I see that pale, faceless thing in my dreams, holding its green lantern. And I know, with a certainty that chills me to the bone, that when I finally die, it will be waiting for me at the landing, offering me a key.