The Lantern in the Rain

I hadn’t planned to return to the Ashenport Lighthouse. After my first visit, I’d written a long, rambling post about the peeling paint and the way the fog seemed to swallow sound, but I’d never uploaded it. The website had looked wrong that night – the text shimmered like heat haze, and the images I’d taken were all blurry except for one: a perfect shot of the spiral staircase, with a dark shape at the top that I couldn’t explain. I’d convinced myself it was a trick of light, but I’d avoided the topic since. Then, two days ago, I saw the shadow again.

This time it was in my kitchen. I was making tea, and out of the corner of my eye, I caught it slipping behind the fridge – a thin, tall figure, all elbows and angles. It moved with a jerky, sliding motion, like it was trying to be quiet but didn’t know how. I spun around, but there was nothing, only the hum of the refrigerator. But my hand was shaking. I’ve never felt threatened by these glimpses, but that doesn’t mean I like them. They’ve been happening for years, always in my peripheral vision, always just a fragment – an arm, a shoulder, a back. I’ve never seen a face, and I’ve never felt brave enough to hunt for one.

Then the dream came. I was back at the lighthouse, but it was different. The stone was slick with black moss, and the rain fell in sheets, turning the world to gray static. I climbed the stairs, which were wet and treacherous, and at the top, in the lantern room, I saw the source of the light: not a lamp, but a figure, tall and thin, wearing a yellow raincoat. Its hood was up, hiding its face. It stood motionless, facing the window, and the light that spilled from it illuminated the storm outside. I tried to call out, but my voice was a whisper. The figure slowly turned, and I woke up drenched in sweat, my heart pounding.

I knew I had to go back. I told myself it was to finish my article, to prove I wasn’t afraid, but really it was the dream. I drove up the coast on a gray afternoon, the sky heavy with unshed rain. The lighthouse stood at the end of a rocky spit, its white paint chipped, the red bands faded to pink. The wind screamed through the iron railings. I had the key – the caretaker, an old man named Elias, had trusted me with it before. ‘Mind the stairs,’ he’d said with a wink. ‘They’ve got a mind of their own.’

Inside, the air was cold and smelled of salt and rust. The spiral staircase wound upward into darkness. I switched on my flashlight, the beam cutting a weak circle in the gloom. I started climbing, my footsteps echoing too loudly. Halfway up, I stopped. There was a sound, soft and rhythmic, like cloth dragging on stone. I listened, but it faded. My flashlight flickered, then steadied. I continued, telling myself it was just the old building settling.

At the top, the lantern room was exactly as I remembered: the great glass panes, the brass fittings, the empty pedestal where the lamp used to sit. But it wasn’t empty now. On the pedestal was a dark, oily object, about the size of a human heart, pulsing gently. I approached it, my breath fogging the glass. It seemed to be made of shadows, shifting and churning. As I leaned in, I heard a voice, muffled, as if from far away. It was my own voice, but distorted. ‘You came back.’ I stumbled back, and the object pulsed faster.

Then the storm hit. Lightning cracked, and the wind rattled the glass. Rain lashed against the panes, and in the flashes, I saw it: the figure from my dream, standing in the corner, its yellow raincoat dripping onto the floor. It was tall, too tall, and its head tilted as if regarding me. I backed toward the stairs, but they were gone. In place of the doorway was a wall of solid stone. The lantern room had become a box, with only the windows and the storm outside. I turned, and the figure took a step forward. The raincoat rustled, and I saw a hand emerge – long fingers, too many joints, dark and glistening. It pointed at the pulsing object.

‘Take it,’ the voice said, but this time it wasn’t mine. It was a chorus, layered with whispers. ‘You’ve carried me long enough.’

I looked at the object. It was familiar, like something I’d lost long ago. And the shadow in the kitchen – it hadn’t been hiding. It had been waiting for me to look directly at it. I reached out, my hand trembling, and touched the surface. It was cold and sticky. As my fingers made contact, the object dissolved, turning to black smoke that spiraled up and into my nostrils. I gagged but couldn’t move. The smoke filled my lungs, and I felt something settle deep inside me, a weight I’d always had but never acknowledged.

The figure in the raincoat stepped closer, and now its face was visible. It was my own face, but older, hollow, with eyes like polished obsidian. ‘Thank you,’ it said, and then it faded, like mist in the sun. The stone wall dissolved, revealing the stairs. I stumbled down, out into the rain, which had softened to a drizzle. I made it to my car, drove home, and haven’t been back.

But the shadow in my house is gone now. I haven’t seen it since. Instead, I see myself in mirrors, and sometimes I catch a reflection moving a fraction slower than I do. And at night, I hear footsteps in the attic, walking in circles, as if searching for something. I think it’s looking for the missing piece of me, the one I just swallowed. Maybe someday it will find what it wants, and then it will stop pacing, and I’ll finally look in the mirror and see the shadow smiling back.