The Lantern Keeper’s Debt

I’ve lived in the village of Thornwick for nearly all of my thirty years, a place that clings to the edge of the moors like a barnacle to a sinking ship. The houses are old, with thick stone walls that sweat in the summer and freeze in the winter, and the only road in or out twists through the dark peat bogs. There’s a history here, darker than the local folklore lets on. The village was once a hub for the lantern trade, before electricity, and the men who tended the great lighthouse on the cliffs were called Lantern Keepers. They say the last one, a fellow named Elias, went mad in the winter of ’45. He lit the lamp every night for a month after the war ended, even though the supply ships had stopped coming, and when they found him, he was wrapped in the chains from the fuel store, his eyes burned white as ash. They buried him in the old chapel yard, but they never found his hands.

I work as a night guard at the old Ironworks Museum, a sprawling ruin of a factory that once forged anchors for the navy. My job is simple: walk the perimeter every hour, check the locks, and make sure no vagrants get in. It’s a lonely post, but I prefer it to the cramped cottage I inherited from my grandmother. There’s a long corridor in the museum, lined with old photographs of the workers, and at the end is a staircase that leads to the former offices. I’ve walked that corridor a thousand times, but there’s something about that staircase that has always made my skin prickle.

It started about three months ago. I’d be climbing those stairs, maybe two or three steps in, when I’d hear it: a soft, scraping sound behind me, like a boot dragging on the concrete. I’d freeze, every hair on my neck standing up, and turn around. Nothing but the empty corridor, the photographs watching me with their dusty eyes. I chalked it up to the old building, the wind, my imagination. But the feeling never went away, and it got worse. Soon, the scraping would start the moment my foot hit the first step, and it would follow me all the way up, keeping pace with me, stopping when I stopped. I’d reach the top, drenched in sweat, and slam the office door behind me, my heart hammering in my ears.

One night, a week ago, I decided to face it. I was halfway up when the sound began, close behind me, almost breathing down my neck. I spun around, flashlight in hand, and for a split second, I saw it: a figure at the bottom of the stairs, tall and gaunt, wearing a long, oilskin coat, its face obscured by the brim of a hat. But its hands – they were black, like charred wood, and they were raised, reaching for me. I shouted, a raw, guttural sound, and the figure vanished. The scraping stopped. I stood there, trembling, and then I heard a voice, dry as old paper, whisper from the darkness: ‘You’re late.’

I didn’t sleep that night. I sat in my cottage, the gas lamp hissing, trying to convince myself I’d imagined it. But the voice had been clear, and it had known I was late – I’d been thirty minutes delayed by a phone call from my sister. The next night, I didn’t want to go in, but the pay was too good, and I had bills. I forced myself through the entrance, my flashlight casting long shadows. I decided to take the back stairs, the ones the workers used, but as I passed the main corridor, I saw something that turned my blood to ice: the staircase was gone. In its place was a solid wall, covered in peeling paint, but I knew there had been a staircase there, because I’d gone up it a hundred times. I ran to the back stairs, my mind reeling, and as I climbed those, I heard the scraping again, but this time it was below me, and it was climbing after me.

I burst into the office, locking the door behind me, and leaned against it. The scraping stopped. Then, the lights flickered, and the old telephone on the desk – disconnected for decades – began to ring. I stared at it, my hand shaking. I picked it up, and a voice, the same dry voice, said, ‘You have to keep the light burning, or he’ll find you.’ Then the line went dead. I looked out the window. Across the yard, the old lighthouse stood, its lantern dark, a skeleton against the moonlit sky. And in that moment, I understood: Elias, the Lantern Keeper, wasn’t resting. He was still out there, and the darkness he’d guarded against had been waiting for a new keeper.

The next night, I brought a lantern with me – an old oil one I’d found in the museum’s storage. I lit it, and I climbed the main staircase, which was back in place, as if it had never disappeared. The scraping started, but this time I didn’t turn. I kept climbing, the flame guttering, and I said, ‘I’m here. I’m doing my duty.’ The scraping stopped. At the top, I turned, and in the light of my lantern, I saw him – Elias, his face a mask of burnt skin, his eye sockets empty, but his mouth twisted into something like a smile. ‘Good,’ he rasped, and then he was gone. I haven’t missed a night since. I carry the lantern, I climb those stairs, and I say the words. But last night, as I reached the top, I saw a shadow at the window, a shape with no hands, and I realized: the lantern I carry isn’t oil. It’s my own fear, and it’s burning low. I don’t know how much longer I can feed it.