The Lantern’s Last Gasp

It was the tail end of a bitter winter at the St. Austell Lighthouse, where I’d been the sole keeper for six years. I’d grown used to the isolation, the ceaseless wind, and the rhythmic pulse of the lamp. But that night, the sea was unnaturally still, and the air felt thick, like the moment before a storm.

I’d turned in early, exhausted from hauling supplies up the spiral stairs. I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. Then, a cold crept into my bones, starting at my feet. I pulled the wool blanket tighter, but the chill stubbornly clung. I felt the blanket shift, as if someone were tugging at it. I sat up, but the room was empty, save for the faint, green glow of the lighthouse lens casting shadows on the wall.

I lay back down, pulling the blanket up to my chin. Then I felt it—a pressure, like a cold hand pressing on my waist. My heart hammered. I tried to move, to scream, but I was frozen, my eyes sealed shut. In the darkness behind my lids, I saw a shape, darker than the night, leaning over me. It had no face, only a yawning void where features should be.

I’m not a religious man, but in that moment, I whispered, ‘Help me.’ I felt a hum in my chest, like a second heartbeat, and then a searing cold shot through me. Something was trying to get in, to wrap around my soul. I fought, thinking of the lighthouse, the lantern—the only thing that kept the darkness at bay.

Then, a memory surfaced: a story my grandfather told me, about the lighthouse being built on an old moor, where the drowned were said to wander. He’d warned me to never let the lantern go out, no matter what. In that moment, I knew the thing wanted the light to die. I focused on the image of the lamp, its steady beam, and I felt a surge of warmth in my core.

The pressure intensified, and I felt something being pulled from me, rising and falling, like a tide. I fought, gasping, ‘I will not let you take the light!’ And then, as suddenly as it began, the presence was gone. I lay there, drenched in sweat, the cold gone. I stumbled to the lamp, my hands shaking, and checked the flame. It was still burning.

I never spoke of it, not even to the supply boat crew. But now, as I write this in the log, I notice something: my reflection in the glass does not move when I do. And in the corner of my eye, I see a shape, darker than the night, waiting for the lamp to finally die.