The Last Ferry to Lundy

The call came at 9:07 PM, just as the fog began to roll in off the harbor. I was sitting in the kitchen of our cottage on the Isle of Lundy, watching the kettle steam against the cold windowpane. My brother, Ethan, was pacing by the door, his worn-out boots leaving wet marks on the floor. We both knew what the phone would say before it even rang. The hospital in Bristol had called earlier that day with the news we’d been dreading: Mum’s cancer, the one that had spread like wildfire through her bones, had finally reached her liver. They gave her days, not weeks.

Ethan picked up on the second ring, his voice tight as he spoke to the nurse. I watched his face crumble as he nodded, said ‘Thank you,’ and hung up. He didn’t need to say the words. ‘She’s gone,’ he whispered, his eyes glistening. ‘Passed about an hour ago. The nurse said she went quietly, holding the hand of the night caretaker.’ I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. Mum had always hated being alone, and at least she wasn’t. But the quietness of it felt wrong, like a book ending with a blank page.

We’d moved to Lundy a decade ago, after Dad left and Mum’s diagnosis had turned our world upside down. She’d wanted to be somewhere isolated, away from the noise of the city, where the sea could drown out the fear. The island had only a handful of residents, a single pub, and the ferry that came twice a week. Mum had loved the fog, always saying it held secrets. Now, as the mist wrapped around our cottage, I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the damp.

Ethan and I sat in silence, sipping tea that had gone cold, until he finally spoke. ‘There’s something I need to tell you,’ he said, not meeting my eyes. ‘A week before she died, she called me into her room. She was weak, but she had this… look. She asked me to promise her something.’ I leaned in, my heart pounding. ‘She asked me to take her ashes to the lighthouse on the northern tip of the island, and to scatter them there at dawn. She said it would help her find peace.’ I frowned. ‘But that lighthouse is abandoned. It’s been closed for years. They say it’s dangerous, the cliffs are unstable.’ Ethan nodded, a grim set to his jaw. ‘I know. But I promised her.’

We decided to go the next morning, before the fog lifted, to honor her wishes. As we packed a small urn into Ethan’s backpack, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching us from the window. But when I turned, there was nothing but my own reflection, pale and tired.

We set out at 5 AM, the world still dark, the fog so thick we could barely see three feet ahead. The path to the lighthouse was narrow and overgrown, slick with dew. We walked in silence, the only sound the distant crash of waves and the occasional cry of a gull. The lighthouse emerged from the mist like a skeletal finger, its paint peeling, its glass shattered. The door was ajar, swinging on rusted hinges. I hesitated, but Ethan pushed forward, the urn clutched to his chest.

Inside, the air was cold and stale, filled with dust and the smell of salt and something else—something sweet and rotten. We climbed the spiral staircase to the top, each step groaning under our weight. At the top, the room opened up to a panoramic view of the sea, now hidden by the fog. Ethan uncapped the urn, and I held my breath. ‘I loved you, Mum,’ he whispered, and let the ashes fall.

But instead of dispersing into the air, the ashes seemed to hang in a cloud, swirling unnaturally, as if caught in a breeze that wasn’t there. They coalesced into a shape—a woman’s form, translucent and wavering. I gasped, stumbling backward. Ethan dropped the urn, his face ashen. The figure raised a hand, pointing toward the far corner of the room. I looked, and there, in the shadows, was a small chest I hadn’t noticed before.

The figure faded as suddenly as it had appeared, leaving us alone with a chest that seemed to emanate cold. Ethan approached it, his hand trembling. He opened it slowly, and inside were letters, tied with a ribbon. The writing on the top one was my mother’s—cramped, frantic. He picked it up and began to read aloud.

‘My dearest Declan,’ he read, his voice cracking. ‘If you’re reading this, I’ve gone. I can’t keep the secret any longer. The lighthouse isn’t just a lighthouse—it was built by your grandfather, who used it to lure ships onto the rocks and steal their cargo. But that’s not the worst part. On that night in 1998, when the fog was thickest, a ship ran aground. I was here, and I saw something come from the water. It wasn’t human. It crawled onto the rocks, dragging itself like a wounded animal. I ran, but it saw me. It knew my face. I’ve been its prisoner ever since, carrying it with me wherever I go, feeding it my life. The cancer—it wasn’t natural. It was this thing, growing inside me, eating me from within. Now it’s free. It will come for you, Declan. It will wear my face, my voice, and it will seek out my children. Do not let it touch you. Destroy the lighthouse. Burn it to the ground.’

I stared at Ethan, my blood running cold. ‘That’s not Mum’s handwriting,’ I said. ‘She always wrote in perfect cursive, with blue ink. This is scrawled in red, like dried blood.’ Ethan looked at me, his eyes wild. ‘I know. I’ve never seen this letter before.’

Suddenly, a sound echoed from below—a low, guttural moan, like a whale song, but wrong. It was coming from the water. We rushed to the broken window, and through the fog, we saw it: a shape rising from the sea, tall and gaunt, with long fingers and a face that was almost human, but stretched and wrong. It wore my mother’s nightgown, soaked and clinging. It looked up at us, and its mouth opened, revealing endless rows of needle-thin teeth.

‘We need to burn it,’ Ethan shouted, scrambling for the old oil lamps we’d seen downstairs. But as he turned, the figure began to climb, its limbs moving like a spider’s, impossibly fast. I grabbed a rusty lantern, lit it with a match, and hurled it at the floor, where the old wood soaked in oil caught flame. But the creature was already there, its hand wrapping around Ethan’s ankle. I screamed, pulling at Ethan, but the creature was strong. It dragged him toward the window, his screams merging with the roaring fire.

I ran, stumbling down the stairs, the flames licking at my heels. The creature followed, its voice now a perfect echo of my mother’s, coaxing, ‘Come back, darling, don’t leave me.’ I refused to look, bursting through the door, the wind hitting my face. Behind me, the lighthouse shook, and with a groan, the structure collapsed into the sea, taking the creature and Ethan with it.

I stand now on the cliff, watching the flames dance on the water. The fog is lifting, and the first rays of dawn are breaking through. I am alone, the only survivor. But as I turn to walk back, I feel a hand on my shoulder. I spin around, but there’s no one there. Just the echo of my mother’s voice, whispering in my ear, ‘You can’t burn me, sweetheart. I’m already inside you.’

I look down at my hands, and I see the first dark spots spreading under my skin, just like the ones that appeared on Mum’s hands all those months ago. And I know the creature has found its next vessel. The lighthouse is gone, but the secret it held has found a new home in me. And as the sun rises over Lundy, I wait for the phone to ring, for the bad news to come, knowing that this time, I will be the one delivering it.