The Last Keeper of the Lantern

In the autumn of 2018, the small town of Ashford was mourning the loss of Old Man Hemlock, the keeper of the lighthouse that had stood on the jagged cliffs for over a century. He was found at the base of the lighthouse, his neck broken, and his faithful dog, a scruffy terrier named Boris, was pacing at the door, whining.

I had known Hemlock since I was a child. He was a gruff, solitary man, but he had a soft spot for me and for Boris. When I was seven, my parents would leave me with him while they worked. He taught me how to tie knots, how to read the stars, and how to listen to the sea. Boris, a stray he’d taken in, was my constant companion during those visits.

The night Hemlock died, a ferocious storm had battered the coast. The lighthouse beam had flickered and died, and a fishing boat, the Sea Serpent, had crashed onto the rocks. The Coast Guard said it was a tragic accident, but something about Hemlock’s death felt wrong. The official report said he had slipped and fallen, but Boris’s behavior was bizarre. He would not leave the lighthouse, and he would stare at the locked door that led to the lantern room, growling.

I inherited the lighthouse and the responsibility of tending to it. The town council had no one else willing to take the post, and I felt a strange pull to the place. Boris, now my dog, refused to go near the lantern room. I had to carry him up the spiral stairs each evening to light the lamp, and he would cower in a corner, trembling.

It was on the third night that I noticed something odd. As I climbed the stairs, I heard a faint, rhythmic scraping coming from the lantern room. When I opened the door, the sound stopped. The room was empty, save for the large, brass and glass lamp. But the air felt heavy, and there was a smell of salt and something metallic.

The next morning, I found Boris at the base of the stairs, his eyes fixed on the top. He was whining, and his tail was tucked between his legs. I tried to comfort him, but he snapped at my hand.

That evening, as I lit the lamp, I saw a figure in the reflection of the glass. It was Hemlock, but his face was gaunt and hollow, and his eyes were black pits. I spun around, but no one was there. When I looked back at the reflection, the figure was gone.

I tried to convince myself it was a trick of the light, but Boris was howling from the bottom of the stairs, a mournful sound I had never heard before.

Over the next few days, the events escalated. I found strange marks on the floor of the lantern room, like claw marks, but they were too large for any animal. I heard whispers in the wind, calling my name, and I saw shadows moving in the corners of my vision.

One night, I fell asleep in the chair by the lamp, and I had a dream. Hemlock was standing before me, his lips moving, but no sound came out. He pointed at the lamp, then at the door. When I woke, the lamp was extinguished, and the lighthouse was plunged into darkness.

I rushed to relight it, but the mechanism was jammed. Frantic, I tried to fix it, but it was hopeless. In the blackness, I heard Boris barking furiously from below. Then I heard a voice, clear as day, from the lantern room: ‘You must let it go.’

I spun around, but there was no one. The voice was familiar, but it wasn’t Hemlock’s. It was my own.

I ran down the stairs, calling Boris, but he was gone. The front door was open, and the wind was howling. I searched the island, but there was no sign of him.

When dawn broke, I found Boris’s collar on the edge of the cliff, but no trace of him. I was devastated. I had lost my only companion.

I decided to leave the lighthouse. I couldn’t stay there any longer. I packed my belongings and headed for the mainland. As I drove away, I looked back at the lighthouse. On the balcony of the lantern room, I saw a figure. It was Boris, standing on his hind legs, looking at me. But his eyes were not a dog’s eyes. They were black, and they were filled with a terrible intelligence.

I never returned to the lighthouse. I moved to the other side of the country, but I still have nightmares of that night. Sometimes, I wake up to the sound of a dog barking, and I know it’s Boris, calling me back.

But the last thing I remember was the lantern room’s door slowly closing, and the light flickering on, casting a long, cold shadow over the sea. And in that shadow, I saw the shape of a man, with a dog at his feet, waiting.