The Saltwater Static

I’ve never seen a ghost. Not once. But there are things that have happened to me that I can’t explain, and they’ve left me with a permanent knot in my gut. I used to devour ghost stories, true crime, anything with a whiff of the unexplainable. I wanted to believe. And then the lighthouse happened.

I was staying at my cousin’s place, a converted lighthouse on a jagged stretch of coast. She’d inherited it from a great-uncle who’d been a keeper back in the day, before it was automated. She wasn’t there—off on a research trip—and she’d asked me to house-sit. I loved the isolation, the constant crash of waves, the smell of salt and rust. But that first morning, something felt off.

I was in the kitchen, which was a circular room at the base of the tower, making coffee. I reached for a mug on a high shelf, and as I did, a tin of biscuits—heavy, metal—clattered off the counter across the room. It hit the stone floor with a deafening ring, scattering dented biscuits. I froze. I hadn’t touched it. There was no draft, no vibration. My heart hammered as I stared at the mess, then I laughed it off. Old house, uneven floors, maybe a rat. I swept up the crumbs and made my coffee, trying to shake the unease.

Later that morning, I went for a shower in the tiny bathroom attached to the main room. The water was rusty, and the pipes groaned. As I stepped out, dripping, I grabbed a towel from the rack. Just as I wrapped it around me, the mirror on the wall—a heavy, antique thing with a wooden frame—slammed against the tiles. Then the glass of my toothbrush holder, which had been sitting on the sink, shattered. No one had touched it. The spray of glass stung my feet.

I stood there, shaking, cold despite the steam. I called my cousin, but she didn’t answer. I tried to convince myself it was the sea air, the old building settling, maybe even a minor earthquake. But the way the mirror moved—it wasn’t a vibration. It was a deliberate, violent push.

That evening, I decided to explore the upper levels, hoping to find a rational explanation. The spiral staircase wound up to the lamp room, now automated but still imposing. As I climbed, I noticed the air grew colder, and the faint smell of oil and burnt wire. When I reached the top, the glass panes were streaked with salt, and the great lens was silent. But on the floor, there was a single, fresh tarot card: The Hermit. I’d never owned tarot cards. I picked it up, and on the back, written in faded ink, was a name: ‘Elias Webb.’

I looked up Elias Webb. He was the last keeper before automation, and he’d died in the lamp room in 1973—a heart attack, according to the records. But there was a local legend that he never left. That he was bitter, angry that the light had been put out.

I didn’t sleep that night. Every creak of the tower felt like a footstep. And in the dark, I heard a sound like static—no, like the sea itself, but filtered through a radio. It was coming from the lamp room, a low hiss that rose and fell. I crept up, my flashlight cutting through the black. When I reached the top, the lamp was on—the great beam turning, sweeping across the water. It wasn’t supposed to be on. And the static was louder now, almost a voice.

I stood there, frozen, as the beam passed over me. And then I heard it, clear as day, echoing off the glass: ‘Who’s there?’

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. I backed down the stairs, my legs weak, and ran to my car. I drove all night, not stopping until I reached the mainland. I’ve never gone back. I still have that tarot card, though. Sometimes, late at night, I swear I can hear faint static coming from it. And I wonder if Elias Webb is still waiting, still watching, still asking who’s there—and if one day, I’ll be able to answer.