The Sixth Pad

Before I type a single word about what happened, let me make one thing clear: I never believed in ghosts. Not really. I was the kind of person who laughed at horror movies, who rationalized every creak and shadow. But then I moved into the old lighthouse on Cailleach Island, and the sea started to whisper my name.

The island was a two-hour ferry ride from the mainland, and the lighthouse had been decommissioned for decades. The previous keeper, a man named Elias, had vanished without a trace in 1987, leaving behind a boat that was found adrift, its hull scraped clean. The coast guard ruled it an accident, but the locals told stories. They said the island was cursed, that the lighthouse was built on a burial ground, that the sea itself wanted to drag you down. I thought they were just superstitious fishermen with too much time on their hands.

I needed the solitude. My life had collapsed after a messy divorce, and I had taken a job cataloguing the island’s wildlife for a research grant. The lighthouse came with the position, a crumbling stone tower with a keeper’s cottage attached. It was perfect for my research, and the isolation was a bonus. The first week was paradise. I woke to the sound of gulls, watched the sun rise over a glassy sea, and recorded the calls of seals on my digital recorder. I felt my sanity returning, one peaceful day at a time.

But then the noises started. It was a low, rhythmic thrumming, like a giant’s heartbeat, coming from the base of the lighthouse. I assumed it was the tide rushing through the limestone caves below, so I ignored it. But at night, when the wind died and the island fell silent, the sound was unmistakable: a deep, vibrating pulse that seemed to sync with my own heart. It kept me awake, and I began to have strange dreams of water filling my lungs, of a voice calling me from the deep.

I tried to rationalize it. I bought noise-cancelling headphones and slept on the couch, away from the lighthouse. But the sound followed me, emanating from the floorboards, from the walls, as if the entire island was resonating. I started to lose weight. The locals on the mainland, when I made my weekly supply runs, would look at me with pity and ask if I was okay. I told them I was fine, but I could see the fear in their eyes. They knew something I didn’t.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, I decided to explore the lighthouse’s storage room. I had been putting it off, partly out of laziness, partly out of a vague unease. The door was rusted shut, and I had to force it open with a crowbar. Inside, I found old nautical charts, a broken sextant, and a mouldy logbook. The last entry was dated September 15, 1987, and it was written in a jagged, spidery hand: ‘The pad is growing. It’s not human. It’s in the water now. I can hear it. I can hear all of them. They’re singing. They’re calling me. I must go. I must join them. The sixth pad is almost here.’ The rest of the pages were blank.

I felt a chill crawl down my spine. ‘Pad’ was the Norwegian word for ‘toad’, but that made no sense. I remembered the local legend about a creature that lived in the underwater caves, a giant toad-like thing that would lure sailors to their deaths with a song. I had dismissed it as folklore, but now I wasn’t so sure. The thrumming grew louder, and I realized it was a kind of music, a low, guttural chant, rising and falling like a tide. I clutched the logbook and fled, but the sound followed me, vibrating in my teeth.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. The chant was everywhere, in the whistle of the wind, in the crash of the waves, in the creak of the wood. I saw shadows moving in the corners of my eyes, and when I turned, they were gone. I decided to leave the island the next morning. I packed my gear and boarded my small boat, but the engine wouldn’t start. I checked the fuel, the battery, the spark plugs—everything was fine. I tried again and again, but the engine remained dead, as if something was holding it back. The tide was going out, and the island was surrounded by treacherous reefs. I was trapped.

I retreated to the lighthouse, defeated. The chant grew stronger, and I felt an overwhelming urge to go down to the water’s edge. I fought it, but my feet carried me anyway. The moon was new, and it was darker than I had ever seen, but the sea was glowing with an eerie bioluminescence, swirling in patterns that seemed almost deliberate. And then I saw it: a shape in the water, rising slowly, dripping with seaweed. It was massive, bigger than the lighthouse, and it had multiple limbs, webbed and clawed, and a face that was almost human, but with bulging, lidless eyes. It opened its mouth, and the chant became words, in a language I didn’t know, but I understood: ‘Come to us. Join the chorus. Become one with the deep.’

I fell to my knees, my mind a battleground between terror and awe. I knew that if I stepped into the water, I would be lost forever, just like Elias. But the call was so seductive, so reassuring, promising peace and community, an end to my loneliness. I felt my body start to move forward, into the icy water, and I was powerless to stop it. But then I remembered something: the logbook, the phrase ‘the sixth pad’. I realized that this creature was the sixth, the final one, that had been growing, waiting, and my presence had triggered its emergence. Or maybe it had been waiting for a new victim all along.

I opened my mouth and screamed. I screamed with all my might, and the creature paused, its massive head tilting in confusion. The chant faltered, and I felt control of my body return. I scrambled backwards, away from the water, and ran back to the lighthouse. I locked the door, barricaded it with furniture, and spent the night huddled in the corner, listening to the chant fade away as the creature sank back into the deep. The next morning, my boat engine started as if nothing had been wrong. I left the island without a backward glance.

I still have the logbook, hidden in my closet. I never told anyone the full story, except my therapist, who thinks it’s a stress-induced hallucination. But I know what I saw. And sometimes, late at night, when the sea is calm and the windows are open, I can still hear the chant. It’s faint, like a memory, but it’s always there. And I know that one day, the creature will return, and the sixth pad will be complete. And this time, I’m afraid I won’t be able to scream loud enough to save myself.

I’m writing this down because I need to tell someone, anyone, the truth. If you ever find yourself alone on a remote island, and you hear a low, rhythmic thrumming from the rocks, don’t stay. Don’t try to rationalize it. Pack your things and leave, even if your boat won’t start. You are not alone. The deep has been calling for centuries, and it is patient. It waits for the lonely, the broken, the ones who think they have nothing to lose. It takes them, one by one, and it adds them to its chorus. And their voices, your voice, they blend into the song that never ends.