The Vending Machine’s Toll

The night shift at the Beacon Point Lighthouse had a way of warping time. The hours between midnight and dawn stretched like saltwater taffy, each minute pulling thinner until the hands on the watch seemed to crawl backward. I was the keeper then, a solitary soul who had taken the job to escape the clutter of the mainland. But the isolation had its own flavor, and that flavor was old coffee and the hum of a faulty fluorescent bulb in the break room.

It started on a Tuesday, when the fog rolled in thick as sheep’s wool. I’d been wrestling with a stubborn generator in the engine room, my hands black with grease, when a craving for chocolate hit me like a wave. The vending machine in the crew quarters—a relic from the 1970s that still took dollar bills—had a row of Snickers bars that seemed to mock me. I left the generator and trudged up the spiral staircase, my boots echoing against the cast iron steps.

The break room was cold and smelled of mildew. The vending machine stood in the corner, its glass front fogged with condensation. I fed it a crumpled bill, pressed the button for a Snickers, and waited. Nothing happened. I pressed again. Still nothing. With a sigh, I gave the machine a gentle thump on its side—a trick I’d learned from an old sailor—and a Snickers bar dropped into the tray with a soft, almost apologetic thud. I retrieved it, but as I unwrapped the wrapper, I felt a strange hesitation. The bar felt heavier than it should, and the chocolate was cold, almost icy. I left it on the counter by the coffee maker, telling myself I’d eat it later.

Later came sooner than I expected. Around 3 a.m., the foghorn sounded, and I jolted awake in my chair. I’d fallen asleep in the break room without meaning to. The Snickers bar was still on the counter, but it had moved. It was now sitting on the floor, as if it had fallen, and beside it was a small puddle of water, like melted condensation but colder. I picked it up, the wrapper crinkling, and noticed the bar was now soft, almost room temperature. I ate it, and it tasted like salt and iron, not chocolate. I dismissed it as fatigue.

The second time was a month later. The fog had returned, and so had the craving. I was in the same break room, the same machine, the same ritual. But this time, when I pressed the button, the machine whirred and hummed, and then a single Snickers bar dropped with a heavy clunk. I opened the retrieval door, and a gust of cold air hit my face, smelling of brine and something else—something like burnt sugar. I took the bar and placed it on the counter, but as I turned to get a cup for coffee, I heard a whisper behind me, so faint I almost missed it: ‘Not yet.’ I spun around, but the room was empty. The bar was still there, but now it was wet, as if it had been submerged in seawater. I threw it in the trash, but the trash can was gone. In its place was a coil of rope, neatly arranged, and on top of the rope was the Snickers bar, dry and pristine.

The third time was the last. It happened on a night when the storm knocked out the main power, leaving only the emergency lights. I was in the break room, huddled by a kerosene lamp, when the vending machine suddenly flickered to life, its internal light buzzing. The buttons glowed one by one, as if someone was pressing them, and then a Snickers bar fell into the tray. I didn’t want it. I had no craving. But something made me walk over and open the door. As I reached in, the bar wasn’t alone. There was a small, rusted key, the kind that might fit a locker or a chest. The bar was wrapped in a piece of wax paper, and on that paper was written in ink that looked like old blood: ‘He who takes the toll must give the toll.’

I left the key and the bar where they lay. I walked out of the break room, down the spiral stairs, and out into the storm. The foghorn blared, and through the rain, I saw a figure standing at the edge of the cliff, silhouetted against the flashing light. It was wearing yellow oilskins, but its face was a void. I ran back inside, locked myself in the lantern room, and didn’t come out until dawn.

The next day, the vending machine was gone. In its place was a cardboard box filled with old logbooks. I opened one and found entries from keepers before me, each describing the same phenomenon: a vending machine that dispensed curses, a key that appeared with every offering, and a figure that came to collect. The last entry was dated a hundred years ago, signed by a man named Alistair Crane. It read: ‘I took the bar. I paid the toll. Now I stand watch forever.’

I never saw the figure again, but sometimes, when the fog rolls in and the machine hums in the back of my mind, I think about that key. I left it in the box, buried deep in the lighthouse’s foundation, but some nights I swear I can hear it rattling, and the machine’s light flickers through the cracks in the floor, casting shadows that move on their own. The last Snickers bar I ever ate was that night, and I can still taste the salt on my tongue. I’m not sure if I paid the toll or if I’m still being collected. All I know is that the lighthouse never felt lonely again—it felt watched, and I was the one being watched.