22 Dec The Lantern of St. Eris

Part I

The ferry chugged sluggishly through the choppy water, its engine laboring against the waves. Samuel Reid sat near the bow, his suitcase at his feet, and stared at the silhouette of the lighthouse growing larger on the horizon. Its dark shape loomed against a sky mottled with storm clouds, perched on the edge of the cliffs.

He tightened his coat around himself as the wind picked up, biting through the layers. This place had been his late wife Eleanor’s idea—at least, it had been back when there was still an Eleanor. She had been the dreamer, always speaking of adventures in isolated places. The two of them had once spent hours imagining a life far from the noise and demands of the city.

Now, he was the one seeking isolation, though not for the reasons Eleanor had envisioned. The condolences from neighbors had started to feel like obligations rather than genuine sympathy. The coworkers who didn’t know what to say had stopped trying. He couldn’t walk into their favorite café without seeing her sitting there in his mind, sipping coffee with that playful smirk on her lips.

This job—caretaker of the St. Eris Lighthouse—wasn’t a romantic escape. It was a retreat, a way to vanish for a while, to exist in a place where no one would ask him how he was holding up.

The ferry rocked as it approached the dock, and the ferryman turned to Samuel. “You sure about this, Mr. Reid? St. Eris ain’t exactly a cheery spot.”

Samuel reached for his suitcase and stood, balancing against the sway of the boat. “That’s the point.”

The ferryman grunted as he handed Samuel his bag. “Just know the stories about that place don’t come from nowhere. People say there’s something… wrong with it.”

Samuel’s lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Ghost stories?”

“Call ’em whatever you like. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.” The ferryman cast a furtive glance at the lighthouse and muttered something under his breath as he returned to the wheel.

Samuel climbed the uneven path up to the lighthouse, his boots slipping on moss-slick stones. By the time he reached the top, his legs burned and his breath fogged the cold air. The structure – now his home – stood before him, its stone walls streaked with age and damp. A man waited by the door, his coat pulled tight against the wind.

“You the new keeper?” the man asked.

“Yes, sir,” Samuel nodded, setting down his bag. “Samuel Reid, at your service.”

The man extended a hand briefly. “Connor. You’ll want to settle in quickly. Storm’s moving in.”

Inside, the air was damp and smelled faintly of oil. Connor’s tour was brisk and perfunctory, pointing out the essentials: the kitchen with its battered stove, the cramped sleeping quarters, the storeroom packed with tools, and finally, the spiral staircase that led to the lantern room.

“She’s old,” Connor said, patting the brass casing of the lantern. “But she gets the job done. Just make sure she stays lit. That light’s the most important thing in this place.”

Samuel tilted his head, skepticism creeping into his voice. “The most important thing for the ships, sure. Or is this the part where you tell me it keeps the ghosts away, too?”

Connor’s expression darkened. “Believe what you want, so long as you follow the orders. I recommend you give my journal a read as soon as possible. It’s on the desk near the window. But whatever you do, don’t let the lantern go out.”

Samuel chuckled and did his best to conceal his smirk. “I’ll keep the ships safe, Captain.”

Connor’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing more. After showing Samuel how to ignite and maintain the lantern, he left, his boots crunching on the gravel path as he disappeared into the fog.

Alone at last, Samuel unpacked in the tiny bedroom. He set a framed photograph of Eleanor on the bedside table. Her face, captured mid-laugh, seemed to warm the cold, lifeless room for a moment. He thoughtfully traced the edge of the frame with a thumb and let out a shaky breath.

“Well, Ellie, here we are,” he muttered. “Here goes nothing.”

As night fell, the storm arrived, battering the cliffs relentlessly. Samuel climbed to the lantern room and coaxed the flame to life. It sputtered and then steadied, casting a golden beam across the black sea. The light swept through the storm, a solitary thread of order amidst the chaos.

Hours passed, and the storm grew fiercer. All the while, Samuel sat by the lantern, listening to the wind howl and the waves roar. He didn’t expect to feel comfortable—he wasn’t sure he remembered what that felt like—but the rhythmic pulse of the light was steadying, and that counted for something.

Then he heard it.

“Samuel…”

The voice was faint, almost drowned by the storm, but unmistakable. He froze.

“Samuel…”

He stood, peering through the rain-slicked glass into the darkness. His mind raced. Had someone followed him up here? Was this some local prank meant to test the new keeper?

“Who’s there?” he called, his voice sharp and skeptical.

The wind and waves swallowed his words. But then, cutting through the storm with newfound urgency, it came again.

“Samuel…”

It was her voice. Eleanor’s voice.

He stumbled back from the window, gripping the edge of the lantern casing. His chest tightened, a rush of disbelief and longing hitting him all at once.

“Ellie?” he whispered.

But the only answer was the crash of the waves and the taunting whisper of the wind, carrying her name back to him.

* * * * * *

The storm abated by morning, leaving the cliffs cloaked in a thick haze that clung to the air like cobwebs. Samuel descended from the lantern room with aching legs and a few scarce hours of restless sleep. His mind lingered on the voice he’d heard in the night—Eleanor’s voice. He tried to dismiss it as mere exhaustion playing tricks on him.

It had to be exhaustion.

He brewed a pot of coffee on the battered stove and sat at the table with his hands wrapped around his mug. The lighthouse was eerily quiet now, the wind replaced by the soft creak of settling wood and stone. The silence should have been soothing, but instead, it set his nerves on edge. He caught himself glancing toward the spiral staircase more than once, as if something might emerge from the void above.

“Get a grip,” he muttered to himself. The sound of his own voice felt hollow in the empty space.

After breakfast, he busied himself with the lighthouse’s routine maintenance. He checked the lantern’s fuel supply, scrubbed the salt from the glass panes, and cleared the gutters of debris. Physical work always helped settle his thoughts, and for a time, he nearly forgot his troubles.

But as the day wore on, strange things began to creep into the periphery of his awareness. A faint trace of Eleanor’s perfume seemed to linger in the stairwell, growing stronger the higher he climbed. In the kitchen, he could have sworn he heard the soft scrape of a chair against the floor when his back was turned. Each time he checked, nothing was there.

By late afternoon, the fog outside began to thicken, coiling like smoke around the lighthouse. Samuel stood at the kitchen window, staring out at the sea. The horizon was invisible, swallowed by the gray.

Then came the sound—a faint, rhythmic tapping.

He turned his head sharply toward the door. The sound stopped.

Frowning, he stepped closer and listened. The tapping resumed, irregular and faint, like knuckles brushing against wood. Samuel struggled to maintain his composure as he reached for the latch and swung the door open.

Nothing.

The mist swirled around him, cold and damp against his skin. He stepped outside, scanning the ground and the narrow path leading down the cliffside. There were no footprints in the damp soil, no signs of movement.

His grip tightened on the doorframe. “Just the wind,” he said aloud, though the words sounded disingenuous even to him.

The tapping didn’t return, but he remained unsettled as he closed the door and bolted it shut.

That night, the storm rolled back in with a vengeance. The lighthouse groaned under the weight of the gale, the glass panes of the lantern room rattling in their frames. Samuel climbed the staircase, the lantern’s faint hum vibrating through the walls. He coaxed the flame back to life and settled into the chair by the window, watching as the golden beam cut through the rain.

The whispers began just after midnight.

“Saaaaamuel…”

His breath hitched. It was so faint he wasn’t sure if he’d imagined it. But then it came again, curling through the howl of the wind.

“Saaaaaaaaamuel…”

He shot to his feet, his heart thundering. His gaze swept the room, but he was alone. His hand rested instinctively on the lantern’s casing, as if its light could protect him from whatever was speaking to him opposite the glass.

“El-Eleanor?” he called, his voice trembling. “Ellie, is that you?”

The storm answered with a deafening crash of thunder. And yet, beneath the roar, he heard it again—closer now, more insistent.

“Samuel… let me in.”

He staggered back from the window, his mind racing. The voice was undoubtedly hers, but there was something wrong about it. The words were unnaturally smooth, too practiced, as though someone had taken Eleanor’s voice and stretched it to fit their own.

His hand trembled as he reached for the journal Connor had left behind. He hadn’t bothered to open it before, dismissing it as the superstitious ramblings of an old man. Now, he flipped through the yellowed pages, his eyes scanning the scrawled text.

“The lantern is more than a guide. It is a barrier. If the light fails, the sea will give up its dead.”

Samuel’s throat tightened as he read the next line.

“They will use the voice of those you’ve loved. Like masks, they will wear their faces. Do not answer. Do not let them in. Do not trust what you see or hear.”

The whispers intensified, weaving through the wind like a melody he couldn’t ignore. He slammed the journal shut and pressed his back against the wall.

“Saaaaamuel…” The voice was outside now, just beyond the glass. He couldn’t bring himself to look.

“You’re not real,” he muttered, his voice shaking. “You’re not her.”

The storm howled in response, and the lantern flickered, its light sputtering for a moment before surging back to its full strength. Abruptly, the voice fell silent.

Samuel sat in the lantern room for the rest of the night, his gaze locked on the flame. Whatever was out there, it wasn’t Eleanor. That much he knew.

But whatever it was, it wanted him to believe it was.

Part II

The storm subsided at dawn, leaving the lighthouse battered but intact. Samuel, exhausted from another sleepless night, descended the spiral staircase from the lantern room, clutching the journal tightly in his hand.

The kitchen felt colder than usual, its chill seeping into the stone walls. He set the journal on the table and ran a hand through his hair, the memory of the whispers still fresh in his mind. The way her voice had curled around his name had been mesmerizing, stoking his memories, as if it knew just how to unravel him.

The words from Connor’s journal flashed in his mind: “Do not answer. Do not let them in. Do not trust what you see or hear.” Samuel exhaled sharply, trying to steady himself.

He lit the stove and warmed a tin of soup, forcing himself to eat despite his lack of appetite. Every creak of the lighthouse made him flinch, and he cursed himself for it. He’d come here to escape, to find some semblance of peace. Instead, he was becoming unhinged, chasing specters and whispers.

When the meal was finished, he carried the journal to the sitting room and forced himself to read more. Connor’s writing was erratic, the sentences scattered across the pages as though written in haste.

“They wear familiar faces,” it read. “The stronger the storm, the closer they come.”

“The light is their prison and their key,” it continued. “If it falters, the sea shall give up its dead.”

This was madness, Samuel thought. Absolute madness.

He set the journal down and stared out the window. The mist lingered outside, swirling lazily over the cliffs. He thought of the tapping at the door the day before, and of the absence of footprints in the soil. The thought burrowed under his skin, leaving him uneasy.

By mid-afternoon, the wind began to pick up again. Samuel climbed the spiral staircase to check the lantern, its faint hum a reassuring constant in the otherwise empty tower. As he cleaned the lens, the first distant rumble of thunder echoed over the water.

“Another storm,” he muttered. “Fantastic.”

He descended to prepare the lantern’s fuel supply, double-checking every step of the process. If the light truly was as important as Connor claimed, he wouldn’t let it fail. Even if he didn’t believe the stories, he wasn’t about to take any chances.

By nightfall, the storm was in full force. The wind howled, battering the lighthouse with incessant fury. Samuel sat in the lantern room, his gaze fixed on the flame as it illuminated the darkness beyond the glass.

And then it flickered.

His stomach dropped as the light wavered, the flame shrinking momentarily. He scrambled to his feet, his eyes darting to the mechanisms. Everything seemed to be in working order.

Again the fire flickered, longer this time, leaving the room temporarily bathed in shadow. The beam swept across the sea, and for an instant, Samuel thought he saw something—an outline against the waves, tall and skeletal, staring back at him.

“No,” he whispered, shaking his head. “It’s the storm. Just the storm.”

The lantern flickered a third time, and this time, the voice returned.

“Samuel…”

It was softer now, almost pleading.

He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. “You’re. Not. Real.”

“Samuel… let me in.”

The voice seemed to surround him, weaving through the gale like a thread pulled taut. He turned his back to the glass, forcing himself to focus on the lantern. He adjusted the flame, his hands trembling as he worked.

The light steadied, but the whispers did not stop.

“Saaaaamuel…”

He spun around. Outside the glass, something moved—a shadow, indistinct and yet familiar. It swayed as though carried by the wind, and yet its gaze never left him.

His heart hammered as the lantern flickered once more. This time, the flame practically died before roaring back to life, casting the intruder into sharp relief. It wasn’t Eleanor. It wasn’t human.

The figure retreated as the light surged, vanishing into the ether. Samuel’s knees nearly buckled with relief, but before he could so much as blink, the voice called again, louder now.

“You can save her. Let me in.”

He froze. The otherworldly tone of the words struck a chord, cutting through his fear and lowering his inhibitions. For the first time, Samuel considered the request.

“You can bring her back…”

Samuel pressed his back against the lantern’s casing, his mind a whirlwind of disbelief and longing. The journal’s warning rang in his ears—“Do not trust what you see or hear.”

But what if it was telling the truth?

Samuel swallowed hard.

The flame wavered again, and for a moment, the room plunged into darkness. When the light returned, the figure was gone, and the whispers ceased.

Samuel collapsed into the chair, his hands shaking. He stared at the lantern, its golden glow steady once more.

He had come here to grieve, and to heal. Now, he wasn’t sure he’d leave at all.

* * * * * *

Samuel sat rigid in the lantern room, doing his best to focus on the task at hand. The whispers had long since faded, but like chains, they wrapped around his thoughts, lingering in his mind.

“You can save her,” they’d said. The words had burrowed deeply, taking root in the fertile soil of his despair.

He forced himself to read through Connor’s journal again, desperate for clarity. The writing grew increasingly frantic as the pages went on, full of disjointed warnings about shadows on the periphery and voices in the wind. One phrase stood out among the chaotic scrawl: “The stronger the storm, the thinner the barrier.”

Samuel lowered the journal, staring at the flickering lantern. He could still feel the heat of the flame, but its light seemed frail against the power of the storm outside. The thought struck him suddenly: with the barrier thinning, the figures in the mist were drawing closer.

He set the journal aside and turned back to the window. The storm surged, waves battering the cliffs below, their spray carried high enough to spatter against the glass. For a moment, lightning illuminated the horizon, and Samuel gasped.

A ship.

It sat on the waves, impossibly still despite the raging sea. Its tattered sails flapped in the wind, its skeletal frame a silhouette against the light. Figures moved on the deck, their forms warped and indistinct, like reflections in a broken mirror.

Samuel stumbled back, the journal tumbling from his lap. He pressed his back against the lantern’s casing. The whispers returned, louder this time, overlapping and insistent.

“Samuel… let us in,” they cried. “You can bring her back…”

The voices blended into a cacophony, rising with the wind until Samuel clamped his hands over his ears. “Stop!” he shouted, his voice breaking.

The light flickered.

The whispers ceased instantly, leaving a silence so profound it made Samuel’s head spin. He dropped his hands, his chest heaving, and peered at the lantern. The flame sputtered once, and then steadied.

He wasn’t sure how long he stood there, staring at the light as the storm raged on. The ship was gone, swallowed by the darkness, when he turned his attention back to the window. Yet the words lingered, circling his thoughts like vultures.

“You can save her.”

The next few hours passed in a daze. Samuel tended to the lantern mechanically, refueling and adjusting the mechanisms as the storm ravaged the lighthouse. In spite of nature’s fury, the flame held steady, its comforting glow piercing the blackness beyond.

But the pull of the voices grew stronger with each passing moment. They didn’t speak again, yet their promise remained. Samuel’s anguish was a raw, gaping wound, and he longed to see Eleanor again, to hold her once more. For just one more night.

By the time the storm reached its peak, Samuel had made his decision. He climbed the staircase to the lantern room, his hands trembling as he approached the flame. The journal’s warnings echoed in his mind, rebuking the whispers’ promises.

“This is insanity,” he muttered. “It’s not her. It can’t be.”

But…what if it was?

He reached for the lantern’s controls, his fingers hovering over the mechanisms that controlled the flame. The light wavered slightly, casting distorted shadows across the room.

“Saaaaamuel…”

The voice was different this time—softer, closer, filled with longing. He turned slowly, his heart pounding.

She stood in the doorway.

Eleanor.

Her damp hair clung to her face. Her dress, the one she’d worn on the last night they’d danced together, fluttered slightly as if caught in an unseen breeze. Her eyes were fixed on him, wide and filled with a mix of love and sorrow.

“Ellie?” His voice cracked. “Is it–is it really you?”

She smiled faintly, stepping closer. “You don’t have to be alone, Samuel. Let the light go, and we can be together again.”

Tears blurred his vision as he reached for her, his hand trembling. She was so close now, close enough to touch. But as his fingers brushed her skin, it felt wrong—cold and clammy, like seawater. He pulled back sharply, his gaze flicking to her eyes.

They were hollow.

The smile twisted, her teeth sharp and jagged. Her features rippled like the surface of disturbed water, and her voice dropped, layered with something ancient and inhuman. “Extinguish the flame, Samuel. Open the door.”

He staggered back, his hand finding the lantern’s casing for support. “You’re not Eleanor,” he whispered, his voice trembling.

The figure lunged, but at that exact moment, the lantern flared, its light washing over the room in a blinding surge. The wraith let out an ear-piercing scream, then dissolved into the shadows.

The lantern’s flame sputtered again, dimming dangerously. Samuel turned to the mechanisms, frantically adjusting the controls. His hands shook as he worked.

To his relief, the light steadied.

Eventually, the storm began to ease, the howling wind fading to a low moan. Samuel slumped against the wall, his body trembling. The whispers were gone, the voices silenced–but the gravity of what he had nearly done shook Samuel to the core.

He’d listened and let her in–let it in–and lived to tell about it.

If it hadn’t been for the lantern, however, he imagined, he might not have been so fortunate.

Exhausted, Samuel lowered his face into his hands, and for the first time since Eleanor had passed, he allowed himself to cry.

Part III

By the time the storm faded completely, Samuel was a shell of himself. He sat slumped in the chair beside the lantern, its steady hum the only sound breaking the heavy silence. His hands rested on his knees, trembling with the memory of what had just transpired. His mind raced, replaying the moment he’d almost extinguished the light, drawn by promises as false as they were alluring.

Hours passed as he stared out the lantern room’s rain-streaked windows. Dawn brought no comfort, its pale light barely cutting through the haze clinging to the cliffs. He forced himself to move, descending the spiral staircase with stiff legs. Each step seemed heavier than the last, the combined weight of insomnia and dread threatening what little remained of his sanity.

The kitchen was colder than ever, and Samuel wrapped a blanket around his shoulders as he poured a cup of coffee from the pot left on the stove. He gripped the mug tightly, its heat seeping into his hands as he sat at the table. Connor’s journal lay open before him. Under the present circumstances, the inked warnings sounded more like accusations.

“The light is their prison and their key. If it falters, the sea will give up its dead.”

He closed the journal with a snap and shoved it aside. The words had proven true, and yet he felt no relief at surviving the night. Whatever he’d seen—whatever had imitated Eleanor’s face—was still out there.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. Samuel threw himself into work, cleaning the lantern’s mechanisms with near-obsessive precision and checking every inch of the lighthouse for signs of disrepair. His body ached, his mind screaming for rest, but he didn’t dare stop. Stopping meant thinking, and thinking meant remembering the empty eyes and the jagged teeth of the thing that had whispered his name.

As night fell, Samuel climbed to the lantern room again. The wind had picked up, though it lacked the fury of the prior storm. He ignited the lantern, watching as its golden beam stretched across the vast, abyssal sea.

“Not tonight,” he muttered to himself. “You’re not coming through tonight.”

But the words felt empty, ineffective against such a formidable, unseen enemy.

The hours dragged on, the lighthouse groaning softly under the weight of the wind. Samuel paced the lantern room, his eyes darting to the glass panes with every gust of air. Each flicker of movement outside threatened to send him into hysterics.

Near midnight, as expected, the whispers returned.

“Saaaaamuel…”

He stood, paralyzed. The voice was faint, but he recognized it instantly.

“Samuel… it’s so cold out here.”

He clenched his fists, forcing himself to stay grounded. The light was steady, unyielding, cutting through the darkness. Whatever was out there couldn’t cross its barrier.

“Samuel…” The voice grew softer, tinged with sadness. “You can’t leave me here. Not like this.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, willing it to stop. His heart ached at the sound, a cruel mimicry of Eleanor’s gentle tones. “You’re not real,” he whispered. “You’re not her.”

The light flickered, just for a moment, and he felt the pressure of something pressing against the barrier. He opened his eyes to see the fog outside swirling violently, shapes forming and dissolving within it.

Within the maelstrom, however, one shape lingered.

She stood again, this time at the edge of the light’s reach. Her face was softer this time, her features clear and unmarred. She reached out a hand, her voice trembling. “Samuel, please… just let me in.”

He turned away, gripping the edge of the lantern’s casing until his knuckles turned white. The journal’s warnings screamed in his mind: “Do not trust what you see or hear.”

“I–I can’t,” he said, his voice breaking. “I won’t!”

With a shriek the mist receded, the figure dissolving with it. The whispers faded, leaving only the steady hum of the lantern and the distant crash of waves against the cliffs.

Samuel wept.

* * * * * *

The days stretched into weeks, and the whispers came less frequently. But they never stopped entirely. Each time a storm rolled in, the voices would return, testing his resolve.

Samuel learned to live with the routine. Maintenance. Isolation. Vigilance. The lantern became his lifeline, its light the only thing standing between him and the horrors beyond.

One morning, as the sun broke through the gloom, Samuel climbed to the lantern room to find a letter wedged beneath the door. The handwriting was unfamiliar, the words brief:

“Keep the light burning. Your replacement is on the way.”

He read the note twice before crumpling it in his fist. A replacement. They were pulling him out.

He stared at the lantern, its golden beam stretching far into the horizon. How could he leave? This place had become his prison, yes, but also his purpose. Without him, what would happen? Without the light, what would become…of him?

Samuel hadn’t expected to feel like this, but he felt it all the same.

The whispers returned that night, louder and more desperate than ever. This time, Samuel sat beside the lantern, his eyes fixed on the flame, his mind already made up.

When his replacement arrived a week later, the lighthouse was empty. The lantern’s light still burned, steady and unwavering, its golden beam sweeping across the sea, but the keeper had vanished. Of Samuel, only his meager belongings remained. On the bedside table, there sat a candid photo of a beautiful woman, smiling and laughing, coated in a fine layer of dust.

No one ever found Samuel Reid. But the new keeper swore they could hear whispers in the wind on stormy nights, faint and mournful, carrying a single name.

Eleanor.