"Mercury and Salt":
I’ve been at Flannan Isles Lighthouse for nearly two months now, and this place is starting to feel like a trap. The island is just a jagged rock, surrounded by endless waves that never stop crashing. The lighthouse itself is cold, its stone walls always damp, the air thick with the smell of oil and salt. I write this in the logbook, my hands trembling, not just from the chill but from something deeper—a fear I can’t shake. James Ducat, the principal keeper, is changing. Donald McArthur, the other keeper, sees it too, but we’re both afraid to say it out loud. Something’s wrong here, and it’s not just the isolation.
Every day is the same. We wake at dawn, climb the spiral stairs to the lamp room, and check the lens. It’s a massive thing, all glass and brass, floating in a pool of mercury to keep it turning smoothly. James spends the most time with it, polishing the glass, adjusting the mechanism. His hands are always stained silver, and lately, he’s been forgetting things—small things at first, like where he put the oil can, or forgetting to log the lamp’s hours. But now it’s worse. His eyes are different, darting, like he’s watching something in the shadows.
Three nights ago, I found him in the lamp room, long after his shift ended. He was staring out the window, hands pressed against the glass, his breath fogging it up. The room smelled sharp, like metal and chemicals. “James, what are you doing?” I asked, keeping my voice steady.
He didn’t turn. “Checking the light,” he said, but his voice was flat, like he was somewhere else.
“It’s past midnight. You need sleep.”
He laughed, a short, brittle sound. “Sleep? You hear the noises out there?”
I listened. Just the usual—waves, wind, the creak of the tower. “It’s nothing new,” I said. “Come down.”
He turned then, and his eyes were wide, pupils huge. “You don’t hear it? The scraping?”
I shook my head, my stomach twisting. “No. Let’s go.”
He followed, but he kept looking back, like something was behind us. I locked the lamp room door that night, though we never do. It felt safer.
The next morning, Donald pulled me aside in the kitchen. The room was small, just a table, a stove, and a single lantern casting long shadows. He was scrubbing pots, his knuckles white. “I’m worried about James,” he said, voice low. “He was up half the night, pacing. Muttering about a ship.”
“A ship?” I asked, glancing at the door to make sure James wasn’t there.
“Yeah. Said he saw lights out there. I looked—nothing but water.”
I rubbed my face, feeling the weight of it all. “Could be the mercury,” I said. “I read it can mess with your head. Confusion, shakes, seeing things.”
Donald stopped scrubbing, his hands still in the soapy water. “You think it’s poisoning him?”
“Maybe. He’s up there with that lens all the time.”
We didn’t say more, but the idea stuck. Mercury. The smell in the lamp room, that sharp tang, was always strongest when James was working. I started avoiding the lens, letting Donald or James handle it. But the fear stayed, growing like mold in the corners of my mind.
Two nights ago, things got stranger. I was in bed, the wind howling outside, when I heard it—a low, scraping sound, like metal dragging on stone. It came from below, maybe the storage room. I sat up, heart pounding, listening. It stopped, then started again, slower, deliberate. I grabbed my lantern and went downstairs, barefoot, the cold floor biting my feet. The storage room door was ajar, though I was sure we’d locked it. Inside, everything was in place—crates of oil, ropes, tools—but the air felt wrong, heavy, like someone had been there. I checked every corner. Nothing.
I didn’t tell Donald right away. He’s a steady man, but he’s jumpy, always looking over his shoulder. When I mentioned it at breakfast, he frowned, his fork pausing over his plate. “I heard something last night too,” he said. “Footsteps, up the stairs. Thought it was James.”
“Was it?”
He shook his head. “Checked his room. He was asleep.”
My mouth went dry. “We need to watch James closer,” I said. “He’s getting worse.”
That afternoon, James was in the lamp room again, muttering to himself. I climbed the stairs, the metal creaking under my boots, and found him staring out the window. His hands were shaking, smudged with mercury. “James, you alright?” I asked, keeping my distance.
He didn’t look at me. “They’re coming,” he said, voice low. “I see the ship.”
I looked out. Nothing but waves, endless and gray. “There’s no ship, James. You’re seeing things.”
He spun around, grabbing my coat, his fingers digging in. “You calling me crazy? It’s there! Right there!”
I pulled back, my heart racing. “I don’t see it. You need to rest.”
He let go, muttering, and went back to the lens, wiping it with a rag like nothing happened. I left, my hands shaking. That night, I barred my door with a chair.
Yesterday, it all fell apart. I woke to footsteps again, heavy and slow, climbing the stairs. I lay still, barely breathing, waiting for them to pass. They stopped outside my door, and for a moment, I thought I heard breathing, low and ragged. I wanted to shout, to demand who was there, but my voice was gone. After forever, the steps moved away, fading down the hall. I didn’t sleep again.
At dawn, James was at the west landing, staring at the ropes coiled on the dock. The waves were huge, slamming the rocks below. He was muttering about securing equipment, his hands twitching. “James, it’s too dangerous,” I said, shouting to be heard. “Come inside.”
He ignored me, starting down the cliff path, his oilskin flapping. Donald grabbed my arm. “We can’t let him go alone,” he said, his face pale. “He’s not right.”
I didn’t want to go. The path was slick, the rocks sharp, and the waves looked hungry. But we followed, calling for James to stop. He didn’t, his boots slipping as he descended. My own feet slid, and I caught myself on a rock, the edge cutting my hand. Blood mixed with seawater, stinging.
At the landing, James was tying knots, his hands fumbling. “They’re loose,” he said, not looking at us. “They’re coming for us.”
“Who’s coming?” I asked, my voice shaking.
He didn’t answer, just pointed at the horizon. I saw nothing but water. Donald stepped closer. “James, enough. We’re going back.”
James laughed, that awful, sharp sound. “You don’t get it. It’s too late.”
A wave hit, huge, soaking us. The cold was like a knife. I grabbed James’s arm, trying to pull him up the path. He shoved me, hard, and I fell, my back hitting the rock. Pain shot through me. Donald shouted, stepping between us. “James, stop it!”
Another wave came, bigger, a wall of water. I saw it too late, rising over us. I screamed, but the sound was swallowed. Everything went black.
I’m writing this now, back in the lighthouse, though I don’t know how I got here. My clothes are soaked, my hands numb. The logbook’s open, but the last entry isn’t mine. It’s James’s handwriting, scrawled and shaky: “Gone. They took them.”
I hear noises again—scraping, footsteps, whispers I can’t make out. The lamp’s burning, but the clock’s stopped, its hands frozen at midnight. My head aches, and my vision blurs, like the mercury’s in me too. I keep looking out the window, expecting to see James or Donald, but there’s nothing—just waves, endless and dark.
I’m going to the landing again. I have to find them. The ropes are still there, tangled, like they were never tied. My hands shake as I write this, the pen slipping. If I don’t come back, someone will find this book. Please, don’t send anyone else here. This place isn’t right. It takes people.
"The Man Beneath the Light":
I’m the principal keeper at Little Ross Lighthouse, a solitary tower perched on a jagged island off Scotland’s coast. It’s August 1960, and I’ve been keeping this journal to stay grounded. The sea stretches forever around us, a vast, empty sheet that makes the island feel like the edge of the world. Gulls cry overhead, and waves slap the rocks below. My assistant, Robert Dickson, and I are the only souls here, tending the light to guide ships through the dark. But something’s wrong with him—has been for weeks. My hands shake as I write this, because I’m starting to fear for my life.
The lighthouse is a sturdy beast, built to outlast storms. Its white walls rise high, capped by the lamp room where the great lens turns, casting light across the water. Inside, there’s a spiral staircase, iron steps worn smooth by years of keepers’ boots. The living quarters are small: a kitchen with a scarred wooden table, a sitting room with two chairs, and our bunks in separate rooms down a narrow hall. Everything smells of salt and oil. We keep a tight routine—check the lamp, clean the lens, log the signals—because out here, order is all that holds you together.
Robert and I arrived a month ago. At first, he was quiet but steady. He’s younger, maybe thirty, with a lean frame and dark hair that falls into his eyes. He’d do his tasks—scrubbing floors, oiling gears—without much talk, then sit with a book or stare out the window. I didn’t mind the silence; I’m used to it after years at lighthouses. I’d write letters to my wife and kids, picturing them at home in Kirkcudbright, and that kept me warm. But about two weeks ago, Robert changed.
It started small. I was in the kitchen, slicing bread for supper, when I heard him muttering in the sitting room. “RobertRobert, stop it, stop,” he hissed, like he was scolding himself. I set the knife down and peeked through the door. He was crouched on the floor, rocking slightly, staring at his hands. They were trembling, knuckles white. “Robert, you alright?” I called, keeping my tone soft, like approaching a spooked animal.
He flinched, head snapping up. His eyes were bloodshot, wide, like he’d forgotten I was there. “Fine, Hugh,” he said, voice tight. “Just… thinking.” He stood fast, brushing past me to the stairs. On the table, he’d left a knife, its blade glinting under the lamp. I picked it up, heart uneasy, and put it back in the drawer. The way he’d looked at me—like I’d caught him in something shameful—stuck with me.
That night, I lay in my bunk, the mattress creaking under me. The lighthouse was quiet, save for the faint hum of the lamp above. Then I heard it again: muttering, low and fast, from Robert’s room across the hall. I couldn’t make out words, just a rhythm, like a prayer gone wrong. I stared at the ceiling, pulse quickening, telling myself he was just homesick. But sleep didn’t come easy.
Next morning, I tried to clear the air. We sat at the kitchen table, eating porridge, the spoons scraping bowls. The lighthouse felt smaller, walls pressing in. “Robert,” I said, “how do you cope out here? It’s so far from everything.”
He stirred his bowl, eyes on the table. “Was in the navy,” he said, voice flat. “You get used to tight spaces, quiet. But it wears on you.” He paused, spoon still. “Things you’ve seen… they don’t leave. Follow you, like shadows.”
I nodded, thinking of my own nights missing home. “I write to my family,” I said. “Helps me feel close to them.”
He laughed, a sharp bark that made me jump. “Letters?” he said, crumbling bread in his fist. “They don’t fix nothing, Hugh. Nothing.” His eyes locked on mine, hard and bright, like he was daring me to argue. “You ever feel trapped here? Like the sea’s a cage?”
My throat tightened. “Sometimes,” I admitted. “But the light’s important. Keeps ships safe.”
He snorted, shoving his bowl away. “Safe,” he muttered, standing. His boots echoed as he climbed to the lamp room. I sat there, porridge cold, feeling like I’d failed some test. After that, I started watching him closer. We keep a rifle in the kitchen cabinet, locked, for emergencies—seals, maybe, or signaling. I checked it daily, counting the bullets. All there.
Three nights ago, I woke to a crash downstairs. My eyes snapped open, heart hammering. The clock said 2 a.m. I grabbed my flashlight, its beam cutting through the dark, and eased out of my room. The spiral staircase was cold under my bare feet, each step creaking. In the kitchen, a chair was overturned, its legs jutting up like bones. I swept the light around—empty. The cabinet was locked, rifle still there. But the air felt wrong, heavy, like someone had just left. I righted the chair, hands clumsy, and checked the doors. Bolted tight. Back in bed, I kept the flashlight by my pillow.
Yesterday morning, I found the radio dead. I was set to call the mainland, our weekly check-in, but when I turned the knob, nothing. I opened the back panel—wires sliced clean, like with a knife. My stomach dropped. I climbed to the lamp room, where Robert was polishing the lens, his movements slow, deliberate. “Robert,” I said, voice steady as I could manage, “the radio’s broken. Wires are cut.”
He didn’t look up, just kept wiping. “Rats,” he said, shrugging.
“Rats don’t cut wires,” I said, sharper than I meant.
He stopped, cloth still in his hand. His head turned, eyes narrowing. “You saying I did it, Hugh?” His voice was low, a warning.
I stepped back, hands up. “Just saying it’s strange.”
He held my gaze, then smiled—a thin, wrong smile. “Check the light,” he said, turning back to the lens. I left, my pulse loud in my ears. That afternoon, I walked the island, a small loop of rock and grass, hoping to clear my head. I found a gull, dead, its neck twisted. Could’ve been a fall, but it felt like a sign. I buried it under stones, glancing back at the lighthouse. Robert stood at the window, watching.
Last night, I barred my door with a chair. Around midnight, footsteps paced the hall—slow, deliberate. They stopped outside my room. I sat up, gripping the flashlight, breath shallow. The doorknob rattled, soft, like he was testing it. I waited, frozen, but he moved on, boots fading. I didn’t sleep.
This morning, August 18, I checked the rifle. Gone. The cabinet lock was pried open, wood splintered. Bullets missing. I found Robert outside, standing on the rocks, hands in his pockets, staring at the sea. His hair whipped in the wind, and he didn’t turn when I approached. “Robert,” I said, voice shaking, “where’s the rifle?”
He turned slow, face blank. “What rifle?”
“Don’t lie,” I said, stepping closer. “It’s gone. You took it.”
He laughed, soft, like I’d told a joke. “You worry too much, Hugh.” He stepped toward me, and I saw his eyes—wild, pupils huge, like something inside him had broken free. “Go check the light. It’s your job, right?”
I backed away, heart pounding, and climbed to the lamp room. I’m writing this now, door locked, a kitchen knife on the desk. The blade’s dull, but it’s all I have. The lighthouse creaks, old bones settling, but every sound makes me jump. I keep hearing steps below, or maybe it’s my imagination. Robert’s down there, somewhere, with the rifle. I picture him sitting in the kitchen, running his fingers over the barrel, muttering.
The boat won’t come for three days. Three days alone with him. I keep replaying his words—“trapped, like a cage.” I think of the radio, the gull, the chair. His eyes. My hands sweat, smudging the ink. I’ll stay here tonight, knife close, door barred. If he comes up, I’ll hear him on the stairs. I’ll—
A floorboard creaked below. I stopped writing, listening. Another creak, closer. My grip tightens on the knife. He’s coming.
"No Light, No Answer":
I stepped off the Hesperus onto the jagged rocks of the Flannan Isles, my heavy boots scraping against the wet stones. It was December 26, 1900, Boxing Day, and I was here to relieve the three lighthouse keepers—James Ducat, Thomas Marshall, and William MacArthur. The lighthouse loomed above, a squat gray tower perched on the cliff, its silence unnerving. The light, which should have been sweeping the sea, was dead. No one came down to meet us, no wave of a hand, no shout of greeting. The captain blew the ship’s horn, a deep bellow that echoed off the cliffs, but the island gave no answer.
“Something’s wrong,” I said to Captain Harvie, my voice barely steady. My gut churned, a sick feeling I couldn’t shake.
He squinted up at the tower, his weathered face creasing. “No signal. No light. You’d better go up and see what’s happened.”
I nodded, swallowing hard, and started the climb. The 160 steps wound up the cliff, steep and slick. Each one felt heavier than the last, my breath puffing in the cold air. Halfway up, I paused, glancing back at the ship bobbing in the distance. The crew watched me, small figures against the gray sea. Why wasn’t anyone coming down? Ducat was a stickler for routine. He’d never miss a relief.
At the top, the iron gate was shut tight, the latch cold under my fingers. Beyond it, the lighthouse door was locked. My key rattled in the lock, the sound too loud in the quiet. I pushed the door open, and it creaked on its hinges, revealing a dark hallway. The air inside was stale, heavy with the smell of oil and salt. “Ducat?” I called. “Marshall? MacArthur? Anyone here?” My voice echoed, swallowed by the stone walls. No answer.
I stepped into the kitchen, and my boots stopped dead. The table was set for three—plates, mugs, forks, and spoons laid out neatly, as if ready for supper. A loaf of bread sat in the center, untouched, a knife beside it. Cold stew congealed in a pot on the stove. One chair was tipped over, sprawled on the floor like it had been kicked aside in a rush. The clock on the wall stared at me, its hands frozen at 3:15. My heart thudded, loud in my ears. “What is this?” I muttered, my voice shaking.
I moved to the desk, where the logbook lay open. The last entry, in Ducat’s careful handwriting, was dated December 15—eleven days ago. It listed mundane tasks: “Lamps filled, wicks trimmed, supplies checked.” Nothing about trouble, no hint of danger. Eleven days without a word? That wasn’t right. Ducat logged every detail, down to the number of gulls on the cliffs.
The bedrooms were next. I pushed open the first door, and the hinges squealed. The bed was unmade, blankets twisted like someone had leapt out in a hurry. A pipe rested on the nightstand, its bowl half-full of tobacco. A book, dog-eared, lay open on a chair, a photo tucked inside—a woman and two children, smiling. Marshall’s family, I guessed. The other rooms were the same: beds rumpled, personal things left behind. A razor on a washstand, a wool cap on a hook. It was like they’d vanished mid-step.
I climbed the spiral stairs to the lantern room, my boots clanging on the iron steps. The lamps gleamed, polished to a shine, wicks trimmed and ready. The oil reservoir was full, but the light was off. Everything was perfect, except for the men who should’ve been tending it. I lit a lamp, my hands trembling, and the flame threw long shadows across the curved walls. The glass panes looked out over the sea, endless and dark. I stood there, staring, half-expecting to see the keepers waving from the cliffs below. But there was nothing.
Back on the ship, I faced Captain Harvie, my throat tight. “The lighthouse is empty,” I said. “No one’s there.”
His eyes widened. “Empty? That’s nonsense. They can’t just disappear.”
“I checked every room. The table’s set for a meal, but it’s untouched. A chair’s knocked over. The clock’s stopped at 3:15. The log ends eleven days ago.”
He rubbed his jaw, his face darkening. “We’ll search the island. They might be hurt somewhere.”
We split into groups, combing the rocky paths and cliffs. I shouted their names—“Ducat! Marshall! MacArthur!”—until my voice grew hoarse. The wind carried my calls away, unanswered. We checked the store sheds, the coal bins, even the tiny chapel carved into the rock. Nothing. Then we reached the west landing, and my blood ran cold.
The platform, 110 feet above the sea, was a wreck. A heavy supply box, bolted to the rock, was smashed open, its contents—ropes, tools, cans—scattered like toys. Iron railings, thick as my wrist, were bent outward, twisted into unnatural shapes. A boulder, bigger than a man, lay uprooted, flung ten feet from its place. The ground was torn up, grass and dirt ripped away in clumps. I knelt, touching the splintered wood of the box, my fingers numb.
“What could do this?” John, a sailor with a thick beard, whispered, his eyes wide.
“A wave,” I said, but the words felt hollow. No storm had been reported, not one strong enough to do this.
Captain Harvie stood by the railings, his face pale. “They must’ve been out here, securing the gear, when it hit.”
“All three?” I asked, my voice sharp. “Why would they all go out together? One stays, always.”
He didn’t answer, just stared at the sea, his lips a thin line.
We searched until dusk, but found no trace—no boots, no coats, no bodies. The captain decided I’d stay to keep the light burning. “We’ll come back at dawn,” he said. “You’ll be fine.”
I wanted to argue, to beg to leave, but I nodded. The sailors rowed back to the ship, their oars splashing in the dark water, leaving me alone. The lighthouse felt bigger now, its shadows deeper. I locked the door behind me, the bolt sliding with a heavy thunk.
In the kitchen, I righted the fallen chair, but didn’t touch the table. The plates seemed to watch me, the cold stew glinting in the lamplight. I sat, trying to eat some bread from my pack, but it stuck in my throat. The wind howled outside, rattling the windows, and every gust sounded like a voice, low and urgent. I shook my head, trying to focus. It was just the island, just the sea.
I climbed to the lantern room to check the light. The stairs creaked under my weight, each step louder than the last. I kept glancing over my shoulder, half-expecting to see someone behind me. The lamp burned steady, its beam cutting through the darkness outside. I leaned against the glass, peering out. The sea churned below, waves smashing the rocks. Then I saw it—a flicker of light, far out on the water. A ship? I grabbed the telescope, my hands clumsy, and scanned the horizon. Nothing. Just black waves. My heart pounded. “You’re imagining things,” I muttered.
Back in the lantern room, I noticed a scrap of paper under the lamp base, half-hidden. I picked it up, my fingers shaking. In Ducat’s handwriting, it read: “The sea is angry. We must secure the landing. J.D.” I stared at it, my mouth dry. So they’d gone to the landing, all three, to fix something. But what could drag three men into the sea without a trace? I folded the note and slipped it into my pocket, its weight heavy against my chest.
Downstairs, the kitchen felt colder, the shadows sharper. I sat by the stove, feeding it coal to keep the chill away, but it didn’t help. The wind screamed, and the lighthouse groaned, its stones settling. Then I heard it—a soft thump, like a footstep on the stairs. I froze, my breath catching. Another thump, slow and deliberate. “Who’s there?” I called, my voice cracking. Silence. I grabbed the lamp, its light shaking in my hand, and crept to the staircase. The steps were empty, disappearing into the dark above.
“It’s the wind,” I said aloud, but my voice sounded weak. I locked the kitchen door, dragging a chair against it for good measure. Back by the stove, I tried to calm myself, counting my breaths. One, two, three. Then—tap-tap-tap. A sharp knock at the outer door. My heart leapt into my throat. I stood, gripping the lamp, and listened. Tap-tap-tap, louder now, insistent. “Ducat?” I whispered, knowing it was foolish. I inched to the door, my boots scuffing the floor, and pressed my ear against the wood. Nothing but the wind.
I opened the door a crack, the lamp casting a thin beam outside. The staircase was empty, the gate beyond it shut. I slammed the door, locking it, my hands trembling. “Just the wind,” I said again, but I didn’t believe it.
In the bedroom, I lay on Ducat’s bed, the blanket scratchy against my skin. Sleep wouldn’t come. The lighthouse creaked, the wind moaned, and every sound became a threat. I kept the lamp burning, its glow pushing back the dark. Then I heard it—a whisper, faint but clear. “Help us…” I sat up, my pulse racing. The room was empty, the door still locked. “Help us…” It came again, from the hallway, soft and pleading. I clutched the blanket, my eyes darting to the shadows. It was my mind, it had to be. The isolation, the fear, playing tricks.
But the whisper grew louder, closer, like it was right outside the door. “Help us… please…” I scrambled out of bed, grabbing the lamp, and backed against the wall. The door didn’t move, but the voice felt like it was in the room, brushing my ear. I squeezed my eyes shut, praying for dawn.
When morning came, gray light filtered through the window. The whispers were gone, but my hands still shook. The ship returned, and we searched again—cliffs, caves, every inch of the island. Nothing. Captain Harvie clapped my shoulder. “They’re gone, lad. A wave took them. That’s all it was.”
I nodded, but the note in my pocket felt like a stone. As we sailed away, I looked back at the lighthouse, its dark windows like eyes. The sea had claimed three men, but I couldn’t shake the feeling it wasn’t done. Something lingered on that island, in the wind, in the shadows, waiting for the next soul to tend the light.
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