"The Solitary Beacon":
I remember that day in August 1960 as if it happened last week—the sharp tang of salt in the air, the rhythmic slap of waves against the hull, my father’s calm presence beside me. We’d taken our small wooden boat out from Kirkcudbright, planning nothing more ambitious than a quiet picnic on Little Ross Island. I had just turned twenty, and my father—an overworked bank clerk who rarely escaped the confines of his office—had let me take charge of the trip. I was proud to handle the tiller, eager to show I knew my way around the sea.
Little Ross lay ahead, a lonely speck of land crowned by its tall white lighthouse. I’d stopped there before—just brief visits, cups of tea with the keepers—but that day the island seemed different. Still. Watchful.
We tied up at the quay, and immediately I noticed how unnervingly quiet it was. No one waved from the cottages, no faint clatter of tools or chatter from the tower. “Odd,” I said. “They usually come down when someone lands.”
“Maybe they’re busy inside,” my father replied, ever the practical man. He didn’t like to make much of things.
We spread our lunch on the rocks near the water and ate under a pale sky, talking about nothing important—his work at the bank, my vague plans for the future. But the silence pressed heavier the longer we stayed. The only sound was the cry of gulls and the slow, steady hum of the sea.
Finally, I said, “We should at least say hello before we go.”
He nodded. “Good manners never hurt anyone.”
We followed the winding path up toward the tower. Pebbles crunched under our boots. I called out: “Hello? Anyone about?” My voice echoed strangely off the stone walls. No answer. The main door stood unlocked—normal enough for such a remote place—but the emptiness inside felt wrong.
Everything was tidy. Too tidy. The brass gleamed, the floorboards shone, and in the corner a small green budgie chirped cheerfully in its cage, as if unaware of anything amiss. My father flipped open the logbook on the table. The last entry was from early that morning.
“Nothing since eight o’clock,” he murmured. “Strange.”
We searched the principal keeper’s quarters—spotless, bed made, no sign of disturbance. Then we crossed to the assistant’s cottage. My father went in first while I waited outside, the breeze whispering through the grass. I heard nothing but the faint groan of the door hinges—then silence.
When he came out, his face had gone pale. “David,” he said quietly, “there’s a man in bed. He looks… not well. Run down to the east quay and get help. Now.”
Something in his voice—controlled, but trembling at the edges—made me sprint without question. I found two fishermen hauling lobster pots nearby, their hands rough and weathered. “Please—come quick,” I gasped. “Someone’s sick up by the lighthouse.”
One of them, a broad-shouldered man named Angus, nodded once and followed me up the path at a brisk pace.
When we entered the cottage, the smell struck first—faint, metallic, and unmistakable. The man on the bed lay face down, a towel draped neatly over his head. His feet protruded from the blanket, white and still. Angus stepped closer, lifted the corner of the towel just enough to see. He froze.
“He’s gone,” he said softly. “Been gone a while.”
A small patch of dried blood stained the towel near where his head rested. My pulse thudded in my ears. The rest of the room looked undisturbed—the kettle on the stove, the chair pushed in, the bed otherwise neatly made around the body. My father stood rigid beside me.
“Who could’ve done this?” he whispered.
Angus’s face darkened. “There were only two keepers here,” he said. “Where’s the other one?”
We stepped outside into the open air, shaken. My father hurried to the main building and phoned the police in Kirkcudbright. The line crackled; his voice sounded small and far away. He told them what we’d found, then hung up slowly. “They’ll send a launch,” he said. “Might take a few hours.”
So we waited.
The island, once quaint and peaceful, now felt hostile. Every creak of timber or rustle of grass set my nerves on edge. Angus tried to talk—stories of the keepers, old storms, strange happenings—but his words drifted away unfinished. Once, we all turned at the same time, certain we’d heard a door shift somewhere behind us.
“Just the wind,” Angus muttered, though his eyes said otherwise.
By the time the police boat appeared, the sun had started to sink, throwing long shadows across the lighthouse grounds. The doctor and constable moved briskly, businesslike, but when they uncovered the body, their composure faltered.
The man beneath the towel was Hugh Clark, the relief keeper. A bullet wound marked the side of his face—close range, deliberate. His colleague, Robert Dickson, was gone, along with one of the boats and some of the station’s petty cash.
Standing there beside my father, the evening wind lifting off the sea, I felt the reality settle in my chest like a weight. This wasn’t an accident or illness. It was murder. Someone had waited until the other slept and pulled the trigger.
And for a brief, cold moment, I realized—if we had arrived an hour earlier, we might have met the killer still on the island.
"Salt and Silence":
I’d always been drawn to old places with dark pasts—the kind that hum beneath the surface, where history doesn’t just whisper but warns. Ryan shared that fascination. He was my closest friend and the braver of us two, always chasing that next eerie thrill for our blog. He was the one who said we should boat out to Execution Rocks Lighthouse, that decaying relic in the middle of Long Island Sound.
“Come on, man,” he said, grinning as we loaded our gear into the little motorboat. “They used to drown prisoners out there. Chains, tides—the works. It’s perfect.”
I hesitated. The name alone sent a chill through me. But the mix of fear and fascination had its pull. I told myself it was just another adventure, another forgotten place to document before time erased it.
We pushed off from the shore around noon, the sound flat and gray under a low, colorless sky. The hum of the outboard motor filled the silence as the mainland faded behind us. It took about an hour before the lighthouse appeared through the haze—a tall, white tower streaked with rust, rising out of jagged black rocks like some ghostly sentinel.
We tied the boat to a corroded cleat and stepped carefully onto the slick stone. The air smelled of salt and rot. The door at the base hung slightly open, hinges squealing as Ryan pushed it wider.
“After you,” he said with a grin.
The air inside was heavy and stale, carrying a faint metallic tang, like old blood. Our flashlights cut through layers of dust and cobwebs, glinting off rusted tools and toppled furniture.
“This is awesome,” Ryan whispered, his voice echoing up the spiral staircase that wound into darkness.
We explored the ground floor first—crumbling logbooks, a rusted oil can, scraps of canvas, all relics of another century. I flipped through one of the logbooks, the paper brittle as dried leaves. Most entries were dull—weather notes, ship sightings—until one line caught my eye: “Chains repaired at low tide. Used for securing threats.”
Ryan leaned over my shoulder. “You know the stories, right? They chained prisoners here and let the tide drown them. Colonial justice.”
He said it with that excited gleam of his, but it made something in my gut tighten.
We climbed the narrow stairs, the metal groaning under each step. The higher we went, the more claustrophobic it felt—the air colder, the walls closing in. When we reached the lantern room, the massive light was gone, only the glass frame remaining. Shards from broken panes littered the floor, crunching under our boots.
Ryan started setting up his camera. “Imagine living out here alone,” he said. “No rescue, no escape—just the water and the dark.”
“Yeah,” I muttered, gazing down. On the rocks below, something caught my attention—deep gouges carved into the stone, like metal dragged against it again and again.
“Ryan, check this out.”
He squinted. “Probably old equipment or something.”
Maybe. But the sight unsettled me.
By late afternoon, the light outside dimmed to a muted gold. We returned to the main floor, unwrapped our sandwiches, and sat on the cold concrete to eat. The silence pressed in.
“This place gives me the creeps,” I admitted.
Ryan smirked. “That’s the point. Oh, get this—Panzram, that serial killer from the 1920s? They say he dumped bodies near here. Claimed he sank a boat full of them.”
He chuckled as he spoke, but I didn’t. The thought of that much death, so close, settled into my stomach like ice.
Then—a sound. A faint splash outside.
We both froze.
“Probably just a wave,” Ryan said, standing up and grabbing his flashlight. “I’ll check.”
He disappeared through the doorway.
I waited, listening. The seconds stretched. Then minutes.
“Ryan?” I called softly.
No answer.
I stood, heart pounding harder now. “Ryan!”
Still nothing.
I grabbed my flashlight and stepped outside. The tide had risen, waves slapping the rocks. The beam trembled in my hand as I scanned the area.
Then I saw it—his flashlight, lying on the ground, still on.
And next to it… Ryan. Face down, motionless, blood pooling from a gash along his temple.
I dropped to my knees, turning him over. His eyes stared past me—empty, unseeing.
“Oh God…” I pressed two fingers to his neck. Nothing.
For a long moment, the only sound was the surf. Then came another noise—slow, deliberate crunching of gravel behind me.
I spun around.
A man was stepping out from the shadows near the tower’s base. His clothes were tattered, soaked to the waist. His face was gaunt, skin stretched tight over sharp bones, a jagged scar cutting across his cheek. In one hand he held a rock, dark and wet.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said. His voice rasped like rust.
My breath caught. “What—what did you do to him?”
He dropped the rock with a dull thud. “He saw too much. Just like the others.”
He stepped closer.
“This is my spot,” he growled. “Been using it for years. Easy to get rid of problems here. Tide does the rest.”
The stories. The chains. The marks on the rocks. My mind raced.
“Please,” I said, backing up. “I won’t tell anyone.”
He shook his head slowly. “Can’t take that chance.”
Then he lunged.
I stumbled backward, slipping on the wet stone. His hand grabbed my arm—iron strong. I wrenched free, adrenaline screaming through me, and ran. The door loomed ahead. I slammed it shut behind me, chest heaving, eyes darting for a lock. Nothing.
His pounding came almost immediately.
“Open up! You can’t hide forever.”
I bolted up the spiral stairs, legs trembling. His voice echoed after me, low and confident. “I know every inch of this place!”
At the top, I jammed a loose beam across the hatch. The metal stairs groaned under his weight as he climbed. My flashlight flickered. My pulse thundered in my ears.
“Come out!” he shouted, slamming against the hatch. “You’ll wish you drowned.”
The beam splintered. I grabbed a shard of broken glass, wrapping it in my shirt. My hands were shaking.
The hatch burst open. He hauled himself through, breathing hard, eyes wild. “End of the line.”
He charged. I swung the glass, slicing his arm. He bellowed, grabbed me by the throat, and drove me backward toward the open center of the tower. My feet slipped, scraping for grip.
“Like the old days,” he hissed, squeezing. “Chained and drowned.”
Black spots swam in my vision. Summoning the last of my strength, I twisted, driving my knee into his gut. He staggered, off balance. I shoved with everything I had.
He toppled over the edge. The sound of his body hitting the stairs below was a sickening cascade of thuds. Then silence.
I stayed frozen for a long moment before descending, glass still in hand. He lay sprawled at the bottom, neck bent at an impossible angle.
Outside, the sea had gone dark. Ryan’s body was still there. I dragged him—crying, cursing—to the boat. Somehow, the engine started. I didn’t look back as the lighthouse shrank into the fog.
The police believed me. They found the man’s records—an escaped convict, a drifter who’d been living among the ruins, hiding bodies in the Sound for years. Just like Panzram.
But I never wrote the story. Never went back.
Because sometimes history doesn’t stay buried—it waits, out there on those rocks, for the next fool to come listening.
"Letters Never Sent":
I had just finished my shift at the dock in Munising when the news tore through town like a spark in dry grass. A body had washed ashore near Au Sable Point — battered, broken, and wearing a keeper’s uniform. Folks said it was Edward Morrison, the man from the North Point Lighthouse on Grand Island.
I knew Edward a little. He’d come into town every few weeks for supplies — a quiet man, always polite, with hands that looked older than his face. He had a wife down in Flint he wrote to often. I remember him once telling me the nights were long out there, “but the lake keeps you company if you listen right.”
For days, the lighthouse had been dark — no sweeping beam cutting through the night. Out here, that kind of silence meant trouble. Ships steered blind without that light. The sheriff didn’t waste time. He rounded up a handful of us to check on things — me, my old friend Tom, and two locals, Henry and Paul. Henry owned a sturdy skiff with an engine that never failed, so we loaded up and pushed off, the gray morning swallowing the shoreline behind us.
“Think it’s just an accident?” Tom asked as the waves slapped against the hull. He was fiddling with a coil of rope, trying to look calm, but his hands betrayed him — knuckles pale as bone.
“Hard to say,” I replied, keeping my eyes fixed on the dark smudge of Grand Island ahead. “Edward wasn’t careless. And that light being out? Doesn’t sit right. George Genery’s supposed to be keeping it running.”
Henry, at the tiller, gave a low grunt. “Heard those two didn’t get along much. Genery’s got a temper. Edward was more by-the-book. Fights over nothing, some said.”
Paul spat over the side. “If something happened to Edward, Genery better have a good story.”
We fell quiet after that, letting the sound of the lake fill the air. The water hit the skiff with a slow, steady rhythm — like something breathing beneath us. Grand Island rose out of the fog, wild and lonely, seven miles from the nearest neighbor. The lighthouse stood high against the gray sky, but something about it looked wrong. No smoke from the chimney. No figure moving near the keeper’s house. Just stillness.
When we tied up at the dock, I noticed crates of supplies sitting there — sacks of flour, canned meat, lamp oil. All untouched. “These came off the last supply run,” I said. “Edward and Genery brought them back weeks ago. Why leave them out here?”
Tom cupped his hands around his mouth and called, “George! Edward!”
Only the echo came back. No gulls, no footsteps, not even the creak of the dock. Just that cold emptiness that made your skin crawl.
Paul moved toward the boathouse, its door hanging half-open. “Let’s look around,” he said, his voice sharper than usual.
Inside, Genery’s coat hung on a hook — dry, neatly buttoned, like he’d just stepped out. But one of the small sailboats was missing.
“Should be three,” Henry muttered. “Only two left.”
“Edward’s body was found in one like that,” I said quietly. The words hung in the air, heavy as fog.
We went to the keeper’s quarters next. The front door wasn’t locked. Tom went in first, pushing it open with slow caution. “Hello?”
Silence.
The kitchen was clean, dishes stacked, a pot on the stove gone cold. Edward’s vest lay draped over a chair, his pocket watch dangling from the chain, still ticking faintly. I picked it up, feeling its warmth against my palm — like it hadn’t been left there long. In the pocket was a half-written letter to his wife. The last few lines made my stomach tighten: “Genery’s fuse is shorter these days. If I stand up to him, it might end bad. Don’t worry if you hear of an accident.”
Paul leaned over my shoulder, reading the words aloud under his breath. Nobody spoke for a long moment.
Finally, Tom said, “You think Genery—?”
Henry cut him off. “Let’s not go there yet. Check upstairs first.”
The stairs creaked like bones underfoot. The lamp room was cold and empty, the lens spotless, wick trimmed but dry. It was clear someone had tended it recently — then stopped. The whole place felt… watched. Like something just beyond sight was holding its breath.
Back downstairs, we split up. I took the bedroom. The bed was made, clothes folded neat. But the air was wrong — heavy, stale, like the room hadn’t been opened in weeks.
Then Paul called from the hall. “Hey, come see this.”
He pointed to a faint brown stain on the floor near the door. Looked like someone had tried to scrub it out. “That blood?” he asked.
Tom knelt down. “Could be. And look — shovel’s missing from the rack outside.”
“If Genery hurt him,” I said slowly, “and sent him out in the boat to cover it up…”
Henry exhaled hard. “And it washed back instead.”
We stood in silence. Outside, the wind had picked up, whistling low through the eaves. The island suddenly felt smaller — the forest pressing close, the lake stretching endless and black beyond it.
“What if Genery’s still here?” I said. “Watching us.”
Paul grabbed a poker from the hearth. “Then he’ll show himself when he’s ready.”
We searched the grounds, moving slow, calling his name. The path to the cliffs was slick with moss, the air sharp with pine and salt. Tom whispered, “You ever hear about that gamekeeper down south end? The one who got in fights over poaching?”
“Yeah,” I said. “You thinking he came up here?”
“Could be. Or robbers. Easy target out here.”
A rustle snapped the silence. We froze, hearts hammering. Paul raised the poker. “Who’s there?”
A deer burst out of the brush, crashing through the trees. We laughed — short, nervous bursts that didn’t sound right.
By the time we circled back to the dock, the sun was low and orange behind the fog. No fresh tracks, no sign of Genery. Just those supplies, still sitting untouched.
“If he ran,” Henry said, “why leave everything?”
“Because he panicked,” Tom answered. “Maybe realized what he’d done.”
We argued whether to stay the night, but none of us wanted to. The island had that feel — like it wanted us gone.
As we headed back across the lake, the lighthouse shrank into the mist until it was just a dark tooth on the horizon. I kept thinking about that letter — Don’t worry if you hear of an accident.
A few months later, another body washed up near Whitefish Point. Too far gone to identify, but the rumor said it was Genery. Some thought he jumped from the cliffs in guilt.
I never went back. Even now, when the lake goes quiet and the fog rolls in thick, I imagine that lighthouse standing there — dark, empty, holding its secrets close.
Whatever happened between those two men out there, it wasn’t just loneliness or madness. It was something deeper, something that comes from being cut off from the world too long. The kind of isolation that twists a man’s thoughts until the only light left is the one he snuffs out himself.
"The Last Rotation":
My shift at the Smalls Lighthouse began like any other, with the supply boat dropping us off on that lonely shard of rock twenty miles off the Welsh coast. I, Thomas Howell, had worked as a keeper for years, used to the ceaseless sway of the wooden tower and the deep, eternal voice of the sea. The Smalls stood on oak stilts above the waves—an island barely larger than the base of the lighthouse itself, a place where solitude became as constant as the wind.
My partner this time was Thomas Griffith. I knew him from the mainland—a capable keeper, but a man with a quick temper and a tongue that too often sought argument. We’d quarreled before over trivial things: wages, drinks, who handled repairs better. Small stuff. Out here, though, you learned to bury those things. There was no room for grudges where two men had to depend on each other utterly.
As the relief boat pulled away, its wake fading into the gray water, Griffith gave me a smirk.
“Well, Howell, looks like it’s you and me against the sea again. Try not to snore so loud this time.”
I smiled faintly, hoisting the crates of salted meat and oil. “Just keep the lamp trimmed and we’ll get through.”
The first weeks passed in rhythm. We tended the light in twelve-hour turns, polished the brass, recorded the weather, and cooked simple meals of bread and dried fish. The hut creaked with every gust, the whole structure trembling as if alive. The walls sweated salt. Nights blurred together in the endless howl of the wind and the metronome sweep of the lantern. Griffith talked often about what he’d do when we got off shift—buy land, marry, start a family. I mostly listened, content to let the sound of another human voice fill the space.
Then one evening, as rain hissed against the glass, Griffith grimaced mid-sentence and pressed his side.
“Got a stitch,” he muttered. “Feels like something twisted when I climbed the ladder earlier.”
“Rest it,” I said. “I’ll keep the watch.”
But by dawn, his face had turned pale and slick with sweat. The pain had deepened; he could barely stand.
“Howell,” he rasped, clutching his abdomen, “it’s bad. Feels like fire inside me.”
I eased him into his bunk, gave him water. We had no medicine, nothing but cloth and salt. I hoisted a distress flag outside, praying a passing ship might see it. But days came and went. The horizon stayed empty. Griffith worsened—his cries echoing off the cramped walls until they seemed to come from everywhere at once. His voice weakened to a whisper:
“Don’t… leave me like this, Howell. Promise you’ll get help.”
“I promise,” I said, though I knew the sea would not let me keep it.
The nights were endless. His breathing grew ragged, his eyes glazed. Then one morning, silence. I touched his shoulder—cold. He was gone.
For a long time, I just sat there. The wind rattled the shutters, the sea boomed below, and I felt small—like the whole world had narrowed to that room and the still shape beneath a blanket. Then came panic. What would I do now? If I cast him into the sea, they’d think I’d killed him—we’d fought before, after all. Rumors would do the rest.
So I kept him.
At first, I left him covered in the corner, but within days the air turned foul—thick and sweet and sickening. The smell clung to everything: my clothes, the food, my skin. I couldn’t eat. Couldn’t sleep. Desperation drove me to act. Using old skills from my days as a cooper, I tore planks from a wall partition and built a crude coffin. My hands shook as I hammered it together, the sound of each nail echoing like a heartbeat.
“Sorry, Griffith,” I whispered as I lifted his stiff form inside. “You deserve better than this.”
I dragged the box outside onto the narrow gallery and lashed it to the railing. The wind tore at me, nearly pitching me into the sea. When I looked back at the lighthouse, its timbers groaning under the strain, I realized how fragile it all was—man, wood, and light defying the endless gray.
For a time, I could almost forget. But the storms came.
One night, the wind screamed like a living thing, waves striking the legs of the lighthouse so hard the whole structure quivered. I prayed through the night that it would hold. When dawn broke, the coffin was gone—splintered to pieces. Griffith’s body hung half over the railing, tangled in the ropes, arms limp, head twisted sideways.
I gagged but steadied myself and tied him down again, unable to bring him inside. His face was half-hidden by sea spray and hair, but when the wind blew right, his arm swung up as if waving. From the window it looked like he was beckoning—calling me to come outside.
The days bled together after that. The wind, the smell, the creaking timbers—it all became one endless, maddening sound. I stopped keeping the log. I barely ate. Sometimes I’d talk to him through the storm, pretending he was alive. “We’ll be relieved soon, Griffith. Just hold on.” Other times I shouted at him, begged him to stop moving.
Ships passed, small shapes on the horizon. I waved the distress flag until my arms ached. Once, a boat came close enough that I could see faces looking up.
“What’s happened?” they shouted.
“He’s dead!” I screamed back. “Send help!”
But the waves were too fierce. They drifted away, their voices lost in the gale.
Weeks dragged into months. My reflection in the lantern glass became hollow-eyed, my beard wild, my mind unraveling thread by thread. The light still shone, though. Habit kept it burning when reason might not.
When relief finally came, I could scarcely stand. The men who climbed up recoiled at the smell, at my gaunt frame.
“Howell?” one asked. “Good God… what happened here?”
I tried to answer but no words came. They cut Griffith’s remains free, wrapped what was left, and helped me down to the boat. I didn’t look back at first. But as we pulled away, I turned—saw the lighthouse standing small and defiant against the horizon, a lonely mark of all that had been lost.
I never went to sea again. The company changed its rules after that—no more two-man crews. But that was no comfort to me. Sometimes, when the wind howls through the cliffs near my home, I still hear that sound—the rattle of the ropes, the faint creak of wood—and in it, the whisper of a voice calling from the sea.
"Murder Light":
I’d always had a soft spot for old buildings — the kind that creak with the weight of years, where history clings to the walls like mildew. My job as a researcher for local history books had taken me to dozens of forgotten places along the coast, but none with a reputation quite like the old lighthouse off the Maine shore.
It had been abandoned for more than a century, ever since a tragedy in the late 1800s. The story went that a man staying on the island had turned violent — murdered a deputy, then shot himself. The details were murky, the names half-lost to time. That mystery was enough for me. I thought maybe I’d find something no one else had.
So, one gray morning, I rented a small boat and set out across the choppy water. The sea smelled of salt and iron, and gulls circled like sentries. The island was barely a scrap of land — a jut of rock, some tall grass bent by the wind, and the tower rising above it like a ghost with a hollowed-out heart.
The lighthouse looked worse than I expected. Paint peeled from its frame in scabs, windows gaped like missing teeth, and the door swung open on one rusted hinge, creaking in the wind. I tied off the boat and climbed onto the rocks, my pack heavy with a flashlight, a notebook, and a sandwich I suddenly didn’t think I’d have an appetite for.
Inside, the air was thick with rot and salt. The floorboards moaned beneath every step. I passed broken furniture, toppled chairs, a clock long stopped. On a desk, I found a yellowed logbook from 1896, the ink faded to brown. The last entry mentioned a “tenant” in the shack behind the tower. I knew that part of the story — the man who went mad, who turned violent. Reading it in the shaky hand of the keeper made it feel closer, almost fresh.
I climbed the spiral staircase, each metal step groaning underfoot. On the first landing, I stopped. A single apple core lay on the floor. Not shriveled or brown — fresh. My pulse began to pound. Maybe an animal had dragged it in? But no. The teeth marks were unmistakably human.
“Hello?” I called, my voice echoing up the tower. Only wind answered.
I turned my flashlight on even though sunlight filtered through the cracked panes. The higher I climbed, the narrower the stairs became, the air turning close and stale. Finally, I reached the lantern room. The great glass panels were shattered, and gulls had built nests in the corners. The sea stretched endlessly around me — cold, gray, infinite. For a moment, it was almost peaceful.
Then came the sound — a dull thump from below.
I froze. Another, closer this time. Slow, deliberate steps on the stairs.
“Who’s there?” I shouted.
A man’s voice answered, calm but rough, like gravel sliding down metal. “Just me. Who are you?”
A figure emerged from the stairwell — tall, thin, clothes torn and stained by salt. His eyes were sharp but tired, the kind that had seen too much solitude.
“I’m just researching,” I said, my throat dry. “Writing about the old lighthouse.”
He stepped up into the light. “History,” he said, smiling faintly. “This place has plenty of that. The bad kind.”
“Yeah,” I said carefully. “The story about the squatter — the one who killed the deputy.”
His smile faded. “That’s not how it happened. He wasn’t a bad man. Just wanted to be left alone. But they came for him anyway. People always do.”
Something about the way he said it chilled me.
“How do you know so much?” I asked.
“I stay here sometimes,” he said simply. “No one bothers me. Island’s quiet. I like it that way.” His eyes flicked to my pack. “You got food?”
I hesitated, then handed over my sandwich. He unwrapped it slowly, as though the act itself was sacred.
“Name’s Tom,” he said. “Yours?”
“David,” I lied without knowing why. Maybe because I didn’t want this man to know anything real about me.
He chewed in silence, watching me. “You know,” he said finally, “that squatter wasn’t a murderer. The deputy drew first. Self-defense. But nobody ever believes that side of the story.”
His tone was soft but heavy with something dark — guilt, maybe, or anger too old to fade.
“That’s sad,” I said. “But it’s all in the past.”
He looked at me sharply. “Past? No. It happens again and again. People come. Take what’s not theirs. Leave nothing behind but ruin.”
“I’m not taking anything,” I said. “Just notes.”
He stood up fast, the sandwich tumbling from his hand. “Notes? About me?”
My stomach dropped. “You live here?”
“I belong here,” he snapped. “This is my home now. And you—” he took a step forward— “you know that. You’ll tell.”
“I won’t,” I said quickly. “I swear, I won’t say a word.”
He gave a soft, humorless laugh. “That’s what they all said. The keeper promised him a place too. Then the law came. He had no choice.”
His hand slipped into his coat pocket. Metal glinted — a knife, small but sharp, the blade mottled with rust.
“Wait, Tom,” I said, heart hammering. “You don’t have to—”
He lunged.
Instinct took over. I dodged, crashing into the wall. My flashlight clattered across the floor. I grabbed a length of broken metal from the lamp mechanism and swung. The bar struck his arm; the knife fell. I bolted for the stairs.
“Come back!” he shouted. “You can’t leave!”
I stumbled down the twisting steps, half-blind in the dim light. His footsteps pounded after me, closer, always closer. A hand caught my shoulder — I swung back, elbowing him hard. He cursed, tumbling a few steps. I kept going, lungs burning.
At last I burst into the main room, sprinted through the doorway, and hit the rocky shore running. The boat rocked in the tide. I threw myself in, fumbling with the rope.
“Stop!” he yelled, limping into the surf. The knife was back in his hand.
The engine sputtered — then roared to life. As the boat surged forward, he grabbed the side. I swung the oar, striking his wrist. He slipped beneath the waves with a shout.
I didn’t look back until I was halfway to the mainland. He was there, standing on the rocks, watching — a dark shape against the gray sea.
When I reached the dock, I called the police. They went out that afternoon. The island was empty. The shack out back held only torn clothes, old food wrappers, and the faint smell of smoke. No sign of Tom.
They said he must’ve escaped by another boat. But I know what I saw — the eyes, the voice, the way he spoke about the man from 1896 like he’d known him.
Sometimes I wonder if Tom was ever real, or if the island just keeps its stories alive — reshaping them for whoever dares to come too close.
And at night, when I hear the wind through my window, it almost sounds like waves against the rocks… and footsteps climbing the stairs.