I have worked at North Point Lighthouse for six years. Six years of wind, storms, and the same sound of waves crashing on the rocks. Sometimes, it feels too long.
“Hey, Thomas, still alive up there?” Jonah, the supply boat captain, yelled one gray morning.
“Barely,” I said. I was cleaning the glass of the big light, making sure the salt didn’t fog it.
It is very easy to do lighthouse work on a calm day. You just do your cleaning, check the oil and make sure the light is going on for the ships that pass by. However, storms are not the same.
Fog causes the disappearance of the world. And the wind has been acting strangely these days, as if it was murmuring little voices that were not of this world. "Have you ever heard the stories about this place?" Jonah asked me while he delivering a food crate to me.
"Not at all," I replied. "Sailors are known to scare themselves."
Jonah gave me a skeptical look and said, "If that is what you think."
The sky turned dark that night. The wind howled fiercely against the rocks. I was drawing waves on a paper at my tiny table. Suddenly I felt like my blood had turned to ice.
A sound was penetrating the tempest. It was weak but distinct: "Don't let the light go out."
My chest got tight with fear, my pencil fell out of my hand.
“Hello?” I whispered. No reply. Only the sea’s roar.
The next night, I stayed close to the light. The ocean was dark glass. The beam swept across the water.
“They are still waiting,” the voice said.
My hands were pressed against the chilly window. For a second, I recognized three figures casting shadows on the water. Then they disappeared.
I knew it was a dream, but I couldn’t get it out of my head.
On that day, the fog covered the earth with a white blanket. I turned on the lamp ahead of time. My boots hit the stone as I ascended the stairs to the summit. The wind was gentle. Suddenly, I picked up a faint melody.
My father, who is no longer with us, used to sing it to the sea. The water claimed him two decades ago.
I was shaking and trying to calm myself. “Only the wind,” I said to myself but I really did not believe it.
At that time, one more voice was there. A female voice: "Take the light to the stones."
It was forbidden to go out at night from the tower, yet I felt something inside me that made me want to go. At the end, I found myself giving in to the temptation by midnight.
For "exit at night", I took the small lantern that is kept for emergencies. The rain was piercing my cheek with its little sharp points; nonetheless I went down to the rocks with my little lantern.
Out of the splatter, three figures emerged. They were barely visible but still noticeable with their shimmering from the moonlight.
A young sailor stepped forward. His eyes were sad. “You left us,” he whispered.
“No, I…” My voice cracked. “I wasn’t here then.”
A woman in a torn dress stepped closer. Her outline flickered. “The night the light went out, we were lost. You should have kept it burning.”
“I wasn’t the keeper then,” I said. My hands shook so badly the lantern rattled.
A tall man spoke. His voice was low and rough. “The sea does not forget.”
A wave crashed, soaking me. The lantern flickered. I ran.
Back at the tower, Jonah was waiting. He’d returned to fix a broken winch. His face was pale.
“I saw a light on the rocks,” he said. “Was that you? What were you doing?”
“Checking something,” I muttered.
The next day, Jonah told me an old story. “Fifty years ago, the light here went out in a storm. A ship crashed into the shoals. The keeper was gone. They never found the bodies.”
“Never?” I asked.
“Never. Some say their ghosts still wait for the light.”
That night, I checked the lens twice, the oil three times, and stayed awake. But the whispers pressed at the windows.
Friday brought another storm. The sea roared. Lightning split the sky. I stayed in the lantern room, refusing to leave.
At two a.m., the voices grew loud.
“Help us!”
“Bring the light!”
“Don’t fail us again!”
I gripped the railing. “I’m not leaving! The light stays on!”
The wind howled harder. A shadow crossed the lens.
A man was on the balcony. He looked like he had been doused with water and were just about to disappear a ghost like body and thin like smoke. His eyes were burning red.
"You have to select," he said, his voice resembling that of the ocean. "The tower or the rocks."
I recoiled in shock, fell over, injured my back. After that, I scanned the area but he wasn't there.
I gazed at the sea until the first light of the day. I was awake all night.
The next day, Jonah noticed. “You look awful,” he said.
“Just tired,” I replied.
Saturday brought thick fog. I cleaned the glass and filled the oil tank. The world outside was silent white.
Then I spotted a dark shape moving on the water a ship heading for the shoals.
I rang the big warning bell. Its deep sound echoed across the cliffs. I flashed the emergency signal again and again.
The ship didn’t change course.
The whispers surrounded me: “Guide them.”
I grabbed the lantern and ran to the rocks. The wind whipped at my coat. I waved the light and shouted until my voice was raw.
The ship came closer. Its sails were torn. Its hull looked broken and old. Lightning lit the sky.
The ship was not alive and it was a ghost. It went through the stones without even touching them and then it disappeared.
The ocean made a loud noise and my heart was racing. I got out of there with my back turned to the sea and went to the lighthouse.
When the sun came up, the sea was placid, like the night was peaceful. But I still saw the ship.
After that, Jonah arrived cheerfully. He looked around and asked, “Was it a quiet night?”
“Yes,” I replied in a low voice. I didn’t recognize my voice.
At this point, the wind is my nightly visitor. On occasion, I catch the tune my dad’s tune. At other times, a woman murmurs, "Thanks." Sometimes, there is absolute silence. That is the worst noise of all.
The way I look after the light has also improved. I clean the glass every single day. Even when the sky is clear, I still check the oil. I am very aware of the consequences if the light is out.
When I am lonely, I look at the dark horizon. I ask myself if the sea will ever be able to forgive.
One afternoon, Jonah calls as he unloads crates. “Leaving so soon?”
“Yeah,” I answer, looking at the calm water. “Some storms aren’t worth testing.”
Some stories are not just stories. Some echoes never fade. Some debts can’t be repaid.
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