The Lighthouse, Finale Redux

You know, sometimes you can finish a story, look it over, even post it up for all to see. And then, and only then, do you realize there's something wrong. I am grateful to my friends Mike and Rosalie for pointing out that I sort of rushed the original ending, and for encouraging me to go back and do it better. Hopefully, this works for all of you. And now, the finale of "The Lighthouse."

September 21.

The days have begun to blur. If not for the diary and my attempts to keep my thoughts together I fear the fog may claim my sanity. In the evening, if I can figure out the difference between night and day in this terminal twilight, I have begun to hear the refrain of Fur Elise, played on a solo piano somewhere in the distance. After a while the sounds of clanging metal can be heard on the dock, with muffled voices of both men and women shuffling about. I can hear a bell ringing on the hour, sounding at once next to me and yet off in some unseen distance. The noise is disturbing, mixed with the sounds of the surf and the creaking of the light tower. It took a while but I looked outside to see what I could, and almost fell backward over poor Casey.

There were blue-ish lights, dozens of them, seeming to mill about in the dense precipitation. The voices were still muffled, and I couldn’t make out anything distinct. There was a knock on the door, which startled me more than anything, and I approached the door to see who or what was there. It was a man in his sixties, with a wet white beard and hair, wearing a soaking wet navy peacoat and black pants. His eyes were at once vacant and remorseful, as if the burden he carried wrenched his soul from my world to his. There was a strong smell of low tide in the room, the salty smell of decay given by the sea as it receeds for a six hour respite. Then he reached a hand out, pointing to me, and started to speak. It looked like his mouth was moving, but a whisper was all I heard, and the words were almost more than I could stand. She waits, repeated over and over in a low whisper. I closed my eyes and covered my ears, but the words echoed in my skull until they reached a deafening crescendo. When I finally dared to open my eyes, all the lights were gone. The voice was silent in my head, and when I took my hands from my ears, the only thing I heard was the soft whimpering of my poor dog, and the haunting refrain of a solo piano in the mist.

September 25.

This is to be my last entry in this journal. My muse has left me, and so has my reason to stay here. The supply boat has been delayed yet again, so the isolation continues. I have started saving the fresh water for Casey, and have rigged a system for her to be able to get to the food as she needs it. For my part I find I have lost my appetite, and only drink the rum and other spirits left behind by the previous keepers. I am careful to drink enough to ease my thirst, but not enough to impair my judgment. The light is running well with no real need for a keeper, and everything I can do to keep the house as tidy and in good repair has been done.

My midnight guests have continued to visit me. I am convinced the life I thought I wanted ended the day Melissa was taken from me. Instead of being a refuge for writing, this place has become a horror and a testament to my own despair. I was foolish to try to run from it, and my only solace now is to embrace it.

It’s funny, after I leave I won’t give the place a second thought, and yet I have spent the time nesting like an expectant mother, cleaning as if expecting an arrival of an infant. I will miss Casey, though. She has been as faithful a friend as anyone could want, and it hurts me to think she will be alone. If I’m right, it won’t be for long.

It won’t be long before Melissa arrives. I will not let her go this time. This time, when she leaves, I plan on leaving with her. This time, I won’t suffer her loss as she walks out the door. To you, the unlucky reader, I pray that you arrive here in time to please take care of my dog. She is a good girl, and deserved better than to wind up on this God forsaken rock.

***********************************************************************************

Captain’s Log, Hemisphere Dancer

Sept. 30, 2010

Arrived at Light 1430h. Seas calm, winds light 5 knots. Visibility 10 miles plus. Light keeper did not meet the boat, took Callahan and McSweeney with me. Went to light and keepers house to check on safety.

Met at the door by the keeper’s dog. She seemed healthy and happy to see us. Looked around the house, the light tower, found nobody. House looked in order, no signs of violence. Heard a strange sound, like the sound of a piano playing in the distance. Determine if a wind chime or something of that nature. Found a box full of books, some of them old, and at least one of them fairly new. The newest one appears to the journal of the lighthouse keeper, to be reviewed on board. Callahan and McSweeney searched the grounds, no sign of the keeper, will radio DeGrat about our findings. According to the tags, the dog’s name is Casey. She appears well fed and watered, and is very friendly. Seems to have adopted me, so we will keep her onboard pending further investigation of the keeper’s whereabouts. Contacted the Coast Guard prior to leaving. Hope they find the guy.

Entry closed.

-fin-

The Lighthouse, Part 6

Thank you for sticking with this story. And now, the final installment of "The Lighthouse."

September 20.

This place is beginning to take its toll on poor Casey. She mopes around the house most of the time, and really hasn’t been eating like she usually has. She stays by my side, as if trying to make herself my shadow. The dense fog has made it difficult to tell day from night, just darker or light shades of grey. I have been in contact with the supply boat captain every other day, giving him weather updates, and he continues to be reluctant to attempt to bring the boat in with such limited visibility. I can’t say that I blame him. There is something not at all right about the weather here, and if I weren’t already a prisoner here, I truly wouldn’t risk approaching if the conditions were less than perfect. I still get queasy remembering the day I arrived.

I just realized I consider myself a prisoner, and it scares me to think the sentence is open ended. Besides Casey, my only other companion is Melissa. She continues to visit, continues to hold my hand and remind me that this is not where I belong. I explain to her that this is where I escaped to when she was taken from me, so I could write and create free of the constant interruptions and memories of our old house. When I finish, she shakes her head sadly, stands to leave and I follow her as far as I can. She slips silently through the door, and I’m left alone again with Casey, just like when she died. The same pain floods me, the same cold grip on my very soul washes over me and it is like an old wound that gets ripped open over and over. I want so badly to join her, to be with her, to never again experience that pain of loss ever again. My heart and mind are weakening, and I fear that this journal will end the same way the others have.

September 25.

This is to be my last entry in this journal. My muse has left me, and so has my reason to stay here. The supply boat has been delayed yet again, so the isolation continues. I have started saving the fresh water for Casey, and have rigged a system for her to be able to get to the food as she needs it. For my part I find I have lost my appetite, and only drink the rum and other spirits left behind by the previous keepers. I am careful to drink enough to ease my thirst, but not enough to impair my judgment. The light is running well with no real need for a keeper, and everything I can do to keep the house as tidy and in good repair has been done. It’s funny, after I leave I won’t give the place a second thought, and yet I have spent the time nesting like an expectant mother, cleaning as if expecting an arrival of an infant. I will miss Casey, though. She has been as faithful a friend as anyone could want, and it hurts me to think she will be alone. If I’m right, it won’t be for long.

It won’t be long before Melissa arrives. I will not let her go this time. This time, when she leaves, I plan on leaving with her. This time, I won’t suffer her loss as she walks out the door. To you, the unlucky reader, I pray that you arrive here in time to please take care of my dog. She is a good girl, and deserved better than to wind up on this God forsaken rock.

Captain’s Log, Hemisphere Dancer

Sept. 30, 2010

Arrived at Light 1430h. Seas calm, winds light 5 knots. Visibility 10 miles plus. Light keeper did not meet the boat, took Callahan and McSweeney with me. Went to light and keepers house to check on safety.

Met at the door by the keeper’s dog. She seemed healthy and happy to see us. Looked around the house, the light tower, found nobody. House looked in order, no signs of violence. Heard a strange sound, like the sound of a piano playing in the distance. Found a box full of books, some of them old, and at least one of them fairly new. Callahan and McSweeney searched the grounds, no sign of the keeper. We are taking the dog to be sure, and will radio DeGrat about our findings.

Last item: Callahan swore he saw two people on the beach, a man and a woman, walking along the shore towards the water’s edge. By the time he reached the sand there were no footprints, and no sign of another living soul. Told Callahan to have the ship’s doctor check him out when we got back to port.

End

The Lighthouse, Part 5

September 17.

I have been having the same dream over and over for the past week. It is the same dream I had just after Melissa died three years ago. She appears beside my bed, wearing the same duty rose floral sundress she loved so much. Her expression is peaceful, if not just a little sad. Her death was so sudden, with no warning at all, while I was away trying to promote my last novel. I was busy trying to sell some extra copies of a silly book while the love of my life was ripped from me. It shook my world to its very core, stole my faith, and I began to withdraw from the world for fear of facing that horrific pain again. Casey was her dog, and her most loving and faithful companion during those times I was on the road. She never Left Melissa’s side as she lay dying, and she hasn’t left my side since. Sometimes I think the old girl knows I need her as much as she needs me.

As I said, the dreams returned, but different his time. In my dream, I am in the keeper’s bedroom, and find myself rising to answer an unheard knock at the door. I open it to see Melissa emerge from the fog, her face sadder than I have ever seen. She looks at me, shakes her head slowly, and reaches with her right hand to my cheek. I am frozen in time and space, but can feel the soft warmth of her caress, and smell the vanilla and sandalwood of her favorite cologne. I feel the tears rolling hot and salty over my cheeks as I whisper I’m sorry to her. Her eyes are locked on mine, and I find myself terrified to look away for fear of losing her to the darkness. She says in a voice at once soft as a whisper but as clear as a bell, “You do not belong here. This is not your time, and not your place.” I ask her what she means, but each time I do, she fades into the mist of the night, and her scent is replaced by the smell of low tide and the sound of the surf and the distant echo of a ship’s horn. I awake to find Casey sitting beside the bed, awake and watchful, as if she feels the presence of Melissa as well.

The journals I found are all nothing more than the chronicles of the fates the men and women here suffered at the hands of God and nature. The tragedies and hardships compound on each other, with no happy endings anywhere in them. Is this to be my final destination as well? Is this perhaps what Melissa is trying to tell me in my dreams?

No word on the arrival of the supply boat as of yet. Not sure if the weather has affected the radio. Provisions are still adequate, but certain perishables and the fresh water could use replenishing before too long. The light remains in good shape, the one constant beacon of hope on this increasingly bleak rock. I know my original idea was to work in solitude, and to bask in the originality of my imagination. Now, I fear my own imagination is beginning to turn dark and foreboding, not creative and productive. I am thinking that when the supply boat arrives, Casey and I will be leaving for our true home.

The Lighthouse, Part 4

September 10.

Beginning to understand DeGrat’s caution to me regarding this lighthouse, and what he was trying to tell me. In addition to the hours of basic maintenance required to run the light, I have spent hours reading the many journals I found in the old chest. Each one of the Keepers tells a sadder and more tragic tale than the last. The oddest part I have found, is that none of the journals seem to have an ending, or at least none give any indication that they ever left the island. It’s as if they are stories, which reach a climax but never a resolution. Perhaps it is my purpose here, because of my writing, to complete the tales these men began all these years ago.

The air during the day remains still, but recently a thickening fog seems to have enveloped the island. This doesn’t act like any fog I have ever experienced growing up on the Atlantic coast. It doesn’t break up as the sun comes up and the air begins to warm, and there is no breeze to move it at all. So it hangs like a veil over the entire island, obscuring the view of the landscape as well as blotting out the horizon. At first I thought maybe it was a seasonal abnormality, something that happens in this part of the world and nobody thinks anything of it. But after about a week I’m beginning to think there may be something more to it. Casey has been feeling it too, probably even more so that I do. She doesn’t like to go outside in the fog, venturing only far enough from the door to do what she needs to, staying out just long enough, the returning directly to her favorite spot by the fireplace. The fog has delayed the supply boat, but I’m not worried at this point. We have enough provisions tucked away for sometime yet. As soon as the fog lifts, I’m sure the boat will arrive.

You would think the journals would provide some sort of spark for my imagination, if it is indeed my purpose to finish the stories of the men. Instead I find it harder to put these horrific tales into any semblance of a coherent plot. One journal describes the story of an older keeper and his young wife, who brought a piano with them to occupy her time while he tended to his duties. Along with the piano, which she could only play while reading sheet music, was on piece of music the keeper fails to dersribe. He does, however, go on to explain how the isolation he and his wife led to her obsessive playing of the tune over and over for hours on end. Even when he was able to secure other music for her, she continued to play the first piece until he was driven mad enough to take an axe to the piano, then his own wife. The journal ends as he is plans to take his own life in a fit of madness and remorse. Another of the books tells the story of a keeper who discovered himself fogbound, much the same as Casey and I are now. He tells of feelings of isolation so intense that he begins to hold conversations with what he perceived to be the ghosts of sailors lost at sea around the light. His final entry included has plans to depart via dinghy to rescue what he had come to call his “most intimate companions.” Once again, as in all the journals, the final ending is left to the reader to decide.

Every journal ends the same, a testament to the oppressive loneliness and depression the keepers finally taking its toll. Much as I hate to admit it, I am beginning to doubt my own choice in coming here to live and work in such abject isolation. The companionship of Casey has been a Godsend, because I think without her, the oppressive fog and loneliness would surely claim me as well.

The Lighthouse, Part 3

September 4.

Wind must have kicked up overnight, because I awoke to a howling sound coming from the lighthouse shaft. I got out of bed and looked out the bedroom window, but didn’t notice any rustling of the low shrubs the surrounded the house. The sound continued none the less, so I opted to check it out. I threw on my pants and walked from the bedroom through the kitchen to the door of the light tower. The sound kept getting louder as I approached, until I reached the door between the keepers house and the tower. I opened the door and was immediate greeted by a bone-chilling blast of frigid air. It caught me by surprise, and I tripped backwards on my butt. Next I knew Casey was beside me, the ridge of hair on her back raised as she barked hard and long at the open door. It must have caught her by surprise, too. I looked at the clock – 4:30am. Too early to get up, too late to go back to bed, but at least the howling stopped. It took a while but Casey stopped as well. I’ll have to go down and check out the cause of the air leak. The supply boat will be here in a few days and I’ll have to remember to call ahead for any supplies to make repairs.

September 6.

I know it has been a couple of days since my last entry, but since then I have been pre-occupied by the discovery at the bottom of the shaft. I have a battery lantern which I took later in the morning of the 4^th to the bottom of the tower shaft to see if I could find the source of the cold air. Instead I found the rock floor of the tower, steel reinforcements that must have been used to anchor the structure during it’s early construction, and a large wood and iron door. I felt the edges of the door, but no air movement could be detected. Different day, different circumstances I suspect. There was a an old iron latch and lock on the door, both which seemed solid and intact. I decided nothing more could be done, since I didn’t know where the key for that lock was, and I decided to head back up to the house. As I came up on the stairs, under them I saw a box I obviously failed to notice before. It was about a two foot cube, made of what looked like oak and banded in leather and iron with a padlock on the front. There were leather handles on each side, and were in surprisingly good shape. The box was heavy, but I managed to get it on the kitchen table once I reached the top of the stairs. Spent the rest of that morning rooting around in the closets and pantry, the cupboards until I found a key ring with keys that looked at least as old as the box. Opened it and found a grand total of 20 journals, yellowed with age and bound in leather. I completely ignored my own writing as I poured over the written history of the lighthouse as recorded by its previous keepers. This has got to helpful, and a great source for my imagination.

The oldest of the journals started 200 years ago in 1810. The first keeper was Judson Kane, a retired merchant seaman who came to the island with his new bride. I am just now getting to understand the language and the writing, so I am anxious to learn what Mr. Kane can tell me about this place. More to follow as I can. Ship will be here in one week.

The Lighthouse, Part 2

September 3.

A dead calm all day. Towards evening, the sea looked very much like glass, a liquid desert with this small island the only oasis. A few sea-weeds came in sight; but besides them absolutely nothing all day — not even the slightest speck of cloud. Tried writing for several hours this morning, but nothing came. I’m disappointed, but not frustrated just yet. Occupied myself in exploring the light-house, with Casey in tow. The tower is a very lofty one — as I discovered when I had to ascend its interminable stairs — not quite 160 feet from the low-water mark to the top of the lantern. From the bottom inside the shaft, however, the distance to the summit is 180 feet at least. Entering from the keeper’s house the stairs both ascend to the tower and disappear into the darkness below, at least 20 feet below the surface of the sea, even at low-tide. The temperature below drops drastically, which makes sense for its depth. I plan on going down later, but Casey wants nothing to do with it. Big scaredy cat, she is. Catching my breath at the top of the stairs, I’m struck by the vast expanse of ocean in view from all angles. I wanted the solitude, and feel mostly at ease with it, but in the back of my mind I hear the old saying, Be careful what you wish for, you just may get it.

It seems to me that the hollow interior at the bottom should have been filled in with solid masonry, divided rooms, or some other structural reinforcement. Undoubtedly the whole would have been rendered safer, but what do I know? A structure such as this is probably safe enough under any circumstances. I have heard seamen say occasionally, with a wind at South-West, the sea has been known to run higher here than any where with the single exception of the Western opening of the Straits of Magellan. No mere sea, though, could accomplish anything with this solid rock wall — which rises well higher than what looks like a high-water mark. If all these decades of storms and angry tides hasn’t brought this place down, I think I’ll be fine. There appears to be a cave near the beach at the base of the rocks, and may be worth exploring if I can’t get anywhere writing tomorrow.

The one thing that has been hardest for Casey and I to get used to is the odd sounds the ancient structure makes. There is no wind to speak of, not since the first night, and not a lot of sand to cause the house to shift and strain, so I’m at a loss as to what is the cause of the noise. There have been creaks and groans like old wood under stress since we arrived, and it seems to be making Casey a little restless. And unfortunately, when she gets restless, she has to investigate everything, regardless of who she keeps awake. I can only hope after a week or so we won’t notice them anymore.

The Lighthouse, Part 1

This story was inspired by a contest to finish a short story begun by Edgar Allen Poe. Let's just see where the "spirit" leads us...and as always, comments are encouraged.

The Lighthouse

September 1.

This day — my first in the light-house — I make this entry in my Diary, as agreed on with De Grat, the original owner. As regularly as I can, I plan on keeping the journal, if for no other reason than to mine the experience for my next novel. There is no telling what may happen to a man all alone as I am — I may get sick, or worse, but I’m in good health and spirits, and eagerly looking forward to the adventure. So far good! The only thing to report even somewhat negatively is that the trip across the sound wasn’t as smooth as it could have been. The seas churned up over fifteen foot swells, more than I thought the motor lauch I was ferried in could handle. I thought to myself that if the sea didn’t want me as the new lighthouse owner, it should have said something long before this. The boat had a narrow escape, with the bow dipping well below the surface on more than one occasion. The bridge tipped so far to the port, the captain could scoop water from the ocean just by opening the window — but why dwell on that, since I am here, all safe and sound? My mood is beginning to revive already, at the mere thought of being — for once in my life at least — thoroughly alone, free to write without interruption.

What most surprises me, is the difficulty De Grat had in getting me the lighthouse in the first place. One person was able to manage it before now — and got on quite as well as the three that were usually put in years ago. The job of running the light is nothing; and the printed instructions are as plain as possible. It never would have done to let anyone but Casey, my lab retriever, accompany me. Besides, I wish to be alone . . . . . . It is weird that I never noticed, until just now, how dreary a sound that word has — "alone"! I could half fancy there was some peculiarity in the echo of these cylindrical walls — but this is all nonsense. I do believe I am going to get nervous about my insulation. That will never do. I have not forgotten De Grat's prophecy. I’m planning on taking the lantern and a good look around to "see what I can see." To see what I can see indeed ! — not very much. The storm swell is subsiding a little, I think — but the boat will have a rough passage home, nevertheless.

September 2.

Started the day putting up the supplies offloaded from the boat last night. Was really rather tired most of the morning from a lack of sleep. The first night anywhere is always hard for me, and the new sights and sounds and smells are taking a bit to get used to. Casey was up most of the night, too, pacing the room and the rest of the keeper’s house. No doubt the wind howled more than she ever did. Once the day got started however, I felt good, strong and ready to work. The cases of food were put in the pantries, the fuel for the generator, was stored out in the shed that held the generator. I was told I had enough fuel for a week of lost power, stored in 5 gallon containers. There was room for all ten containers in the shed, which I locked after. I thought it was weird there was a lock on it, but let it pass. There was a carefully stacked woodpile on the back porch, fuel for the fireplace which should help keep the house warm during the colder months. I noticed several cold spots in the house, and will probably check the insulation and order what I need for the next supply boat.

I passed the rest of the day in a form of ecstasy that I find impossible to describe. My passion for solitude could hardly have been more thoroughly gratified. I do not say satisfied; for I believe I should never be satiated with such delight as I have experienced today. I managed to sit, uninterrupted except for Casey barking at the gulls, and begin the next phase of my writing career. I am under contract for a follow-up to my last detective novel, but have been blocked for a plot. This is just what the doctor ordered, no matter what De Grat told me about the place. Alone with my own thoughts is just what I need, and even if I wasn’t as productive writing as I had hoped, I can feel it in my soul that something is waiting to burst through the surface. The wind lulled about noon, and by the afternoon the sea had gone down significantly. Nothing at all remaining of yesterday’s stormy seas except for maybe some clumps of seaweed and debris on the rocks on the west side of the island. Nothing even to be seen with the telescope but ocean and sky, with an occasional gull swooping through the scattered clouds. Casey seems to be on edge without the harsh sights sounds and smells of the city. I hope the old girls starts to relax a bit.