The Lighthouse Keeper

© 2002 Simon D. Smith & Andrew D. Blunt
All rights reserved.

Two uniformed men, each laden with a heavy pack and a rifle upon his back, carefully threaded their way along the perilously narrow path that led up to St. Perran's Lighthouse.

"I joined the navy to go to sea, not to go riskin' life an' limb climbin' up bloody mountains!" moaned Jed, the younger of the two sailors. They peered down to where the cruel rocks beneath them were being pounded into submission by an angry grey sea.

To the left of the path the cliff face stretched steeply upward. At its top sat the forbidding conical tower of the lighthouse. Just to the right of the path was a slight verge before the ground abruptly fell away for almost two hundred feet to the rocks below.

"Just look at them rocks, Chief! They've got a look 'arder than a mother-in-law's stare!"

"Then you'd better watch your footin', hadn't you, lad?" replied the chief breathlessly, "or I fear you'll be kissin' the old girl goodnight!"

Finally they reached the top of the cliff, and in the failing light they looked back grimly at their precarious route.

The lighthouse was only accessible when the tide was out. After crossing Perran's beach, they'd had to wait until the tide had reached its lowest ebb before climbing the treacherous path up the face of the cliff to where they now stood.

From the moment they had stepped onto the rocks, and throughout their journey, Jed had felt the disagreeable sensation of unseen eyes monitoring their progress. Icy shivers had run down his spine, forcing him to constantly look over his shoulder to seek out the source of his discomfort.

From the top, both men looked across the broad expanse of water to the misty horizon, beyond which lay France. The stiff, salty wind now brought the first spots of cold rain, and with it came a long, drawn-out rumbling sound.

"Looks like a storm's comin'," Jed observed, squinting up at the leaden sky.

"Aye, but that rumblin 's thunder of a different kind!"

For long seconds the men listened, until the spitting rain began to fall with more force.

"Come on then, lad, jump about! Let's get inside so you can make the wets!" The chief headed toward the lighthouse, while Jed remained staring back down the pathway, having caught sight of a solitary figure standing perilously close to the water's edge.

"There's a man down there!" called Jed, as he turned to see that the chief had already entered the old lighthouse. He swung back to observe the silhouetted man more closely, but the man had vanished. Jed found the figure's sudden disappearance strangely unsettling. An inexplicable feeling of dread began to stir inside him.

The weather closed in. The squall broke over the grassy-topped headland and lashed the ancient stone walls of St Perran's Lighthouse.

In the musty-smelling lamp room at the top of the tower, the two men sat on the cold stone floor and drank potent, rum-laced tea. The rumbling had diminished, but the chief knew it was likely that the wind had veered.

Outside, the depressing grey light was fading fast.

"Do you think we'll actually see any Zeppelins or enemy ships here, when the real war is over there?" Jed gestured with his head towards the horizon. "Surely we'd be more use at the front?"

"You're in a rush to die, then, are you, lad? If so, you should have joined the army instead of the navy!"

Jed looked anxiously across at the chief.

"But they're saying it'll all be over by Christmas."

"Well, Jed, don't you go layin' any money on that ... for I fear you'll lose it. This isn't like one of our little colonial wars where the navy turn up, land a platoon of blue-jackets, shoot some spear-wieldin' tribesmen, an' then sail off into the sunset in its pretty ships!" The chief shook his head. "This is goin' to be a long, drawn-out, nasty affair, you mark my words."

Jed rose, stretching his legs as he moved slowly around the old redundant lamp platform. The place didn't look or feel abandoned. He wondered how long it had been out of use. The glowing, flashing horizon seemed brighter now in the fading light, disappearing even as he watched....

"This place has been empty about ten years now," said the chief, as though reading his mind. "An' that's not all. This lighthouse is haunted by a former keeper, a certain Archie Treleven."

He had the young man's full attention, and fell silent.

"Well, come on then, Chief," urged a grinning Jed, sitting back down upon the cold, dusty floor. "Spin the yarn."

The chief rose and walked slowly around the lamp platform, touching it as though trying to feel the history of the tower. Then he sat opposite Jed, on the seaward side, on an old bricked sill.

His features disappeared into deep silhouette, but Jed's face was still visible in the failing light. Coughing, the chief cleared his throat, and in a lower tone he began his tale.

"About eighty years ago now, the night keeper of St. Perran's Lighthouse was a local man named Archie Trelevan. Now, old Archie wasn't a bad man, but he'd managed to get himself deep into debt to the wrong sort of people. One windy February night, a known wrecker an' villain, name of Black Jethro, approached Archie up here at the lighthouse—"

"Why was he called Black Jethro?"

"Because of the colour of his heart, son. But not only that. His bitterness was partly brought about by his ugliness. His face was like a bag of smashed crabs, an' his black, beady eyes were like those of a Dogger Bank cod."

Jed smiled at the description.

"He was said to have murdered his own father."

The smile left Jed's face as he stared at the chief through the darkness.

"As the story goes, Jethro's mother sent him out one night to the local inn to drag his father back home. But when Jethro found him with a whore ... well, let's just say he killed him for his sins. It was never proven, though, because no one would dare speak out against him.

"Anyhow, Archie was paid handsomely in gold sovereigns to ensure the light didn't shine for the three followin' nights. During the course of the clandestine an' villainous exchange, he was also left in no doubt as to what would befall him if he dared to cross black Jethro." The chief drew his finger across his throat. "After payin' off his demandin' creditors, Archie was free from the clutches of debt. Finally, he an' his boy could make a new start...."

The chief stood and studied the top of the glass. Flashes lit the distant horizon, momentarily distracting him. He scrutinised his reflection in the glass until, from the shadows, Jed's voice dragged his thoughts back to the present.

"Somethin' tells me that things aren't goin' to turn out as easy as that for old Archie. How'd he stop it flashin' out to sea? The locals would see there was no light."

"Aye, that'd be right, but that's the cunnin' part, see? Black Jethro also knew that, an' told Archie that black Hessian sacks was the answer. Rigged them on the seaward side of the lamp," the chief gestured toward the spot on the wide brick sill where the screen would have sat. "Up there see? Blocked out the light to any ships, but also kept the townsfolk thinkin' the light was still shinin'."

As if life at sea isn't harsh enough or already fraught with so many dangers, Jed thought. Honest sailors have to contend with scum like that.

"So, a low-down, murderin' wrecker, eh?" he asked quietly, his venomous tone matching his contempt for Black Jethro and his kind. To a sailor like Jed, wreckers were the lowest form of life.

"Aye, among other things! I told you, Black Jethro was an evil bastard.

"On the second night of havin' the screens rigged, a small coastal freighter, Queen of the Ocean, bound for Falmouth, drove upon those very rocks that we climbed over, and was wrecked. All Archie heard of the incident was the scrapin' of metal against rock, for the other sounds were all carried away by the wind. With the stricken ship wedged on the rocks, Black Jethro an' his gang made their move. There were two ways for the Queen of the Ocean's crew to die that night. Either in cold water, or in cold blood. All those spared drownin' in the icy cold seawater, were seen off ... murdered by Black Jethro an' his merciless band of cutthroats.

"Among the drowned discovered washin' ashore on Perran's beach the followin' mornin' was Archie's beloved nine-year-old son Ben, who was onboard with the ship's master as a favour to Archie."

Jed drew his breath in sharply. "His son? Why was he on the ship?"

"Well, you see, the ship's master was a friend, an' Archie's boy had always loved the sea, so...."

"...Archie asked him if he'd take him along," finished Jed, heavily.

"Aye, the lad's first sea voyage, to see if he'd like a life afloat."

"But surely Archie wouldn't have ... not his own son?"

"No! He didn't know, see? The ship weren't due back for at least another two weeks, an' had he known it was the Queen of the Ocean as was targeted, Archie would never have agreed to it.

"All the same, it broke him. He was never the same after that.

"At the subsequent inquiry into the disaster, Archie was cleared of any blame, as witnesses swore on oath that on the night of the tragedy, the lamp had been shinin' as normal. Murderin' opportunists were blamed for the deaths, purely because the ship was so early. Neither wreckers nor Black Jethro were mentioned."

A long, drawn-out rumble vibrated through the tower, causing both men to look towards the distant horizon, now only visible when lit up by the flashing sky beyond it. "So Black Jethro got away with it?" Jed asked, as he finished his tea. His voice dragged the chief back to the present.

"All in good time, Jed!" he replied, pulling his narrow, clay pipe from the pocket of his great coat, and placing it in his mouth, "all in good time..."

The bright flash of the match within the confines of the lamp room startled Jed, and he looked at the chief's face as the man drew deeply upon the pipe. His mouth formed an 'o' before he forced out one of his famous smoke rings. It spiralled lazily up until caught by the wind and funnelled out through a cracked pane.

"Archie vowed he'd never again set foot inside the lighthouse, an' for almost a month he kept to his word. Durin' that time he spent hours down on the rocks where his son had died, staring blankly out to sea or up at the lighthouse. With a broken heart, he longed for a wave to pluck him from the land an' sweep him out to sea, or smash him into the rocks an' end his miserable, pain-filled existence. His empty home held too many painful memories for him. His thoughts dwelled on his poor lost son. He would sit on the boy's unmade bed, for the lad's scent still lingered there, an' time an' time again Archie's grief would overwhelm him.

"Archie returned to duty some weeks later, an' on one particularly foul night, he carved the whole sordid tale, along with the name, 'Black Jethro,' onto one of the spare flooring planks, the one's as was stacked in the maintenance cupboard up here in the lamp room.

"Night after night Archie sat alone up here, starin' venomously at the gouged words upon the plank, words that represented the death of his son. His grief turned to bitter hatred, not only of Black Jethro, but also of himself an' the part he'd played in his own son's death. Consequently, he sunk to his lowest ebb, an' he carved his own name onto the wood alongside that of Black Jethro."

"So basically he was signin' 'is own confession."

"Aye, or death warrant!"

"So that stopped him from turnin' in Black Jethro?"

"Aye. He came close to it, mind. What was his life worth to him now anyway? But somethin' kept him from doin' it. Maybe the thought of the long drop to the end of the hangman's rope...."

"...or the thought of retribution from Black Jethro's men," suggested Jed.

"Aye, or perhaps there were some other, darker reason.

"As the intolerable, pain-filled days an' nights slowly passed, Archie became aware of strange noises echoin' around within the hollow tower. Eerie bumpin' an' scratchin' sounds they were, an' with them came the disturbin' feelin' that he was no longer alone...."

The chief paused and moved away from the glass as a bright flash reached across the sea and touched the lighthouse.

Jed gasped as he looked at the older man's face.

Briefly illuminated by the soft, stroboscopic glare, the chief's craggy, weather-worn features appeared to take on another shape, as though blurred like a smudged charcoal portrait or distorted by an overlaid image.

For one petrified instant, Jed's heart froze.

The chief moved across to the trap door. Up close, his face appeared to be perfectly normal. Had it been a trick of the light? Seconds before, Jed had been convinced he'd seen something, but already he was beginning to doubt it.

"What's the matter with you, lad? You look like you've seen a ghost!"

"Nuthin', Chief. Where you off to?"

"Four weeks after the tragedy on a dark an' windy night," the chief continued, ignoring Jed's question, "Archie sat listenin' to the eerie sounds comin' up from the lower landin', an' he ventured down to investigate."

The chief hauled the trap door up smartly and, after securing it to the rail at its back, pointed into the black, murky hole at his feet.

"The moment Archie raised the trap door, the sounds inexplicably stopped. Feelin' somethin' weren't right, he went down there to the dark an' narrow landin', where he stood with his back to the wall, listenin' to the wind moanin' eerily around the interior.

"The temperature suddenly plummeted, an' he felt as though he were bein' observed, but in the darkness he couldn't tell from where. He moved slowly through the empty livin' quarters until he opened the door to the staircase that leads all the way down to the deck. He shivered violently as the hairs on his scalp, his arms, an' the back of his neck, all rose in unison."

"Creepin' carefully forward, Archie moved toward the old oak banister, where he peered over the rail an' scrutinised every visible inch of the old spiralin' wooden steps. But he found that the staircase descended not to the base of the tower, as he'd expected, but into impenetrable gloom....

"The unlit stairwell seemed much darker than usual. No—not just dark, but black! The stairway curled down into this inky blackness like it was an entrance to the very pit of Hell, an' from that black, murky gloom came the sudden, pain-filled cry of a child.

"It sounded just like his late son, Ben. The awful sound filled Archie with grief. Hot, stingin' tears welled up in his eyes an' ran freely down his cheeks. His already snuffed spirit diminished even further, an' he burst into tears. Great rackin' sobs of grief an' a heart-wrenchin' cry overtook him, causin' him to wail like a wounded animal.

"Suddenly, another noise tore through the darkness. An inhuman, deep an' fearful moan echoed around the interior of the tower. Archie sped back up here to the relative safety of the lamp room an' battened the door shut firmly behind him."

The chief slammed the hatch shut as if to demonstrate. Jed gasped in fear as he started, much to the chief's amusement.

"For God's sake!" Jed exclaimed. "Did you have to do that?"

"No!" replied the chief, laughing at Jed's discomfort. "I didn't!" His sudden humour, though lightening the atmosphere, did nothing to lift Jed's spirits. But, aware of the chief's reputation as a man for a joke and a good yarn, Jed forced a smile and tried to relax.

"Not scarin' you, am I, lad?"

"No!" replied Jed, unconvincingly.

"Good! Then I'll carry on, shall I?" The chief didn't wait for an answer, but turned and moved back to his original spot upon the bricked sill. When he turned back to Jed, the younger man shivered. Peering through the darkness, he saw that the smile had disappeared from the chief's face. In an instant, the oppressive atmosphere had returned.

"After securin' the hatch behind him," came the chief's gravelly voice, "an' for the rest of that night, Archie just sat up here rockin' back an' forth, with his knees drawn up to his chest, chewin' his nails down 'til they was little more than bloodied stumps.

"He never once took his eyes off the hatch, except to occasionally bury his head in his hands. He just sat there, starin', listenin' to the noises comin' from below.

"Come sunrise, the noises stopped. An' now, even more afraid, Archie unbolted the hatch an' crept down to the livin' quarters. But he found nothin' out of the ordinary, an' eventually he ventured out of the lighthouse, wonderin' if he was goin' mad. He went an' stood on the cliff tops watchin' the sea, an' at one point, he actually considered throwin' himself off to end his sufferin'.

"That afternoon, Archie returned to the lighthouse, where once again, an' with some relief, he found everythin' just as it should be.

"But at dusk, while makin' an entry into the log, he thought he heard somethin'. He froze. With the quill held motionless above the page, he angled his head an' strained his ears, listenin' for all he was worth. Placing the quill upon the desk, he moved to the hatch to listen. The scratchin' an' bumpin' sounds had returned, though this time they seemed farther below him than before, comin' from the base of the tower maybe.

"As he descended to the still and airless livin' quarters, his fear rose with each passing step. A sudden drop in temperature told Archie that this wasn't all in his mind, as he'd feared, but that rather, it was a physical thing. Real. A cold numbness spread throughout his body as he progressed through the buildin'. Recollection of the previous evenin's disturbin' occurrences came back to him, an' his stomach knotted.

"As he pushed open the door to the stairwell, the noises increased in volume. He heard the wind moanin' through the tower, heard the distant boom an' crash of the surf, an' then he turned back, too afraid to step out onto the landin'.

"'Father?'"

"Archie halted as the word breathed into his mind like a spirit. It sounded distant an' hollow, as though comin' from another room, or through a long tunnel.

"The voice was so soft it was barely audible, so much so that Archie wondered whether he'd actually heard it at all.

"'Father?' The voice came again, only it were louder this time. Clearer. Archie knew that voice.

"'Ben?' he whimpered. He spun round an' stepped toward the landin'.

"'Father!'

"This time it bore a more forceful edge as it echoed through the tower, an' a greater urgency, as though summonin' him to the landing. For it were there that the pitiful cry were coming from.

"In the dim light thrown onto the landin' from the livin' quarters, Archie stood framed in the doorway, starin' at the total darkness before him. The blackness seemed to have moved up the tower an' now obscured the stairs completely. A shape seemed to be manifestin' itself out of that very darkness, that grew steadily more solid an' blacker than the murk surroundin' it.

"Archie held his breath as the shimmerin', translucent image of Ben slowly materialised from the darkness, as though stepping through a curtain.

"Motionless, the lad just gazed blankly upon his mortal father before turnin' his head over his left shoulder, lookin' behind him uncertainly.

"Archie's legs buckled beneath him at the sight of his lost child, an' he found himself on his knees before the transparent image.

"'Ben! Is that really you? I....' Archie stuttered into silence, unable to continue. Ben's expressionless face unnerved him, as the lad had always smiled when alive.

"He seemed much paler than he ever had in life, but just seein' him once more inspired some bizarre feelings within Archie, somewhere between a strange calmness an' a grievous an' bitter self-loathin'.

"'Ben! I didn't mean for it to be like this. It was my fault, son! My own greedy fault that you were taken ... it weren't supposed to happen....'

"His voice cracked from the strain of his pent-up guilt, an' as the tears rolled freely down his cheeks, his anguish washed over him like a tide.

"From the impenetrable darkness behind the boy there came an anguished, ghostly sigh that reverberated throughout the hollow tower. Archie felt an instant change in the atmosphere, as this new noise was swiftly followed by a pain-filled shriek like somethin', he imagined, might come from the mouth of an old, wailin' hag.

"The ghostly figure of Archie's son heard it also, an' as he turned to look behind him, he exposed to Archie once more the full extent of his terrible injuries.

"The side of his head looked as though it had caved in, a latticework of bloody scars, sunken an' pulp-like in appearance, caused when the poor lad's head had dashed against the rocks before drownin'.

"The awful memory of seein' his boy like this, dead on the beach that first time, his head all smashed an' his small body bloated, came rushin' back to Archie. But he didn't have time to dwell on it, because from the darkness behind the boy, a second figure emerged.

"Archie recognized her instantly, only the look on the face of his departed wife, Jemima, was not one she had ever given him while she'd been alive.

"Even during the pain of the childbirth that'd ultimately killed her, she'd never glared at him as coldly as she did then.

"He felt anger an' a deep-rooted pain within that malevolent stare as she placed her hands on their dead son's shoulders.

"As he watched, a mixture of emotions moved across his dead wife's face, rage an' sadness an' regret. Her frightening appearance shook Archie badly.

"She suddenly pulled at the boy's small rounded shoulders in an effort to return him to the darkness from where they'd come.

"'No! Wait! Don't go... Not now!'

"The boy resisted the draggin' an' turned back to look at his father. Jemima's stare intensified, but by now Archie was more afraid of losin' them both all over again than of her chillin' features.

"'Please...!' he begged, with his heart breakin'.

"But it was too late. The figures were movin' backward, startin' to merge with the darkness behind them, an' Archie made a sudden rush toward them.

"'No! Don't go!' he cried. 'Don't leave me!' The boy stopped an' opened his arms to his weepin' father, just the way he always used to each night before bein' put to bed. But Archie was in no fit state of mind, or he would have realised they were no longer of the livin', no longer of this Earth.

"Already, the apparitions were beginnin' to fade. But as I said, Archie wasn't thinkin' straight, because he lunged right after them, not wantin' to let them go.

"Maybe it was the screen of darkness that lay at the top of the stairs, like a thick blanket of black fog, that led Archie astray. Maybe it hid the obvious danger that lay within it. Maybe he thought he could follow 'is family, an' in a way he did, though probably not as he intended. Who knows? He passed straight through them an' tumbled down half a dozen or so of the steps before rollin' off the spiral staircase."

The chief paused and looked across at Jed, who was almost invisible in the darkness now.

"Archie plunged to his death at the bottom of the tower."

For a while, neither man spoke. Jed listened to the noises of the lighthouse. The wind howled inside the tower and whistled through the lamp room. Outside, rain tapped persistently against the glass.

His stomach and leg muscles were knotted tight, whether from sitting in the same position after his climb earlier in the day, or through nervous tension, he wasn't sure. He rose slowly and unsteadily to stretch his legs and wait for the pins and needles to disappear.

As his circulation slowly returned, he looked over at the chief's motionless silhouette.

"Sit down! I haven't finished the tale yet, lad!" the chief barked, shattering the uneasy silence.

Jed obeyed. Something in the chief's tone of voice frightened him.

He laughed nervously.

"So, what more is there to tell, Chief? I thought it were all over, what with Archie coppin' it, an' the boy gettin' his revenge an' all...."

"Revenge?" The chief shook his head. "Not revenge, lad! It were justice!" He paused before continuing.

"Six weeks followin' Archie's death, the parish council refurbished St. Perran's Lighthouse. While the work was in progress, the labourers found a plank of wood with Archie's confession carved on it.

"It were taken straight to the local authorities, an' when the inquiry was subsequently reopened, the plank, deemed a suicide note, was produced in court as evidence. Evidence, I might add, that ultimately served to convict Black Jethro an' his odious gang. Every last one of them was consequently condemned an' hanged at Bodmin Gaol, hanged by their necks until they was dead. An' there was lots of folks as took great pleasure in watchin' it, I can tell you. It were the largest crowd they ever had for a public hangin' in these parts."

"I'll bet an' all!" Jed cut in. "I would've paid to see that meself. I would've liked to have seen the look on that Black Jethro's face just before they dropped him!"

"Aye! Me an' all, lad, straight through the trapdoor an' into the pits of Hell where his kind belong!" The chief padded another small wad of tobacco into his old clay pipe.

"So, how come you know so much about it all, then?" Jed asked.

The ignition of the match startled him, and the smell of phosphorous was penetrating as the chief drew deeply upon the relit pipe. He looked once more at Jed, who could no longer see anything.

"I grew up here in Perran, an' I've heard tell of it many times."

"Tell of what?"

"The tale of this lighthouse, of course! An' of Black Jethro ... an' more specifically of the ghosts of Archie an' his family!"

"So Archie's a ghost now, too? He joined his family in the afterlife? Is that what you're goin' to say?"

"That'd be a nice happy ending, wouldn't it? An' some folks have said they have seen the ghosts of Archie an' his family playin' on Perran's beach, all happy an' carefree. But that's not all, not by a long chalk!"

"Why's that, chief?"

"Because there are others who say his angry soul still resides here at the lighthouse, that's why! ... Doomed to an eternity of warnin' ships away from the rocks, forever trapped betwixt this life an' the next, a bitter, tormented soul in death, just as he was in life."

"So what do you believe?" Jed watched as the chief moved away from the bricked sill, stamping his feet to combat the chill that had crept into the lamp room. The chief walked to the trap door and smiled knowingly at Jed as he hauled it up.

He began to descend the ladder. An awful, dank smell rose through the opened door.

"Where are you goin'?" Jed was suddenly afraid of being left alone in the lamp room.

"Gotta pump me bilges, boy, an' I don't think you'd appreciate me doin' it here."

The trap door shut with a solid thud, followed by a small rattle as the brass slide bolt bounced within its frame. Silence fell, leaving Jed alone with his thoughts in the darkness.

He was surprised at the depth of pity he felt for Archie. What had the chief said? 'Archie weren't a bad man.' And while listening to the story Jed had found himself agreeing. But now, the more Jed thought about it, the more he began to think otherwise.

Good old Archie, he reminded himself, had killed the entire crew of a ship by his actions. What's more, he'd done it purely for his own financial gain, without regard to any of the possible consequences.

Had he not lost his only son, would he have felt remorse? There were other victims that fateful night, murdered in cold blood because of Archie. Did he spare a thought for them or their families, which, like him, were also grieving over the death of a loved one?

How much of the chief's story was true, anyway? And how much was straight from the chief's yarn-spinning imagination, embroidered by fantasy rather than fact?

He wondered what was keeping the chief. Surely he should have been back by now?

Jed rose, convinced he heard something scurrying about the far side of the lamp platform. He could just make out a scratching noise, barely audible above the sound of the wind. He moved slowly toward it. Something scuttled across the floor in the darkness ahead of him, seeking the shadows. A mouse? A rat?

A cobweb brushed against his skin, making him jump, and he swept his hands quickly over his face and the top of his head, wiping his arms against his body to remove the irritating, sticky threads. As he did, he felt small spidery legs crawl across the back of his hand, making him shudder. Instinctively, he flicked the spider away.

How much time had passed by since the chief had gone below? It seemed like an eternity.

Jed moved across to where the chief had recently told his chilling tale and rested his palms on the ledge, still warm where the chief had sat.

He rested his forehead against the cold glass, closed his eyes, and tried to steer his mind away from the story. But it was no use. Try as hard as he might, his thoughts kept returning to Archie.

One particular disturbing image kept flashing before his eyes: Archie lying dead at the bottom of the tower, his neck twisted at an unnatural angle, his mad eyes staring skyward, piercing the darkness with their intensity even in death.

Then the sound of Archie's demise began to flash through his mind, playing like a continuous reel, over and over. The sickening sound of impact as his body smashed into the base of the tower. Blood. Flesh. Bones. Pulverising.

Jed snapped his eyes open and turned his head. Had he just heard that? A similar noise to the one he'd imagined, though far away, like somebody splitting a wet log with an axe?

Cold terror spread through his body as the scratching increased. It seemed to be coming from a cupboard built into the half wall of the lamp room. With each creeping step he took toward it, his fear rose.

It was louder now, like a dog raking its claws across a wooden door, begging to be let in from the cold.

Trembling, sweat seeping from every pore, he reached for the small handle.

Now, like the sound of fingernails dragged across a chalkboard, the noise grated on his every nerve and sinew.

Jed felt trapped. What was making those sounds? He paused, looking at the trap door. Should he try to get out? Could what was behind this door be any worse than what was through that hatch down below? Countless conflicting thoughts raced through Jed's mind as he gripped the small brass handle. Was this the maintenance cupboard the chief had spoken of, the one with the spare flooring planks? Would it be locked? Jed yanked open the stiff door. It budged, and the scratching noises ceased, replaced by a cold, hissing draught that raced out of the cupboard, chilling his bones.

Something was in there! Jed moved slightly so that he could see in. Behind the door a nesting seagull sat staring back at him, angry at the sudden intrusion, its feathers ruffling in the breeze that swept in from the holed outer wall.

"A seagull!" Jed laughed, relieved. "A bloody shitehawk!"

The sound of the trap door opening and then crashing shut added to his newfound calm. The chief had finally returned.

"You took your time, chief!" Jed called out. "Here, come an' look at this!" From behind the cupboard door he heard the flutter of wings, and he laughed out loud at his own stupidity. He rose and turned around.

Halfway through his turn, he caught sight of a reflection in the glass, and he stopped laughing.

Reflected in the grimed and salt-stained glass, standing behind him, was someone he didn't recognise, staring at him with a look of unutterable loathing.

Jed spun round quickly and opened his mouth as it raced toward him.

The shrill, high-pitched scream of the startled seagull ripped through the night air. Its plaintive cry was wrenched from the creature like a protest at some unfathomable injustice.

Free of the conical tower, it climbed slowly upward, soaring over the headland. The gull wheeled until it was over the waves that crashed against the jagged rocks far below. The storm was over. The bird spread its wings and rode gracefully upon the dying wind. Finally, almost reluctantly, it returned to its home in the great, still stone tower that was St. Perran's Lighthouse.

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