《Storms overhead》


 The Calm

    The skies were black, suffocated by clouds which robbed the world of light as they loomed ever closer. Thunderheads swirled punctuated by jagged streaks of lightning arcing across the sky while gale force winds ripped the seas, whipping them into a barrage of ink black waves. Thick sheets of rain pounded without mercy on the brave and foolish alike. A capsized boat, a crushing death from monster waves rather than a chance of drowning. It was as if a great tar fist from the seafloor hungered to drag sailors into the murky depths. And the wind¡¯s roar filled the seaside air dominating the thoughts of any not blown off their feet.


    A sweeping ray of light pierced the darkness, which stretched far into the raging storm. The beams sole purpose is to guide the unfortunate few that dared to brave the raging seas. A decrepit lighthouse stooped over the crashing waves atop a small plateau. The once red and white building had long since lost its color to the endless rainfall. The island beneath chipped away by the rushing water piece by piece. A silhouette of the tower showed a crooked slant, sagged from years of punishment by the disastrous weather. A variety of weather monitoring equipment sat scattered across the island. Kept in good condition, these devices were key in the lighthouse¡¯s secondary purpose: monitoring weather patterns and studying the perpetual storm.


    Beneath the boarded windows and chipped brickwork of the tower sat its keeper, a thin and pale man. The keeper hunched over an oaken desk, his head of unkempt red hair sagged from the humidity. With eyes sunken in from head-wrenching bouts of insomnia the man¡¯s eyelids drooped to a half-lidded state. A great crack of lightning startled the drowsy man from his doze, the roll of thunder caused his unsteady hands to jolt. The keeper¡¯s inkwell pen flew from his hand and landed on the day¡¯s notes. A large blot of ink soaked into the parchment, which soiled hours of work. Thomas Stern swore and gathered the now ruined parchment, mopping up spilled ink with a deep scowl. The long-held tradition of using old-fashioned parchment and pen brought more misery than joy. Though the smell of old parchment and ink resonated with the weathered keeper. The frustrating tools of his grandfather gave Thomas a sense of nostalgia. A sensation that outweighed the annoyances of spilled ink. A sharp pang of guilt came from the thought of his family. He had left behind his past life as a college student to pursue his dreams of following in his grandfather¡¯s footsteps, the man he idolized. Out of all his many regrets, abandoning the family that loved him in a desperate bid for independence was his greatest.


    Tired eyes drifted to a crisp letter that sat perched on his desk, a fine layer of dust obscuring the address a clear sign of neglect. It had been months since he received the letter from his mother, the thought of what might be inside the envelope made Thomas¡¯ stomach turn. With a glance down at his now soiled parchment and a heavy sigh, he reached for the letter, determined to put to bed whatever may be inside. As his fingers brushed the thin layer of dust, he reconsidered, remembering back to when he first left his family to pursue his grandfather¡¯s work. Thomas had not left home on good terms in the slightest, his family had insisted he stay far away from the madness of his grandfather¡¯s ¡°world¡±, even threatening disownment should he leave. In trembling hands, the letter returned to its place on the wooden desk, with the promise of being opened at a later time. Thoughts of the outside world left a bitter taste in Thomas¡¯ mouth, in the months that followed the letter, he had received no other messages from his family nor from past friends, or even the taxman. The common assumption was that like the lighthouse itself, he lay forgotten to the sands of time. Dull throbbing pain was ever present in Thomas¡¯ heart at the loss of his family and friends, that along with the constant burning migraine that grew and shrank with the storm made for a dismal and gloomy life at Stern¡¯s peak. A deep scowl spread across Thomas¡¯ face, who shook his head to banish the thoughts. The research took precedence over family, dwelling on the past held back new discoveries. Trembling hands pulled a fresh piece of parchment from the oak desk and refilled the ink pen, only to drop it once more. Thin fingers slammed onto the aged desk as Thomas attempted to right himself, tremors became more of an issue as the days went progressed.


    The familiar pangs of hunger rose from Thomas¡¯ stomach, which reminded him of his skipped meals for the day. The habit of working before eating had emerged soon after he moved to the island. A teary-eyed yawn convinced the weary lighthouse keeper it was as good a time as any to take a break, the gnawing pain in his stomach agreed. On creaking knees, Thomas rose from his oaken desk, his body fought against even the slightest of movement on his way to the cramped kitchenette. From a small icebox came a few links of dried jerky and a glass of water, a full meal by recent standards. The meat was bitter as it ground into Thomas¡¯ teeth. Supplies had been wearing thin for weeks as the supply ferry faced endless delays at the hand of the storm. Thomas¡¯ heart fell to the bottom of his stomach as the thought of being left to die echoed through his aching skull. The mainland had long since given up calling about the ceaseless delays at regular intervals as they had before; they kept all communication curt and to the point, which left the sole occupant of the island concerned and suspicious to a slight degree. Something had happened on the mainland during his absence, but his focus on research and apathy kept him from asking questions, he was comfortable in his current position and nothing was about to stop that. He¡¯d rather have misery be familiar than embracing the unknown and risk everything crashing down around him.


    Thomas could equate his situation to being stranded on a deserted island, with books and work being his sole company, years ago his home had been a tourist attraction and a prized fishing spot for competition. As the storm blew in, visitors thinned until they vanished, not even the supply ferry stayed to chat during the many runs it made back and forth through crashing waves and blistering winds. Each supply run the amount brought to the island shrunk, in part because of wavering funding, it seemed like each day that passed came another cut to the annual budget, commodities such as toilet paper were fast becoming a precious resource. Another flash of lightning punctuated the thought of the weather, which prompted Thomas to gaze out his darkened living room window through the shutters that reinforced them against the winds.


    Local weather patterns had turned for the worse, which had caused a myriad of disasters across the nearby shoreline. Eyes shifted to Thomas for answers, answers that had yet to arise. Now accompanied by the harsh grinding of bitter salted meat, Thomas mulled over the frustrating lack of progress. A brief glance around the bottom floor of the lighthouse forced Thomas¡¯s eyes into a severe squint. The dim lighting of candles made it difficult to distinguish furniture from scientific equipment. A sigh slipped from Thomas¡¯ mouth at the sight of cobwebs and dust that had built up from years of neglect. The pounding pain between the man¡¯s eyes as another bolt of lightning shot across the room through boarded windows forced him to screw his eyes shut. In his mind, Thomas assured himself that everything was in order and that nothing had changed, his house was his fortress. Even with those assurances, however, the overpowering urge to check around the house remained. A nearby candle provided much-needed light as Thomas rose from his chair, joints clicking and complaining the entire way. Thomas crept through the house, away from his lit work-space and into the dark living room at the house¡¯s center. A chill ran up the thin man¡¯s spine as he ventured further into the darkness. The feeling of being watched never left Thomas whenever he ventured away from the light and safety of his desk.If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    Dim candlelight flickered and danced across the dark house and cast shadows that loomed across the room from the various devices scattered around the room. The paranoid chill of being watched made Thomas fidget. With a huff, Thomas through the slumped doorway that leads to the house proper, determined to rid himself of the distraction. It wasn¡¯t often that the lights were on as they put a much-unneeded strain on the aged generator that powered the rest of the lighthouse. The light blinded Thomas as it burst to life; he cursed and shouted as the light worsened his migraine. Thomas screwed his eyes shut behind his hands until they adjusted to the change. The joint pain of the light and migraine was stomach turning. When the pain lessened, tired eyes peeled open to take in the room. The moth-eaten furniture and portraits that covered the walls brought back distant memories of the space. Various clicking machinery and beeping devices lied scattered about the room, walls covered in charts. Decades of weather patterns written on the framed charts. The common trend of the joint data was that the supposed eternal rain had been worsening over the last few decades with no plausible explanation.


    With a grimace and bloodshot eyes, Thomas glared at his wicker chair, which stood slumped behind his desk. Small books and piles of paperwork covered every inch of space on the desktop. The dread of working for hours to restore work he had just finished leaving a drained hollowness his heart. Checking for the supply ferry instead crossed Thomas¡¯ notice. That appealed better to Thomas than using the rest of his time hunched over his desk making up for his past clumsiness. There was no real way to tell time anymore, the gloomy clouds above had long since blotted out the sun. The sole indicator for the time was the ticking clock that counted the minute¡¯s in-between work hours. His worn slippers scuffed as he shuffled his feet across creaking floorboards to the door. Heavy bars which blocked the storm from slamming the fortified door wide open and spreading paperwork everywhere groaned as they shifted as if they shared their keeper¡¯s endless fatigue.


    Aged wood creaked under the burden of the wind when the bars shifted. The door came close to dislocating Thomas¡¯ shoulder as he worked to close it; it forced him to brace his foot against the door-frame to pull it shut. When he had secured the door, Thomas peered over his surroundings. From underneath the awning which sheltered the modest front porch, visibility was poor, as the constant rain dropped from the sky in heavy blankets. The shaking keeper reached for an adjacent rack and took hold of a stout umbrella with a white-knuckled grip. As Thomas ventured out, the gravel pathway made satisfying crunching sounds with each stride, it was the little details that propped up his morale. The island itself was little to speak of, thin patches of grass and monitoring equipment marked the path to the sole port on the island. A ragged shoreline made up of sharp rocks encapsulated the dismal plateau that was his home.


    The moor at the edge of the narrow passage through the sharp rocks swayed and groaned with the passing wind. A sturdy handrail was all that kept passersby from being swept into the sea. The small dilapidated shed that served as a drop-off point stood bare, not a single can of food in sight. It had been weeks since the last supply ferry had come by. The storm had long since cut off radio communication to the outside world, save for the restricted channel for his data. Despair pried at Thomas¡¯ heart as he feared if the mainland refused to send the ferry out into the storm.


    The exhausted keeper trudged his way back to the security of his home, the winds having depleted him of his strength. A crash of thunder and a burst of lightning from overhead cast shadows across the craggy rocks of the island, Thomas¡¯ eyes flitted back and forth as his gut twisted. Even though it was unthinkable for anyone to enter the island due to the nightmarish raging storm, the ever-present suspicion of being watched persisted. Thomas ran back to the door and slammed it shut behind him. With a huff, Thomas sagged against the door from the inside. The overhead light was out again, owing in part to the storm. The faulty wiring of the decades-old building did not age well. And with the dark came paranoia. Thomas¡¯ legs trembled and fretted while his eyes darted around the dim room. Something was hunting him, uninvited guests in his home, those thoughts which lingered in Thomas¡¯ aching head.


    The chiming of Thomas¡¯ favorite clock snapped him out of his paranoid daze, it had hit midnight without his knowing. With a hoarse groan of exertion, Thomas rose to his feet, a slight unfitting of a man his age. Stern¡¯s peak had taken its toll on its sole occupant¡¯s mind and body. And yet something kept Thomas from leaving, a nervous blackened part of his brain insisted that he stay. He couldn¡¯t abandon his grandfather¡¯s life work, and he lacked the funds to pay the fines that came from leaving.


    One aching foot in front of the other, Thomas scaled the circular staircase to the upper levels, hoping that sleep would put his frayed mind back in order. The second floor of the lighthouse comprised a worn mattress with a squeaky frame and a small bedside cabinet. A small round window on the far wall displayed the rain outside, saturated with water. A small half-eaten can of peaches served as supper flew into an ever-growing pile of used tin in the far end of the room. From there Thomas sagged and fell onto the ancient bed as springs whined underneath, he didn¡¯t bother removing his clothes; he kept himself dressed for bed no matter the occasion because of the lack of visitors. Thomas curled up in his thick mouth chewed blanket and stared at the far wall. Bloodshot eyes drooped they scanned the room, in search of anything out of place. Whenever his eyes closed, they opened a short time later at what Thomas thought were the sounds of movement that never turned out to be true. His insomnia continued until his body no longer had the strength to stay awake, and his eyes crept shut, which led him to a fitful sleep.

 Premonition

    The clouds above churned and howled, massive dark anvil clouds wept down thick blankets of harsh rain with enough force to strip away paint from steel. Fat droplets pelted the seas below creating a dull cacophonic roar, which drowned out any screams of horror from unfortunate souls, a sound familiar to Thomas Stern, who had grown accustomed to the noise. Sounds of rain comforted and soothed the keeper¡¯s nerves, who would otherwise be awake at all hours. The storm provided white noise that would never sway nor grow silent. Crackles of lightning shoot across the sky in a lethal yet intimate dance to the rhythm of crashing waves and booming thunder. Yet with all the comforts of the weather and a soft bed, rest did not come easy that night, as with all nights.


    Sounds of thudding much like footsteps echoed up from the lower floors of the lighthouse which caused Thomas to jolt from his attempt at rest. A quick glance around the room revealed nothing, all was in its proper place. Thomas let his eyes drift shut and assured himself that everything where he left it and tried to sleep once more. The peace did not last however, as a sound of metal clashing with metal, grinding and shrieking with a vindictive howl cut through the stagnant air of the bedroom. Thomas bolted to a sitting position on top of his moth-eaten bed, eyes scanning left to right across his bedroom. Short panting breaths of panic escaped from Thomas¡¯ mouth as his heart crawled up into his throat, his attempts at self-assurance falling short of their goal. Nothing should have been able to get through the front door, but the sounds of clattering did not lie. Thomas¡¯ spine clicked and popped as he rose from his bed, and his feet found purchase in his worn house slippers. Inching towards the stairs to the bottom floor, the keeper¡¯s body winced with each creak and thud that came from the room below, Thomas reminded himself once more that nothing should be down there but his desk and his equipment, but that did little to soothe his strained nerves. One step at a time, the trembling keeper descended the stairs, a small oil lamp in hand. Upon reaching the foot of the stairs, braced for the worst, Thomas crept into his living room turned office.


    Cold darkness was all that met Thomas¡¯ sweating face, slick from holding his lamp close, the need to stay in the safety of his light overwhelmed his discomfort. With a shaking hand, the oil lamp flickered and steamed in the frigid air of the pitch black room. All candles that had once lit up the room with a haunting orange glow long snuffed out. The familiar walls of the house were nowhere in sight, leaving the room feeling many times larger than it should have been. There was a distinct alien feeling to the place, it couldn¡¯t be the lighthouse, yet it had the same decorations and furnishings, it was as if by some cosmic joke the entire house had rearranged itself. The room was dead silent save for the occasional banging noise off in the distance, clattering of metal and tumbling of heavy objects to the floor were the sole indicator of life. Outside, the storm raged on with all the intensity of a hurricane, with no promise of ever lessening. Many holes in the room¡¯s ceiling poured out fresh rainwater and left through a metal grating that now covered haphazard patching of the floor, and yet no light peeked through the holes.


    Thomas¡¯ head pounded as he tried to remember where everything should be in the room, his memory overtaken by the fear and paranoia brought on by this strange place. The many scientific instruments that surrounded the room were foreign, each one built in esoteric shapes that defied common logic. Large electrical chords covered the floor, along with slips of loose paper covered in indistinct writing that looked more like crude drawings than data. The thudding sounds of footsteps kept falling from somewhere in the maze of machinery, the booming sounds echoing across endless stacks of equipment. While Thomas¡¯ own footsteps were soft, creaking the wood with care as to not punch a hole through the floor; the other sound was harsh and heavy, he shuddered with every footfall. A lump grew at the back of Thomas¡¯ throat with the insistence he should turn around and go back to bed and hope that the intruder wouldn¡¯t go upstairs. The path back to safety was simple to follow, a simple retracing of steps, and after what felt like hours of walking, Thomas came across the wall where his staircase should have been.


    The flaked and faded paint still outlined where the aged set of stairs once sat, but the steps were absent. A thin film of viscous slime that stunk of rotten fish covered the area, which brought a gag that rolled up the back of Thomas¡¯ throat. The disgusting stench permeated the area and giant wet footprints surrounded the base of the stairs, with no sign of the remains in sight. Thomas stood there, stunned at the sight and smell as his fingers tightened around his lamp in a white-knuckled grip; sweat ran down the back of his neck in rivers, his heart hammered away in his chest as if it were making an escape attempt. With hasty steps, the keeper backpedaled to flee from the smell and sight of the sludge, and to his dread, his foot caught on a wire connected to one of the many machines. Thomas¡¯ trembling palm lost purchase on his oil lamp in the ensuing stumble, his frail fingers unable to hold on. The lamp clattered against the hardwood floor, and the sound echoed throughout the maze-like room.


    It was then that Thomas noticed that the other sounds of movement had stopped as if alarmed by the noise. A long silence followed that, as Thomas stood in place, frozen by his fear. Then, the thudding started again, much faster this time, and coming in his direction. The faint sound of dripping followed, like the sound of the saliva of a starving beast hitting the floor. Thomas¡¯ heart fell out of the bottom of his stomach in panic, he had to hide from whatever that thing was, and fast. Turning heel on-the-spot Thomas made a desperate bid at running away from whatever lurked in the dark, his lungs screamed in agony from the sudden overuse.


    Every pounding thud of the intruder sent a new wave of pain through Thomas¡¯ already throbbing head. The beast drew close, so close that the smell of the room turned from the musty scent of books to a vile mix of day-old chum and rotten eggs. The light of the oil lamp did little to help make out the shape of the hulking figure, its silhouette far larger than any man Thomas had ever seen. The thing toppled a heavy pile of scrap and books without breaking pace in the slightest, guttural grunts of annoyance signaled just how little the thing cared for the obstructions. In a desperate act of survival, Thomas scrambled to the floor to hide, his head slamming against a low coffee table forcing out a strangled curse. Once again the lamp clattered against the wooden floor, this time though it flickered and coughed before dying out, which left the room in pitch black darkness. The thudding sound stopped short of Thomas¡¯ hiding spot, what followed was what had to be the sound of a meaty fist colliding with a pile of books, which scattered them around the floor. The pounding continued as more piles fell, the sounds of destruction drew closer to Thomas with each passing second. His heart reached up to pound in his throat as his feet dug into the floor beneath, which slammed his head once more into the coffee table. A small yelp escaped his mouth before he had the chance to slap a hand over his mouth. The room went dead silent.


    The thudding sound came back, faster this time, it had found him. In a last-ditch effort, Thomas grabbed hold of the table and dragged himself underneath it. His heart skipped several beats as he curled up under the coffee table, his whole body trembling from fear of being caught. He could not tell whether it concealed him, other than his sense of touch he dared not use in the chance it made a noise. The stomping feet drew near, accompanied by the sound of wet rasping breaths. Thomas made his best attempt at staying still and prayed to whatever god would listen to make the thing ignore him and leave.Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    The thudding stopped right next to the not so convenient hiding place, wet rasping breaths mixed with the sounds of gagging and sniffling. The horrid stench of dead fish invaded Thomas¡¯ nose, which forced him to suppress his own gagging as the wet dripping sounds continued. The wooden boards of the table groaned as the thing examined Thomas¡¯ hiding spot, the wood splintered under its touch. It took all of Thomas¡¯ willpower to not scream and wet himself as sludge leaked from the cracks and dripped into his face, the urge to vomit clawed at his throat increased with each passing second. For a few tense seconds, nothing happened, which must have satisfied the reeking figure as it wandered off, feet trailing in that loud stomping gait it had taken before.


    It was several minutes before Thomas felt safe enough to gag and cough; the smell had become too much for him to handle, the stinging sensation of bile in his throat brought tears to his eyes as he tried his best to recover. Thomas crawled on all fours out from his makeshift shelter and dared to relight his lamp with as low a flame as possible, the resounding click of the ignitor made him recoil at the thought the intruder might have heard. With strained ears the keeper searched and listened for the telltale stomping sound, it must have wondered further away as he couldn¡¯t hear anything other than his own gasping breaths. With tentative steps, Thomas wandered further into the dark abyss before him. The pounding headache had lessened by then, enough for the frail man to see shapes in the thick darkness of the room. The crushing darkness that covered the room seemed to swallow all light that attempted to make headway as if the void were a living beast insulted by it. With careful steps Thomas crept piles of books and strange metal machines, taking great care to not disturb anything, lest he attract unwanted attention. An idea occurred to Thomas, accompanied by a nervous sense of hope, the front door. If he could make it through the front door he could wait out whatever happened to his house in a sturdy shelter, the drop-off supply shed came to mind, with new resolve, he pushed onward. After what felt like hours of walking, he had little progress in finding the front door; it was as if the house itself refused to let him escape. Thomas found himself in the same place several times, he had walked in a giant circle in the maze, a muttered curse was his only reply to the absurdity.


    Creaking floorboards and the incessant ticking of an old clock were welcome sounds, the smell of old parchment guided his way to a place he recognized. Thomas had found his desk by sheer luck, which sat in a small alcove of machinery and moth-eaten portraits. With a tremendous sigh of relief at such a familiar sight, he laid a hand on the old stained oak, just to be sure it wasn¡¯t some paranoid delusion. All of his notes and folders were all in place, except for one odd exception. An ancient looking leather book sat in the center of his desk, locked shut by a padlock and leather bindings. There was no label on the spine of the book, nor any notable demarcations that could tell Thomas what on earth it could be. Whatever this book was, it must have been important for it to sit on the one familiar sight he could find in this damned maze. Thomas held tight to the book to his chest and looked over the rest of his desk hoping to find the missing key. It was because of this newfound distractedness he made a fatal error while running his hands across his desktop in the poor light; he heard a sound that made his heart stop. The shattering of glass on the floor. He looked to the source to see that in his frantic search he¡¯d knocked his inkwell to the floor, where it now lied in pieces. What little color remained on his face vanished as the sound of stomping came from deep in the maze, much faster and more assured than before. Thomas dared to look in the sound¡¯s direction and held his lamp high, all that he could see were two glowing eyes that seemed to pierce through his soul that stench of rotted fish once again assailing his senses. It had found him, and there wasn¡¯t a chance to hide this time.


    It was the intruder that took the initiative, storming forth in a mad frenzy; however, Thomas had already turned tail and ran, he didn¡¯t dare stop to look behind. His breaths turned to a harsh and heaving pant, it had been years since he had run with such urgency. The sound of metal clashing against the wooden floor as it tossed machinery to the side gave an indication of the intruder¡¯s sheer strength as it followed. Guttural gagging came from the beast in its pursuit, along with wet splattering across the floor, the sharp stench of vomit now filling the air as it pursued Thomas. A mere moment of disorientation from the smell was all it took to have Thomas¡¯ trip on a book that laid haphazardly on the floor, oil lamp flying from his hands and clattered out of arm¡¯s reach. With the beast hot on his tail, he abandoned the source of light for the sake of speed. A blind charge forward was his best option, even as his limbs slammed into the harsh metal around him which sent burning pain through his frail body. The adrenaline that pumped through his veins was the sole thing that kept him on his feet during his mad dash. A sharp pain raced across his back as the beast lashed out, which shredded the back of his nightshirt to pieces, with blood now soaking into the remains of his shirt from shallow gashes. Thomas held back tears as his pained scream echoed through the halls, his hope had dwindled, yet he kept his pace. The strained muscles in his legs screamed, demanding that Thomas stop to take a break, an option that would guarantee his demise. He bit back wrenching sobs and bile that worked their way back up his throat and worked through the pain until his mad sprint met an abrupt end. Thomas¡¯ face met harsh oak wood as he slammed into a flat surface, one that felt different from the rest of the walls he had come across, his front door.


    He had done it, the front door laid in front of him, while a ravenous beast was right behind. Thomas gripped the doorknob and pulled with all his might, stopped short by the metal bars that held the door in place against the winds outside. He could feel the hot breath of the beast behind him, as it latched onto his shoulder with a malformed and bloated hand, skin stretched tight across rotten muscle. Desperate for survival, Thomas did the first thing that came to mind, he pried the metal bar from its holdings and slammed the blunted end into what he assumed was the thing¡¯s face. The beast recoiled with a deafening roar and clutched at its shrouded face, stumbling back and landing on a pile of old magazines. Thomas didn¡¯t dare look back for more than a second as he threw the door open and leaped forward onto the gravel path leading to the docks, the book still in hand.


    Thomas scrambled to his feet and ran, the harsh gravel dug into his exposed feet, he must have lost his slippers during the chase. The sound of the beast¡¯s wails grew more distant with each lurching stride, while its pursuit may have slowed, Thomas was not willing to take any chances as he fled. The aged docks came into sight, along with the dilapidated old shed that supplies would sit in at the first of each month. The door was not in its original state though, as a large rusted padlock had sealed the cabin tight, something that Thomas had never done in the past. A chill shot up his spine as his clumsy hands fumbled with the lock, in a desperate hope it would give way, the old leather book dropped to his feet, forgotten at the moment.


    It was the sound of the crashing waves that tore his attention away from the shed, rather; it was the lack of sound. The water was still and silent; it was a crushing silence that deafened him. Thomas turned his head, his whole body shaking, to look upon the waters. The seas that surrounded the island had vanished, and the seafloor lied exposed in its entirety. With a dry and painful gulp, Thomas¡¯ eyes traced their way up to the horizon to see a wall of water. A giant wave, so large it blotted out half of the night¡¯s sky barreled towards his home at speeds that the keeper couldn¡¯t believe. Great water spouts shot up into the looming clouds above as if the sky was feeding the wave as the huge torrents flowed.


    Thomas fell to his knees at the sight, his heart sunk to the pit of his stomach at the sight of the impending disaster. He looked back, wondering if he might use his home as a shelter. His eyes widened to see that his home had disappeared, everything had vanished, not even the hut remained. His eyes darted back to the tsunami which now loomed overhead, the wall of water mere seconds from crushing his frail body. All he could remember was the feeling of aged leather on his fingers as the wave crashed down upon him.


    And then there was crushing darkness.

 Denial

    It was the boom of thunder overhead that woke Thomas, flooding rain drenched his face with a cold embrace which startled him back to consciousness. He stood at the edge of the island docks with arms outstretched, ready to drop a bound leather book into the churning ocean below. The maw of the waves wide open, ready to swallow whole whatever might fall beneath the surface. The sight made him recoil, his legs giving way and trembling knees crashing against the grime-encrusted wooden boards below. He gagged and coughed on his own spit, his mouth dry and hoarse, his throat felt like he¡¯d been gargling gravel while his legs burned as if he¡¯d ran a marathon. The last thing Thomas could remember was being crushed under the full weight of the sea, the all-consuming void collapsing his lungs as limbs twisted and snapped under the pressure, but a quick inspection of his surroundings told him how wrong he was. The lighthouse and shed were still there, nothing was out of place at a glance, a sight that made little sense. There was no way that anything on the island would survive a wave like that, not to mention that he sealed the front door shut every night, which would have prevented any sleepwalking. And yet he was standing at the edge of the docks instead of resting in his aged bed. The book in hand was all too familiar, the same decorated padlock sealed the book shut as he saw during the nightmare he had escaped from, the reality of his situation sunk in, causing his mind to shut down.


    A harsh ringing in his ears blocked out the sounds of the sea, which brought on another bout of panic. With a shudder Thomas glanced over to the horizon, scanning the ocean for any signs of recession, book in hand forgotten. The yellow weather buoys that dotted the waves blinked with bright signal lights every so often, each one green to show no notable issues in the waves. The ink black waves crashed against the shoreline and chipped away at the stone island piece by piece, no matter how permanent the island felt, time was slipping away at a steady pace.


    Thomas¡¯ hands clenched around the book as he thought to the night before, uncertain of just how real it was. The memory of the stench that wafted off the beast had been too real, his legs still covered in the pain of welts from his escape that screamed in agony.


    Thomas stumbled to his feet and turned to his home, which stood tall over the island as if it had never left. The gravel underfoot crunched with each sagging step, exhaustion stung Thomas¡¯ eyes with each passing blink. At the least, the rain had receded to a light drizzle, which had soaked his clothes head to toe. His front door stood wide open upon arrival to his house, the study iron bar lay further into the house on the floor, one step inside is all it took to reveal a disaster zone. Someone or something had tossed all the furniture of the house to the floor, a chair laid in the corner with a leg snapped clean off. Once ordered in a neat stack, all of yesterday¡¯s notes now carpeted the room, soaked with a foul-smelling fluid. The keeper groaned and cursed, which sent him into another coughing fit. Thomas worked his way around the debris, shaking with confusion and rage at the sight of his desk laying sideways on the floor. The icebox had fared no better; the door hung loose on its hinges, the inside now warm. The nearest glass of water provided relief for his dry throat, and with a gasp and groan he set the glass down, it was a struggle to hold down another coughing fit even with the water.


    Thomas took a glance out of the kitchen window, brow furrowing at the sight of dark clouds above. There was no clear way to tell night from day anymore, and it had been so for years. The sole indicator for the time was his old clock, which sat on the floor jammed between two large books across the room as if someone had thrown it. He took a moment to stand one of the kitchen chairs back onto its feet and collapsed onto it, deep heaving breaths turned into loud sobbing the more he took in the state of his home.


    ¡°Why..¡± His hoarse voice croaked, ¡°What the hell did I do?!¡± His head lolled back to glare at the sky through his ceiling, a spiteful scowl across his withered face. There he sat, tears running down his face as he curled up in the wreckage that had once been a clean kitchen, his possessions all scattered and broken across the floor. In his rage, Thomas brought his arm back and tossed the book in hand at his overturned dustbin, where it landed with a thunderous clang, he wanted no part in whatever ruined his home. From there he slumped over, face in hands, and wept, it wasn¡¯t until he peeked through the hands that he noticed something that made his heart grow still. Massive wet footprints laid underneath the rubble, closer inspection had Thomas recoiling at the stench. Spoiled fish and rotten eggs, and then there was darkness.


    Later, once Thomas woke from his fainting spell in a small puddle of his own vomit and cleaned himself, he tried his best to not look at the footprints or the dustbin while setting his house back in order. The shame of having fainted almost matched the creeping sense of dread he felt. After every sound of a chair being moved into place, every thud of a book being placed back onto his bookcase Thomas would flinch and check the room behind him. After his nervous hands fumbled with his oil lamp, that had been laying on the floor near the front door, it clattered against the wood and forced a yelp from Thomas as he dived for the nearest piece of cover. It took the entire afternoon to put his house back in order, even longer to clean up the footprints that now stained his floor. Thomas promised himself that he would ask for rugs the next time the supply ferry came.


    With a painful stretch, Thomas collected his trusted oil lamp and with a click of the ignitor, it burst to life. The warm glow gave Thomas some amount of solace, light was such a rare commodity ever since the storm had blown in. The thought of the eternal storm soured his mood once more, one look out the small round window showed that the rain had ceased for the time being, but the clouds refused to budge an inch. Like vultures stooped high upon branches they threatened to lash out on anyone or anything that lost vigilance for even a second. The floorboards creaked underfoot as Thomas made his way to the kitchen for a much-needed break to eat. Under normal circumstances, he would have ascended to check on the light from the tower, but because of his past mistake, he had work that required his attention that took precedence. His face knitted itself into a deep scowl over those dark thoughts, he needed a vacation, and soon.


    The bottom floor of his home was now the same as he had left it, excluding the stained flooring that would force his lunch to rise from his stomach each time they caught his eye and the now broken chair in the room¡¯s corner. A quick gaze around the room revealed a disheartening sight, his candles were running thin, and he still hadn¡¯t received more. With a shrug of his shoulders, he made for the center of the room, his hand fell on a footstool along the way, which he dragged along for the ride. With unsteady feet he climbed onto the stool and looked over the light, it had grown loose again and needed more repairs. A grumbled curse passed over Thomas¡¯ dry and chapped lips, the lighting had never worked right in the old building, no matter how well he maintained the fixtures they would always break again the next day. It took several minutes of fiddling with the fixture before the light flickered to life with a sickly pale light. Thomas had always despised the harsh humming sound that came with keeping the lights on, having flinched as soon as the room lit up, he didn¡¯t have the tools to fix it, so he had to make do with checking over his shoulder at regular intervals.


    He left the footstool in place and turned to his desk, a sour taste in his mouth at the memory of his idiotic mistake with his inkwell coupled with the ransacking of his home. The thought prodded him into double checking his front door, once he was certain that the only way to get through the threshold was from the inside, he took a deep breath and set out to do his job.


    With a deep sigh and a familiar creaking of his favorite chair, he sat down at his desk. The tension let out of his back as he slouched in the plush yet moth-eaten seat, his fingers worked back and forth, crackling as they limbered up in anticipation for another day¡¯s work. Thomas took in a deep breath and prepared a fresh sheet of parchment from his the glass cabinet of his desk, book and disaster pushed to the side in favor of work. The parchment was a tradition his grandfather had kept to as the thick cloth-like rolls stood up better to the constant humidity brought on by the storm. His fingers wrapped around his pen, filled with ink from his inkwell, and went to work. His sour mood from before seemed to grow distant as he went about compiling yesterday¡¯s data into neat lines, the sight of all his collective work in a graph gave him a small rush of satisfaction. Even with the many downsides of his work, the smell of ink on fresh parchment was comforting, a break from the chaos of his frequent nightmares. Although the night¡¯s workload had doubled from the earlier incident, the thought of prior days sent a chill running up his spine.Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.


    His work comprised gathering data from several sources, amount of rainfall per day, wind speeds, samples of seawater, and many more. At the end of each month he would send his findings to the mainland to which contributed to the public record, and with scientists there, they could make accurate predictions of incoming weather. This was the field of study Thomas loved. A small smile of satisfaction soon turned to a terse frown, his brows knit together as he looked back over the numbers, something must have gone wrong with his equipment. The rainfall was getting worse, there was no doubt about that, but these numbers made no sense. Thomas stood from his desk and walked to the end of the room, over to a wall covered floor to ceiling in a variety of charts and graphs sent from scientists on the mainland. The numbers showed that as the rainfall worsened, the sea level rose to match, which shouldn¡¯t be possible. Even considering the melting of polar ice caps, it couldn¡¯t account for the exponential rise of seawater that his data showed.


    Thomas paced small circles around his room, careful to avoid the foul-smelling stains, his face contorted into a confused grimace. His equipment must have malfunctioned by the storm, that was the only logical conclusion he could come to. A pained gurgling from his stomach cut his musings short, which made the man wince; he had skipped another supper in his rush to get back to work, a habit that had formed as his interest in his work grew. Thomas put work out of his mind in pursuit of food, and gathered a plate from the kitchen, along with a few pieces of silverware to set his rather small dining room table. With an eager stride and a wince at joint pains, he swung the door to his icebox open, and his heart sank to the pit of his stomach at the sight.


    On the worn and stained shelves of the icebox stood a meager amount of food, not even enough to last the rest of the day if he were to eat three meals. With an annoyed huff, he compromised and had a scrambled egg with sausage. He had run low on supplies weeks ago, and his body showed it. His arms thin and frail while more than a few ribs showed through his sunlight deprived pasty white skin, each morning he noticed more and more gray hairs growing into his once orange-red hair. It was his stomach¡¯s urging that snapped him out of his thoughts; he didn¡¯t need to look good so long as he got his job done. His rusted gas stove flickered to life after fiddling with it, the smell of food in his cast iron pan both pained and delighted Thomas. Food was one of the few pleasures in his life on the island, he had been rather overweight when he first settled in, which stood testament to his love of a good meal. As he mulled over his plate of eggs and sausage he returned to his earlier train of thought, something had damaged his equipment when the storm worsened the other night. With the rainfall absent he hoped to repair the damage before another cloudburst occurred, but to fix it he would have to go through his tool closet.


    The thought of the tool closet sent a sour taste through his mouth as he finished the last of his eggs, his own laziness was to blame for the state of the place, yet he couldn¡¯t help feeling bitter. The term ¡®tool closet¡¯ was, in reality, inaccurate, as the space reserved for tools and spare parts took up the entire third floor of his home. Narrow passageways between cluttered shelves would always remind him of his repeated nightmares, bringing his ever persistent migraine rearing its ugly head. Thomas cursed under his breath, his pain pills should be in the shipment of supplies, the one that happened to be late by an infuriating amount of time.


    Thomas stood from his chair, washed and dried his dishes, then made way for his staircase. Along the way up the creaking steps he dared to peek out the window, the rain still hadn¡¯t returned, but by the look of the clouds, he wouldn¡¯t have much time. He climbed past his bedroom and into the dark upper floor, the small oil lamp not forgotten. The flickering light cast tall shadows across the room, which at one point held fishing supplies and other storage before tools and scrap piled up. Taking slow steps through the narrow shelves he shuffled to his toolbox, which held all the essentials for maintaining his machines. The floor whined and moaned under his slippers as he shuffled along, a chill ran up his spine at being in such an enclosed and dark space. Just the thought of being so vulnerable was more than enough to hurry his legs along once his hands felt the handle of his toolbox he made his best effort at darting back down the stairs. Reduced to huffing and puffing at the bottom of the stairwell he looked back up the steps, feeling eyes watching him from the darkness above. With a heavy gulp, he turned and found his way to the front door and changed into more appropriate footwear. After a deep breath in Thomas found the nerve to move the heavy iron pipe out of its holdings and stepped outside.


    The first thing that met Thomas as he set foot outside was the smell of sea-salt which rode on the now calm ocean winds. He took a moment to bask in the moving air, which stood in stark contrast to both the stagnant air of his home and the gale force winds of the storm. The feeling of a water droplet hitting his nose caused him to jolt and shake his head, he didn¡¯t have time to admire the soft wind. Thomas marched his way down a weathered gravel path to his personal weather station, taking the time to savor the crunching sound of gravel under his shoes, it was always a comfort when he could walk outside without being tossed around by the heavy wind.


    The island¡¯s weather station amounted to a fortified hut covered top to bottom with various instruments of measurement. A massive cylindrical metal tub with a glass window served as his rain gauge, which he emptied at regular intervals. Out of all his equipment, his rain gauge was the most reliable, because of sheer simplicity. On top of the hut stood both a windsock for showing wind direction and an anemometer for measuring wind speed. These instruments were old-fashioned in build as the anemometer used cups to catch the wind to rotate a bar leading down into the hut to record the wind¡¯s speed. The outer walls of the station held up an assortment of barometers and hygrometers, to measure atmospheric pressure and humidity, respectively. These were the tools that his grandfather had used to gather and compile data, simple machines built to stand the test of time. Nothing about the equipment showed any clear signs of damage, other than the flaked paint and signs of rust in need of cleaning. It was the interior of the station that held Thomas¡¯ addition to his grandfather¡¯s work, guarded by a heavy padlock and reinforced door, built to withstand even the worst of what mother nature offered. The padlock key slipped in without issue, produced from the pocket Thomas kept it in at all times. It took several minutes of struggling to align the pins and get the thing open, however, much to Thomas¡¯ chagrin. Soon enough the heavy door swung open, and Thomas entered what had to be his favorite part of the island.


    Thomas¡¯ hand wandered off to his side and flicked a light switch which bathed the room in a crisp light, much unlike the poor lighting of the much older lighthouse. Inside the station sat his generator, hooked to a vent that lead out of the building to prevent any fumes from building up as it hummed away. Thomas set his toolbox on a nearby table and shut the door behind him, locking it in place before turning to look over his pride and joy. Several computer terminals lined the far wall, each hooked up to a dedicated buoy to collect information on the open sea, with one linked to a weather balloon that flew high above the station. At first glance, none of the terminals were flashing with the telltale signs of errors, which brought a relieved sigh from Thomas. The terminals collected data and print it out neat sheets of paper for analysis, maintenance of the buoys fell in the hands of the government on the mainland, to ease him of taking regular trips out into the crashing seas alone. One by one he flipped switches to turn on displays and ran diagnostics, and as he progressed, his brows furrowed in worry. There were no reported errors in any of them, each buoy and terminal were in perfect working order. Thomas felt his heart skip as he collected the days printed data from the machines, all of which showed the same grim sight. If these numbers were correct, then all of their data and estimations were wrong. Thomas¡¯ felt his chest lock up in what had to be a heart attack as his eyes darted from paper to paper, desperate for the numbers to prove wrong. Original predictions had the storm receding back into the sea, according to all of their original numbers, but the new numbers didn¡¯t lie, they couldn¡¯t.


    The storm was about to get far worse than anyone had expected or planned for. A flash of lightning outside the hut made Thomas¡¯ heart leap and beat once more. The rain had picked up again, fat droplets that sounded more like severe hail pelted the roof of the building with all the force of a jackhammer, the storm was getting more dangerous and drawing closer to the mainland every passing hour. Thomas shoved all the documents into his waterproof toolbox as he put the station back into proper order, his hands shaking at a frantic pace as his heart pounded in his throat. He had to warn the authorities on the mainland, and fast.


    The winds outside made their best effort to topple Thomas over as he made his way back to the house, a sturdy handrail the sole reason he stayed upright. Once back inside his house, it took all his strength to slam the door shut against the winds, afterward he slumped against the heavy oak wood. Even with his lungs desperate for air he rose to his feet and made for the stairs, ascending them at a pace he never had before. His knees ground and popped with each passing step as he barged his way through the door to the fourth floor of the lighthouse where all of his communication equipment laid dormant. Every week Thomas would call the mainland asking about the supply ship, which they would always meet with a non-committal answer, sometimes no answer at all. Thomas shook the thought of food out of his head as he tripped and stumbled over his own feet in a desperate rush to get to his radio, his hands slammed onto the desk as he righted himself. With practiced but frantic fingers he jammed the radio to life and grabbed hold of the radio¡¯s microphone, that is when disaster struck.

 Return to sanity

    As part of his duties, every first of the month Thomas Stern sent a report of weather data to a dedicated station on the mainland for both study and potential evacuation warnings. When the information passed hands, the standard procedure dictated that a radio call precede sending the gathered data through a secure connection. In the case the storm became dangerous to the many towns that dotted the shoreline though, he was to call through a dedicated emergency line. The mainland station made it their business to keep the emergency line running at all hours, no matter what disaster might unfold.


    Thomas had gone through all the right motions to make his emergency call, working through trembling fingers to adjust the old ham radio. The stupid thing had never worked right, not even when his grandfather used it, the constant whining of static that crackled from the old speakers made the radio a chore to use. Try as he might, he could find nothing under blaring static and a low groan of unknown origins. With hasty motions he tossed away the radio headset, ears ringing from the wailing interference and dull drone, which came in a constant pulsing rhythm akin to heavy breathing. Dr. Porter from the mainland team must have left the station radio running again while he slept at his desk, which would explain all the noise.


    ¡°Hello? Dr. Porter? Can you hear me? Please respond! Evacuate Glynnwood, get everyone out of there now, our numbers were wrong! Hello?!¡± Thomas¡¯ throat dried by the time he had finished screaming into the microphone, with no reply save for that same metallic screech and low pitch hum of static coming from the abandoned headset. Even the breathing sound fell silent under the dull drone. Several things could explain the lack of communication, the thought occurred that evacuations could have already taken place. Even with those assurances, the thought of deaths caused by his own incompetence spurred the keeper on. Thomas flipped through every frequency he could think of, his hand pounding against the old radio with each passing failure, even the line for emergency services was down. That made no sense though, even after evacuations there would always be someone at the end of the line to pick up stragglers.


    ¡°Goddamnit! Someone! Anyone! Please respond!¡± Thomas shouted, followed by hoarse coughing, his throat cracked from years of neglect. He cursed the lack of conversation on the island, as annoying as tourism used to be, at least he could talk to people during those boring hour-long tours of his property. He was about to check the receiver for any problems when a bright flash of lightning lit up the room.


    Under normal circumstances such a common occurrence wouldn¡¯t bother Thomas at all, it was the immediate boom of thunder and the lights of his house blowing out that made his heart stop. His hand shot out and slammed onto the desktop to keep from falling from his chair as he struggled to catch his breath. The radio went dead silent from a lack of power and the room fell into a crushing silence save for Thomas¡¯ wheezing. With his hand clutched to his chest over his frenzied heart, he rose to stand, hunched over the desk while he attempted to figure out the culprit. It was just a power outage; he assured himself while uncommon they occurred from time to time. His mind jumped to the lightning rod strapped to the top of the lighthouse, it should have sent the bolt straight into the ground, but instead, the decrepit wiring of his grandfather¡¯s home took the blow.


    Thomas¡¯ hand wrapped around the handle of his lamp with a tight grip, the first thought occurring to his mind was the light projected from his tower; the surge could have blown a fuse and shut the entire system down, and if that were the case it demanded immediate attention. It would be a cold day in hell when he would let any more ships capsize on his watch, never again.


    The climb to the top level of the lighthouse put a great deal of strain on Thomas¡¯ body, the steep ladder forced him to hold his lamp by the teeth until he could reach the trapdoor leading to the room above. The rusted hatch of the trapdoor gave way after a sufficient pounding, it flew open as its hinges screamed with protest. With his lamp now in his free hand, he threw it over the ledge leading to the top floor and dragged himself up. His heart fell to the bottom of his stomach when he saw the state of the room. Shards of broken glass that had been the north-facing window lay scattered on the floor, allowing the storm¡¯s freezing cold wind and fat droplets of rain to flow inside. Rainwater had already seeped into the floor, ruining the polish that Thomas took so much pride in maintaining, which caused him to groan in anguish. It was always the little things that went wrong for him, even when disaster struck the world somehow added insult to injury. Burn marks and black soot which evidenced a recent electrical fire that died after the storm cut the power coated the floor. Far above his head, the light itself seemed undamaged along with the lenses that encapsulated the ancient lamp. Thomas climbed a small ladder to the lower rafters and pulled a heavy metal shutter down over the broken window to keep at least some rain out, his oil lamp clutched in his teeth all the while. The elements pelted the metal shutters as though it were under fire from a light machine gun. The sounds of the storm outside rose to a cacophony as the metal shutters shook under the force. He always hated using the shutters, they obscured too much of the light for his liking, but it was the best he could do on short notice.


    With heaving breaths, Thomas ascended further up the ladder to inspect the lightning rod, following the cascading spider web of scorch marks to the rooftop access. Throwing open the access hatch revealed a sight that shocked Thomas to his core, the lightning rod that protected his home from the constant lightning that bombarded his home lay snapped clean in two, the metal rod hanging by a loose wire and dangled off the side of the roof. The sturdy metal appeared to have sheared, something that wind couldn¡¯t do, the designer had built it to prevent such things. It must have been something that damned intruder did, Thomas thought, it snuck onto the roof and screwed with his power and who knows what else just to spite him. Another harsh crack of lightning lit up the dark skies, forcing the keeper to duck back down out of reflex. He didn¡¯t have the tools or experience to fix the rod himself, so blackouts would be inevitable from then on. It was then that the thought occurred to him, if there was no power, then the lighthouse would stop working. Wide eyes scanned the horizon to see a distinct lack of the familiar light of his tower, with haste the trapdoor slid back into place once more and Thomas slid down the ladder to check the gearbox of the lighthouse. Without the guiding light the lamp provided, ships would doubtless run aground on the sharp reefs and cragged rocks that lay just below the surface of the murky water.


    The metal plating that protected the inner mechanism popped out of place without issue, revealing that the gears had fallen out of alignment. The electronics were in even worse shape, the electric motors streamed out thin streams of smoke while the wiring melted and fused together. There was no doubt it wasn¡¯t operational, the best Thomas could do was switch the light back to the antique circuit and pray that the light still worked. Thomas let out a string of curses that would make a sailor blush in shame, infuriated at the poor display of a lazy electrician having rigged new technology to an archaic and delicate machine with no real effort. Just how difficult was it to use electrical tape to cover up wire nuts? The sight of the shoddy job brought Thomas second-hand shame. It took close to half an hour to remove the mess of wires and motors, like stripping a cast from of a long unused limb the more modern technology gave way to the antique system beneath. Several of the cast iron parts had rusted and jammed from years of neglect and were in need of immediate replacement, which meant another visit to the tool closet. Oh how he hated the tool closet, the thought of dark cramped corridors brought back flashes of the nightmare he had the other night..


    Thomas came close to meeting his end by falling down the stairs from his long strides taking him down three steps at a time on his way to gather the needed supplies. Thomas tried the light switch out of muscle memory to no avail, to which he swore and grabbed hold of a nearby flashlight, in need of more directed light. Near the back of the room sat a large gray toolbox, covered top to bottom with rust. Thomas pried the lid open to reveal the ancient contents within, old spare parts his grandfather had kept around during his time as the keeper. His grandfather had always been a hoarder, holding on to every tool and spare part he could get his hands on in case he ever needed it. Careful to avoid any jagged rusted edges Thomas extracted the contents of the box, which included a detailed repair manual for the lighthouse mechanism. Thomas placed each part he could think of needing in a nearby leather bag, one of many stacked up next to the box, another object of his grandfather¡¯s obsession. With a huff Thomas heaved the bag over his shoulder and made his way back upstairs, this attempt took much more time as the heavy bag weighed him down every step of the way.


    By the time Thomas made it back to the top floor the storm had worsened, each gust of wind made the handrails of the outer catwalk whine and bend from the force. The glass panes that protected him from the storm were so saturated with water they looked like miniature waterfalls. He had to get the light fixed and fast, no excuses or delays. The sight of old gears and antique cogs gave Thomas a deep sense of nostalgia to the days where people would come from miles to poke about the property and learn about the way vintage lighthouses worked.


    The Stern¡¯s peak lighthouse had once been a tourist attraction for the nearby town of Glynnwood, which featured a clockwork mechanism to turn the lenses. Cast iron gear wheels strung with a durable cable connected to a two hundred and seventy-five-pound weight that sat at the bottom of the lighthouse, kept inside a metal shaft that the house wrapped around. Because of its simple and durable design, it seemed to have survived the fire, someone had covered the original mechanism during the electrification of the lighthouse which meant there was still a chance it worked. The metal bolts that held the parts in place were a pain to remove, the nuts holding them in place had seized up. With a groan and creaking the rusted gears popped out of place and fell to the side with a thunderous clang. New cast iron gears slid into place without issue, followed by a healthy dosage of oil to lubricate the system. With each bolt pushed into place Thomas felt a pang of satisfaction, like a kid assembling a new toy he worked away at restoring his grandfather¡¯s pride and joy back to its proper state. Thomas held his lamp close to the now reassembled gearbox, other than cobwebs and it looked to be in working order. With a scowl Thomas shoved the mess of unusable electronics into his leather bag, what tools he had wouldn¡¯t be enough to replace the entire electric setup, not that he would ever want to either. He would have to resort to doing things the old-fashioned way. With all the equipment and broken parts packed away, the metal sheet swung back into place with a resounding clang, held in place by a sturdy padlock.If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    Before renovators installed the electronics, Samuel Stern would spend a few minutes every two hours winding a large crank that drew the weight up from the bottom of the lighthouse. That descending weight would power the gearbox, rotating a glass lens around an oil lamp to project a beam of light through the perpetual darkness of the storm. The same old technology served the lighthouse for generations,  left alone to preserve the history of the building. Thomas¡¯ shoulders clicked with each rotation of the giant brass crank, the cogs, and gears inside clattering from motion as the massive iron weight ascended the shaft below. When the weight reached the top of the shaft, a click resounded through the room as a latch slid into place, holding the cables in place so the lamp could be lit before the weight fell again. With a burst of flame, the oil lantern beneath the lens roared to life, which cast a light that sliced through the gloom outside with ease. With a contented sigh Thomas pulled down a metal lever, and with a click and shudder, the weight descended the shaft below, pulling the gears into place and rotating the lens around the base of the lamp and restored the sight of the tower to any vessels that dared to travel the storm. A warm comforting light filled the room which Thomas took time to bask in, this was his favorite place in the lighthouse just from the light alone. If he could move his office to the lamp room, he would do so in a heartbeat.


    With his task complete, feeling refreshed and satisfied at a job well done, Thomas exited the room via the ladder and set about putting his tools away. When he moved to toss the now useless electronics into his waste bin however, he snuck a glance inside; the book was still there as it had been earlier. With great care, he covered every last bit of the book with the electronics to hide it, out of sight, out of mind. The man dusted off his hands and wandered to his desk, from one drawer came an old satellite phone, one given to him in case of dire circumstances. Though he preferred it over the radio, the phone lacked access to the secure line that all of his reports went through. Thin fingers mashed at the buttons to input the number for emergency services, anyone that would pick up would do. But much to his dismay, the phone didn¡¯t have a charge left, which only made sense, he hadn¡¯t used the phone in years. If he wanted to call the mainland with the phone, his sole option was to use the generator in his weather station to charge it, and while he was there, he could try to restore power to his home.


    Plan in mind, Thomas turned to his front door and removed the barricade, only to freeze in place when the door swung open. An endless deluge of rain poured down the awning that protected his porch, it fell from the sky in frigid sheets that could buckle knees and bruise skin. This was the worst night the keeper of the lighthouse had seen in years, it was as if the sky were getting ready to collapse on his head under the weight of the water. Something stood out to him though, a noise he would not expect to hear on his porch, the sound of rainwater hitting metal. Leaning close to the ground he waved his lamp across the wooden floor, revealing a gruesome sight, the remains of a satellite dish lay scattered all across the porch. It looked as something had taken a bite out with jagged teeth, Thomas¡¯ stomach churned that the thought of what a bite like that could do to an arm, or a leg. A thought occurred to him, there was but one dish like that on the island, that is when his heart fell through the bottom of his stomach.


    It was his satellite dish, the one he used to call in emergencies to the mainland station, the sole way of communication with the outside world. Choking on his own spit from the shock he recoiled, looking around for any clues why such a thing would have happened. It was then that something caught his eye in the dark as the beam from the tower swept over the shoreline of the island, two gleaming yellow dots staring at him. His heart locked up at the sight of two piercing eyes staring through his soul from the dark, scrambling to shut the door he glimpsed something flying right towards him through the darkness. A lump of reflective metal crashed onto his front porch, skidding to a stop at his feet. After a terse second of being frozen in fear he dared to look down at the object at his feet, the sight made his blood run cold. The crushed remains of a boat motor lay flattened on his porch, a rather familiar one. The sole way off the island had been a small boat used for emergency supply runs, whose engine now lay warped beyond recognition. By the time he had the courage to look back up, darkness had once again consumed the island and obscured the dots. The intruder could be anywhere from across the island to right at his doorstep for all he knew, a chill running up his spine told him it was the latter.


    With movements that came close to dislocating his shoulder, Thomas slammed the door shut and barred it in place, bracing his back against the door while gulping down air. With eyes shut tight, he sank to the floor and leaned on the wood behind him for support. It wasn¡¯t real, it could not be real, he refused to accept that any of this was happening. Perhaps he was still asleep in bed, and he would wake up in the morning with everything right back where it should be. Thomas brushed his fingers against his arm and pinched hard, twisting the skin under his fingernails, and hissed from the pain. The feeling was all too real for any of this to be a dream, his eyes drifted open to face the grim reality of his situation. Trapped on an island, miles of the coast with no way to call for help or escape. He weighed his options, either he could dig in his heels and wait for the supply ferry to come, which was already weeks behind schedule, or he could risk restarting the generator. Neither of those options appealed to Thomas, he had neither the food to survive another week nor a weapon that could help him feel safe leaving the house.


    Something cut his musings short though, a loud sound broke the overwhelming silence, a clattering that came from the area around his desk. Standing up on weak knees Thomas raised his lamp high above his head and crept through the room, ready to dive for cover at a moment¡¯s notice. Upon reaching the oaken desk at the other side of the room he met with a confusing sight, his dustbin lay sideways on the floor and perched on the desk sat the leather-bound book. The same book was there in the nightmare world, no matter what went wrong, the old tome was always constant as if begging for his attention. It sat there in silence, almost as if nothing were wrong. The sight annoyed Thomas, this damn book was hovering around like an annoying fly, just another abnormality in his comfortable life.


    In a fit of frustration, Thomas scooped up the book in hand and turned it over, looking for anything to tell him where it may have come from or what its purpose might be. Yet again he found no markings or anything to differentiate it from any other book one might find, he felt his face curl into a scowl as he tossed the book back into the dustbin, yet he never heard it land. In confusion he turned to inspect his dustbin to make sure the book made it inside, just to find that neither the bin nor book was there, and in their place sat a pile of books and looseleaf paper covered top to bottom in scribbles. The room then fell into darkness. Looking back to his desk, the lamp he had just set down was missing, as if it had vanished into thin air.


    Thomas could feel a bead of sweat pour down the back of his neck as a lump grew in the back of his throat, a familiar thudding sound came from the distance in his home. He screwed his eyes shut and assured himself again that none of this was real, but the thudding sound did not stop. He was hallucinating again, maybe the food in his icebox had already gone bad, maybe his gas line sprung a leak which was causing him to see and hear things that are not real. The noise drew closer, these footsteps far softer than the ones from before though, they sounded much more human. Thomas bit back his reasoning and scrambled to hide, deciding that crawling under his desk would be the best option, as that was the sole hiding place other than the piles of books and odd machines that littered the immediate area. From there he curled into a fetal position, desperate to take up as little space as possible in his hiding spot. With each passing second, the footsteps grew closer, until they reached the desk. Thomas¡¯ lunch crawled up the back of his throat, the taste of bile stinging his mouth as tears streamed down his face. This was it, it would see him and then everything would be over.


    The crinkling of paper brought him to awareness, he was still alive, and the footsteps had trailed off, wandering away from his hiding spot. Thomas counted to a hundred and then poked his head out from underneath his desk and reached into the darkness running his hand across the floor, his fingers met a cylinder wrapped in paper. Pulling it close, he felt a small switch on the rod; it was a flashlight, a strong one at that by how it lit up his hiding place. He yelped and shut it off in hopes nothing had seen, but that left him unable to see the paper in his hands. Compromising, Thomas used his shirt to dull the light and flashed his torch on the paper.


    It was a map written with a red crayon, complete with a large dot labeled ¡®You are here¡¯ next to a crude drawing of a desk. Thomas could not believe his eyes, had one monster helped him or was this just an elaborate trap? Regardless of whether the map was legitimate, he had no other option but to follow it to the exit shown on the bottom left-hand corner. With a shuddering breath, Thomas crawled out of his hiding place with newfound determination and took slow shaking steps into the darkness.