They would come for him as soon as he closed his eyes. They always did. So the answer was as simple as it was impossible: don’t close your eyes. And don’t ever sleep.

George gazed at the horizon, at the exact point where the sky fell into the arms of the sea, and he could see nothing. His hand swept over his face to try and brush away the drowsiness, the stubble grating on calloused skin like sandpaper over wood.

How long since he had slept? Briefly, and only then to awake retching, choking on phantom salt water burning his throat. That recurring dream was getting stronger. The terror of it. A life with the sea and yet never having learned to swim.

George sighed and searched around for his now only other companion on the lighthouse, the cat ‘pickle’. His colleague, and the cat’s real owner, had died in a terrible accident, having been swept off the rocks and out to sea by a rogue wave three months ago. That’s what they say anyhow, but George wasn’t so sure. Neither were the authorities. They were suspicious. It was, after all, only George’s word on what had actually happened. They never did find the body. Since then, and until they found a new ‘keeper’ to partner him, he was alone here. That was fine with George.

The cat was there, gazing back at George from the far side of the room, in the way cats sometimes do, looking right through you as if you’re not there at all.

‘Ah, so you feel it too, eh, boy?’

George turned and looked out over the sea, through huge glass windows. Oily calm and at odds with his inner torment, the waves lapped at the jagged rocks around the base of the lighthouse much like that cat at a bowl of milk. But both sea and cat could turn ferocious without warning if disturbed. Or annoyed.

The sea itself seemed to induce within him an almost trance-like state. He could feel its pull starting to take its hold. He shook himself, annoyed, then growled, ‘Where the Hell is Tom?’

Grabbing the binoculars, he found the familiar black shape of a small boat inward bound from the shore. There was Tom, standing nervously on the foredeck, ready to cast a securing line to the jetty at the base of the lighthouse. George smiled at the sight, he knew Tom was no seaman. He liked this young man who came over once a month to service the electronics. Though he would never admit it, he looked forward to his visits.

After watching him tie up, George went down the circular stairs to the base. He could hear he was already inside the ground level storm-door, no doubt with his toolkit in hand. Tom, of course, always carried his own set of keys.

‘How’re ya doing George, everything ok with you today?’ Tom called out as he did on every visit. ‘Got some fresh fruit for you, hope you like them.’

‘Aye Tom, I do enjoy those,’ George replied, ‘something to get the taste buds working again.’

‘Can’t hang around today George, I’m late enough as it is, just a quick visit, I’ll just do my checks and be off.’

He liked Tom well enough, but he always found it difficult to communicate with people, especially these days, preferring his own company. It came with the job, he told himself. So he simply stood and watched Tom opening his toolkit, rummaging around as he got his things together and headed towards the electronics at the back of the room.

‘This shouldn’t take too long George – just checking a few things and replacing this fuse, and that’s all I think…yeah, looks pretty good.’

It wasn’t long before Tom was calling out, ‘Well, I guess that’s it, George, all done’, he said, giving a long final look around the dusty room. ‘Right, well, I’ll be on my way back then. George? You take care, you hear?’

George turned to gaze once again out the window. ‘Aye, well, that’s good I guess, Tom, ’cause I don’t think this here calm sea is going to last that long– you’d best be off home – and you’d better be quick me lad…’ and saying that, he turned and climbed back up the circular stairs.

Tom didn’t reply as he finished gathered up his things, gave another last look around, and left.

Once George reached the top of the lighthouse, it was clear to him the weather was turning. The horizon already darkening with an approaching storm front. He heard Tom’s voice echo around the circular stone structure of the building as he again called up. ‘Until next time, George!’

Watching Tom negotiate his way over the black rocks towards his waiting boat, George could feel that familiar feeling of dread building again, deep within his guts.

‘Aye Tom, until next time. Scuttle back to dry land, that’s where you belong, no place for you here, not here, not today with this storm building.’

It was time to prepare for the coming storm. Without delay, he began throwing all the heavy storm door latches into their locked positions. Once that was done, the barometer again checked. Yes, the pressure was dropping fast, faster than normal. A shiver went through him, just as the cat appeared at his feet.

‘Pickle, it look’s like we’re in for a proper show tonight, worthy of your name, you’d better not venture too far, best stay close.’

Instead, the cat backed away.

‘What’s up, lad?’

With a snarl and hair raised, it spun away, diving into the dark depths beneath a tattered sofa.

Only then did George hear what the cat had already heard.

A high-pitched wail came floating over the sea, like a lament for the dead. His skin crawled as he recognised the sound, but the familiarity failed to bring any comfort. Again and again it came, a desolate cry that was not just a song, but a warning.

The whale must be close, George realised. But there was not a sign of it amongst the building steel-grey waves. A bad sign, signalling the worst of storms. He began double bolting the windows shut with a renewed sense of urgency. The coming fury would find any weak spot in his, as well as the lighthouse’s, defences.

The storm grew inexorably, searching and finding the smallest cracks in windows and doors, screaming its presence as the light of the day seeped deeper into darkness. The ferocity of the gale sending storm spray crashing over the height of the lighthouse, the water pattering like the fingers of the dead against its windows.

All the while, the rotating beam of the lighthouse gave up deadly glimpses of the primordial fury surrounding the isolated rock that was George’s home, as its warning finger of light stretched far out to sea.

Then George heard something that cut through the sound of the storm. A sound that had him gripping the surrounding iron rail in real fear. From far below, from the very base of the lighthouse, it echoed hollowly up the staircase. Every hair on his arms rose as one. The sound was unlike anything the storm could create, and it was coming from the outside door.

‘Damn flotsam thrown up by the storm, that’s all it is, nothing more …’ George snarled under his breath.

He began his way down the stairs and the sound, a heavy banging, abruptly stopped. In the sudden silence, George paused and waited, watching as a lightbulb suspended from the ceiling swung gently, caught by the storms tendrils blowing through the tiniest of cracks. The light casting dark, moving shadows, the room appearing to move as if a ship at sea. George steadied himself against the phantom swaying, staring at the suddenly silent storm door. Had he imagined it?

Then, it came again. A sound with an awful intensity that shook his soul. George staggered back in shock.

Tremendous hammer blows were raining down, the wood splitting, cracking under the relentless attack. Dust blown off the door began filling the room, filling it in a shifting fog of light and shadow. The iron hinges were shaking, loosening.

George shouted at the door and to himself, ‘Nobody’s out there, not in this storm, you’re just bloody flotsam, nothing more!’

The door was about to give way and, in desperation, he hurled himself against it. The sounds ceased. There was silence. Nothing but the sigh of the gale and his own ragged breath. He took hold of himself. He knew what he had to do. The door had to be opened, he had to clear the flotsam crashing outside against it, that’s all it was, and to clear his mind. But his hands shook as he unbolted the securing locks, one by one.

As the last bolt was freed, the wind caught the door and it swung open, knocking him to the floor with a blast of sea-spray. George climbed to his feet, gripping the door frame for support and stared out into the darkness. Of course there was nothing there. Just the wind, the sea, and himself, gasping for breath.

The great searchlight came swinging around, reaching out its finger of brilliance and there – frozen as if caught in the flash of a camera – were strange shapes revealing themselves within the swirling spray before vanishing again into the night.

The image that remaining on his half-blinded retina burnt into his mind. Grotesque remnants of men, of women and smaller shapes that could only be children. Their moving corpses made translucent from long immersion in the cold depths of the sea. Bodies torn and broken, having been feasted upon by the denizens that lived there, the crabs, the eels. Silent, broken spirits, bodies streaked with the blood of the sea, their flesh hanging and ragged.

George was transfixed. It couldn’t be real. He was going mad. The great light continued on its arc, coming around, closer, closer …

What he saw made George scream.

The creatures had almost reached him. Staggering forward, eye sockets alive with crawling things, imploring. Each time the light swept around, they had moved that much closer to him. They called to him, as if the very gale itself was forming their ethereal words.

‘Help us! Help us, please help us, you must help us …’ it said, over and over again.

George frantically turned back inside, grabbed the door and began to push it shut with all his might. But a creature, once a man, its arm torn and broken, its rotting flesh hanging from exposed bones, pressed around the door and into the room, reaching for him.

George forced the door closed and heard the limb break and the severed arm slopped wetly to the stone floor. Gasping for breath, he slid the storm-bolt home and fell back against the heavy door, secure now against these monsters from the dead.

The limb by his feet faded and vanished. George gulped air into his lungs as he backed away from the door. The banging had started again, the door rattling and shaking as the dead demanded entry. Then it stopped.

George half ran, half fell, back up the stairs, locking another door behind him. Grabbing a bottle of whisky, he took a long swig directly from the bottle. He remembered he’d had a few drinks earlier, More than a few. Yes, that was it. He wasn’t mad, he was drunk. It was the drink’s work! It can only be that.

The whisky burned its way down his gullet. It was another three gulps before the warming effect flooded him and the shaking stopped. He wasn’t going mad, he was sure of it now. That could be the only explanation. Too long in the job. The solitude was finally getting to him. Yes, that was it. Tomorrow, he promised himself, he would retire; he was ready to go, he didn’t want to go mad. Not like the others. Not him, not him.

As he tried to convince himself, the radio crackled into life.

‘Mayday, Mayday, this is the ‘Fairwind’ we’ve lost power and are being blown towards Rockall Lighthouse, Mayday, Mayday!’

Grabbing his binoculars, George raced to the window and scanned the night. He could see the lights of the distressed freighter to the North. It was battling the heavy swell, its bow alternately pointing to the heavens before plunging down to face the next monstrous wave.

‘My God, they’re too close…”

George grabbed the radio. ‘Fairwind, Fairwind, this is Rockall Lighthouse, you are dangerously close to the rocks!’

“Rockall Lighthouse, Rockall Lighthouse,’ a panicked voice answered, ‘this is the ‘Fairwind’ we’re drifting, engines flooded, we need immediate assistance!’

‘Roger that, ‘Fairwind’, I’ll alert the coastguard, steer to port if you can, that’s the safest side! Good luck!’

But he knew the ship was at the storm’s mercy and the ‘Fairwind’ was going to lose its fight. Nevertheless, he willed the ship to survive.

‘Come on, get clear, damn you, move!’

The bow of the freighter began climbing yet another monstrous wave. Higher it went, almost vertical. Once at the crest, it paused for a long sickening second before starting the slide back down.

Down and deep the ship plunged, back into the trough of the wave. Half submerged, it staggered, slowed and stopped, as if snared by something hidden in dark waters. The great ship’s mast slowly tilted back and fell. Then the great ship began to list, its hull fatally impaled upon on the rocks of the very lighthouse built to protect her.

George could only watch as puny men battled for their lives against the might of the sea, struggling to release swaying lifeboats before the ship capsized. One lifeboat fell, spilling its men into the dark waters and a certain death. Another boat splintered and broke apart against the ships metal side. People fell from its ruins, dolls tossed like discarded toys into the sea and swept away.

One lifeboat managed against all the odds to make down it intact with a mere handful of men. As they escaped, the dying ship rolled onto its side falling upon and consuming the last of its doomed prey. Never satisfied, the sea then turned its hunger upon those few remaining survivors as they were driven towards the waiting teeth of the rocks.

Watching them struggle for their lives, George gripped the iron railings in fury. Were those visions of his these poor drowning sailors? Had it all been a premonition? George swallowed. He knew what he had to do. Climbed into his survival gear he hurried to open the storm door at the foot of his lighthouse. Leaning into the wind, he strode out into the night carrying a coiled safety rope in his hand. This time there were no demons awaiting him, only nature’s fury.

Down the treacherous steps he went, clinging with one hand to a single chain that was his only lifeline. Lashing one end of his safety rope around the last railing and the other around his waist, he readied the lifebelt, searching the waters for any sign of survivors.

Green phosphorescence swirled around him as waves snapped at his feet. Then he saw them. Suspended at the top of another huge wave, no more than thirty meters away from him.

‘OVER HERE! OVER HERE!’ George screamed, but his words were lost, snatched away by the wind.

Yet somehow they saw him, standing strong against the storm, ready to help, eyes glinting in panic within the darkness. George saw a glimmer of hope flash in their faces before the small boat started its final slide down the racing cliff of water. The boat somersaulting onto its back, throwing all inside into the churning white foam.

Now waist deep in surf, the back-drag of the water sucked at George’s legs as he fought to reach them.


Around his waist the rope snapped suddenly taught as he reached the end of its length. At that very moment, beneath his feet, incredibly, George touched an outcrop of rock and managed to stand firm, catching his breath.

One wave reached out, snatched a man and threw him towards George. He grabbed and held him fast, but his footing was lost. Together they were dragged below the surf and into the sharp rocks. With little strength left in either man, they broke surface together gasping for air.

‘HANG ON TO THIS!’ George screamed, pushing the lifebelt into the man’s hands.

The lifeline pulled up hard against him, holding him safe. He kicked and thrashed with all his strength against the swell, trying to get back to the railings and safety. If he could save just this one man, it would all be worthwhile.

He almost took hold of the railings. Almost. The briefest touch of safety. Then the line lost its tautness, became slack and useless and his grip slipped away.

The water roared in his ears; the sea was seizing its prey.

The rope, his lifeline, their saviour, had now became a snake. An ally of the sea, it began dragging them down into the depths.

George could feels his lungs bursting, that old nightmare dream of drowning was upon him! Desperately holding his breath in hope of surfacing, his time was running out. Then his body forced him to breathe and the sea greeted his lungs. He began vomiting. Convulsing. His last breath to draw in the sea, his nightmare finally come true. To die the death he feared the most.

*

Tom hugged Susan tightly in the bright sunshine as they stood at the front of the boat bobbing its way towards the lighthouse. She wriggled within his arms.

‘This is so exciting!’

She shouted into the wind, her eyes bright as she looked towards the massive structure perched upon the rocky outcrop. ‘It’s really cool, so great coming with you Tom. I’ve wanted to visit this place for ages!’

‘Yeah, the first time is always dramatic, but you should see it when the weather’s bad. Sometimes it can be days before we can get close enough to land a boat.’

He moved in front of her. ‘Now, just stand back a bit as I tie us up at the jetty, ok?’

Inside the lighthouse, George awoke, retching again at the dream of saltwater in his mouth.

As soon as the convulsions stopped, he opened his eyes, that old recurring dream of drowning receding along with the salty taste on his tongue. He shook his head as he walked over to the window. Down below he could see a boat being tied up. Tom had a stranger with him this time, a young woman. He made his way down the stairs to greet them.

Outside, Tom was pushing the heavy storm-door open. Once inside, he called out as he always did:

‘How’re ya doing George, everything ok with you today?’

Tom turned and grinned at Susan, who was standing looking a little surprised.

‘Why did you say that?’ She asked. ‘You said this was an unmanned automatic lighthouse? Is there somebody here?’

Tom’s smile faded. ‘Yes, it’s unmanned Susan. And no, there isn’t anyone here. It’s just a superstition of mine.’

‘What superstition?’

‘Well, a long time ago, a friend of mine used to live and operate this place – he was the lighthouse keeper before it was made fully automatic. His name was George. But before they could retire him, he was killed during a storm. They never found his body.’

Tom looked out to sea, then back at Susan.

‘They think he died trying to save the sailors from the freighter ‘Fairwind’ which foundered just over there,’ Tom pointed pointed to the rocks offshore. ‘No one survived. I like to think George died trying to save some of them.’

Susan’s face became serious.

‘Are you trying to scare me with a ghost story?’

‘Maybe,’ Tom smiled. ‘But no, it’s true. A lot of lives were lost that night. Now when I visit, I just go through this little routine. I even leave him some fruit, just in memory of him… you understand, don’t you?’

Susan hugged herself and shivered.

‘I don’t know if it’s because of what you just told me, but I feel really cold. I think I’ll wait for you by the boat, I don’t want to go inside, if that’s alright with you?’

‘No problem, you won’t find any ghosts around here though,” he said, wishing he hadn’t brought the subject up at all now.

“I won’t be long, you just stay away from those rocks as they’re very slippery, be careful, ok? Tom turned back to the room once Susan was out of earshot.

‘Just for you, George,’ he said softly. ‘I have to be quick this time, gotta get back, can’t keep a lady waiting, I’ll see you next time.’

Tom felt, if not heard, George answer. ‘Aye, Tom, until next time then, you go scuttle back to dry land, that’s where you belong. No place for you here… no place at all.’