Chapter II

That first night, Thomas lit the lamp as the sun disappeared into the western sea. The mechanism was well-maintained, the clockwork that rotated the lens ticking with steady precision. He wound it carefully, adjusted the flame, and watched as the beam began its eternal rotation, sweeping out across the dark waters.

Below, in the cottage, he prepared a simple meal from the provisions left by his predecessor. Tinned meat, hard bread, tea. He ate without tasting, his mind occupied with the practical matters of his new routine. Tomorrow he would inspect the fuel reserves, check the lens for any imperfections, familiarize himself with the island's geography.

But as he lay in the narrow bed, sleep eluded him. The wind had picked up, and the cottage creaked and groaned like a ship at sea. Through the small window, he could see the lighthouse beam sweeping past, regular as a heartbeat. And between those pulses of light, the darkness seemed to press against the glass with almost physical weight.

In the morning, Thomas returned to the log book. If the ravings of the previous keeper disturbed him, he didn't show it. Instead, he began to read from the beginning, methodically working through years of entries.

The first keeper, a man named Samuel Garrett, had been thorough and professional. His entries detailed weather conditions, passing ships, maintenance tasks. The prose was dry, factual. But as Thomas read deeper, he noticed subtle changes. Small oddities that Garrett had observed and dutifully recorded.

November 12th, 1847. Heavy fog. At midnight, while tending the lamp, I heard voices on the rocks below. Called out, but received no answer. At dawn, found no footprints, no evidence of visitors. The fog plays tricks on the mind.

The second keeper, Margaret Thorne, had been more direct in her observations. Her handwriting was precise, her language unadorned.

April 3rd, 1851. The fog came again tonight. It moves with purpose, I think. Not like natural fog. It pools in certain places, avoids others. I have begun to chart its movements. There is a pattern here, though I cannot yet discern it.

There were seven keepers in total before Thomas. Each had served for varying lengths of time—some for years, others for mere months. Each had begun with professional detachment and ended with something else. Fear? Madness? Or had they simply seen something that defied rational explanation?

The most recent keeper before Thomas—the one who had abandoned his post—was named William Marsh. His early entries were unremarkable. But three months ago, the tone had shifted.

September 15th. The fog spoke to me last night. I know how that sounds. I know what it means to write such words. But I heard it clearly—my name, whispered in my dead wife's voice. I did not respond. I will not respond.

Thomas set down the log book and looked out the window. The day was clear, the sea calm. Gulls drifted on the wind. Everything was perfectly ordinary, perfectly explicable. These previous keepers had simply succumbed to isolation, their minds creating phantoms to populate their solitude. He would not make the same mistake.

He spent the rest of the day in productive activity. He catalogued the supplies, inspected the lighthouse from base to lamp room, and walked the perimeter of the island. Beacon Isle was small—perhaps a quarter mile across at its widest point. The lighthouse and cottage occupied the highest ground, while the rest was bare rock, tide pools, and the wheeling gulls.

As evening approached, Thomas climbed once more to the lamp room. The sun was setting, painting the clouds in shades of amber and rose. He lit the lamp, wound the clockwork, and settled into the keeper's chair with one of his books.

The night passed without incident.

But when he woke the next morning and checked the log, he found something that made him pause. During the night, while he slept in the cottage, someone had made an entry in the book. The handwriting was neat, precise—identical to the first keeper's script from 1847.

Welcome, Thomas Wren. We have been waiting for you.

For the first time since his arrival, Thomas felt the cold touch of genuine fear. He was alone on this island. Completely, utterly alone. There was no one who could have written those words.

No one living.

Outside, the fog was beginning to gather once again, rolling in from the sea in thick, purposeful banks. And somewhere within it, Thomas could have sworn he heard the sound of voices—faint, indistinct, but undeniably real—calling his name.