The Lighthouse Keeper's Wake

The Turning of the Lens: Arrival | First Night

The salt spray stung his face. Ethan Bellweather didn’t bother wiping it away. Let it remind him he was, for the moment, truly away. Away from the quiet rooms, the scent of lilies that clung to everything, the feeling of an empty space beside him.

The bus rattled to a stop in Havenwood, Maine, a small, graying port town. The map barely showed it. He’d chosen it for that reason. The driver, a woman with weathered features, pointed a thumb north. “Blackwood Isle. That’s as far as I go.”

He nodded, hefted his duffel bag and a wooden box, its contents precious and fragile, and stepped onto the rain-slicked asphalt. The air was thick and damp, smelling of brine and old seaweed. Havenwood held maybe a dozen buildings, most leaning as if tired. A store, a closed bait shop, and a pub called “The Mariner’s Rest” with boarded-up windows. It felt…empty, even for a fishing town in October.

He started walking. The path quickly became narrow and overgrown, winding along the coast. Jagged rocks rose from the rough water. The sky was a bruised purple, promising a storm. He’d expected this bleakness. He’d needed it.

The path opened onto a small, private dock. A single fishing boat bobbed at the end, tied with thick ropes. And standing there, against the gray sky, was a man. Old Man Hemlock, the harbor master in Havenwood had grumbled, introducing him with a warning. "Keeps to himself. Knows the island better than anyone. Don’t go poking around."

Hemlock was all gray. Gray beard, gray eyes, gray oilskins. He didn't greet Ethan, just stared, making Ethan tighten his grip on the wooden box.

“You the new keeper?” Hemlock’s voice was rough, like scraping stone.

“Ethan Bellweather,” he replied, keeping his voice steady. “I am.”

“Thought so. Lighthouse hasn’t had a keeper in a long while.” Hemlock pointed toward a dark shape in the distance. “Blackwood Isle. Fifteen minutes, if the sea allows.”

The “ride” was a small, open boat that rocked with every wave. Ethan held onto the side, trying not to show how the water made him feel. He hadn’t been on the water in years. His wife, Sarah, had loved it. He couldn’t help thinking about that.

Hemlock steered, his gaze fixed on the island. He didn’t speak, and Ethan didn’t ask him to. The only sounds were the cries of gulls and the waves crashing on the rocks.

As they got closer, the island grew larger, dark and forbidding against the stormy sky. It wasn’t a pretty island. It was wild, untamed. A high, rocky hill dominated the land, topped by the white lighthouse tower.

“Used to be a village there,” Hemlock said, nodding toward crumbling stone foundations through the trees. “Small fishing community. All gone now.”

“Gone?”

“The sea takes what it wants,” Hemlock said, his voice flat. “And Blackwood Isle…it has a history of losing things.”

Stepping onto the island felt like stepping back in time. The air was colder, smelling of pine and something old, something unsettling. The ruins of the village were overgrown, the stones crumbling. A church stood like a skeleton, its roof gone, the windows like empty eyes.

Hemlock helped unload Ethan’s things, then pointed toward a path leading to the lighthouse. “Quarters are up there. Key’s under the mat. I’ll be back in a week for supplies.”

“Thank you,” Ethan said, though he didn’t expect to need much. He was here for quiet, not comfort.

“Don’t wander around the ruins,” Hemlock warned, his gaze sharp. “Some places are best left alone.”

Without another word, he headed back to his boat, leaving Ethan alone. Truly alone.

Ethan watched him go, a shiver running down his spine. It wasn’t the cold. It was the weight of the island, the feeling of being watched. He adjusted the strap of the wooden box, ...