Read The Keeper's Wake free: the opening chapter

The Beacon's Call

The ferry churned the gray water, leaving a frothy white scar against the darker swells. Each rise and fall felt less like movement and more like a sigh, a weary yielding to the ocean’s breath. Blackwood Isle grew larger, less a promise of refuge and more a solid, looming presence. It wasn't the postcard Maine coast. No quaint shops or brightly colored buoys. Just rock, scrub pine clinging to the meager soil, and the stark white cylinder of the lighthouse, stabbing at the low, bruised sky.

I hadn’t known grief could be so… physical. A weight in my chest that mimicked the rocking of the boat, a constant ache that had settled into my bones. Even the salt spray felt heavy on my skin. Everything felt heavy. Everything reminded me of Clara. Her laughter, the way she tilted her head when she was sketching, the scent of lavender she always wore.

I gripped the railing, my knuckles white. It had been six months since the accident. Six months of hollow days and sleepless nights. Everyone said time healed all wounds. They were wrong. Time just smoothed the edges, making the loss less raw, but never truly gone.

I’d applied for the keeper’s position on a whim, a desperate attempt to escape the suffocating memories of our apartment, of her empty studio. My writing had stalled, the words refusing to come, choked by a sadness I couldn’t articulate. The isolation of Blackwood Isle, the sheer remoteness, felt… appealing. A place to be alone with my thoughts, maybe even find a way to breathe again.

---

A small, weathered fishing boat bobbed alongside the ferry as we neared the dock. An old man, his face a roadmap of wrinkles, stood at the helm, his gaze fixed on me. He didn’t smile, didn’t offer a wave. Just a steady, assessing look.

“You must be Miss Ainsworth,” he said, his voice raspy from years of salt and wind. He cut the engine, and the boat drifted alongside the small, concrete dock.

“Elle, please,” I said, trying for a lightness I didn't feel.

He ignored the correction. “Hemlock’s the name. I bring supplies, check on things. Been comin’ to this island longer than you’ve been alive, I reckon.”

He helped me with my bags, a surprisingly strong grip for a man his age. They weren't many, a duffel of clothes, a box of books, my laptop. I’d intentionally kept it minimal. Didn’t want to feel tethered to anything from my old life.

“The lighthouse is a good walk,” Hemlock said, as we stepped onto the rough stone of the dock. “About a mile. Not much of a path, mostly just followin’ the shore.” He pointed with a gnarled finger. “Can’t miss it.”

The walk was exactly as he described. Rocky, uneven, and relentlessly gray. The air was thick with the smell of brine and something else… something older, earthier. The lighthouse loomed closer with each step, growing in size and presence. It wasn't beautiful, not in the traditional sense. It was imposing, almost severe. Built of dark granite, it seemed to grow out of the rock itself, a silent guardian of the unforgiving coastline.

“It’s… bigger than I imagined,” I said, my voice sounding small against the crashing waves.

Hemlock grunted. “It is that. Seen a lot of keepers come and go over the years. Most don’t last a season.”

“Oh?”

“Island gets to ‘em. The loneliness. The… things people say happen here.” He didn’t elaborate. Just kept walking, his pace steady and unhurried.

“What kind of things?” I asked, unable to resist the pull of his cryptic words.

He glanced at me, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. “Old stories. Sailors’ tales. Best not to pay them no mind.”

---

The lighthouse itself was a study in contrasts. The exterior was weathered and worn, stained by years of sea spray and wind. But the inside, despite its age, was surprisingly well-maintained. The previous keeper, a man named Davies, had left it clean and orderly.

The circular staircase wound its way up through the tower, a dizzying spiral of iron and stone. Each step echoed in the cavernous space. The air grew colder as we ascended.

“Davies was a quiet sort,” Hemlock said, his voice muffled by the stone walls. “Kept to himself. Didn’t much care for company.”

“He left abruptly, didn’t he?” I’d read the brief report on the island’s website. Davies had abandoned his post without explanation, leaving behind all his belongings.

Hemlock nodded. “Did. Just vanished one morning. Boat was still here, but he was gone. Some say he saw something he shouldn’t have.”

We reached the living quarters, a small but functional space. A simple kitchen, a cot, a wooden table, and a few bookshelves filled with nautical charts and well-worn novels. A single window offered a panoramic view of the turbulent sea.

“It’s…basic,” I said, trying to sound positive.

“It’s practical,” Hemlock corrected. “Got everything you need. Oil, food, water. Radio’s for emergencies only. Signal’s weak. Don’t rely on it.”

He set my bags down with a thud. “I’ll leave you to settle in. I’ll be back in a month with more supplies.”

“Thank you,” I said. “For everything.”

He just nodded, turned, and started back down the stairs.

“Hemlock?” I called out.

He paused, halfway down.

“Do you… do you believe in ghosts?”

He didn’t answer immediately. He stood there for a long moment, silhouetted against the dim light, before finally speaking.

“I believe in what I’ve seen,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. And then he was gone, swallowed by the darkness of the staircase.

---

I was alone.

The silence descended quickly, pressing in on me from all sides. It wasn’t a peaceful silence. It was a heavy, expectant silence, filled with the murmur of the wind and the relentless roar of the waves.

I walked to the window and looked out at the sea. The gray sky seemed to blend seamlessly with the gray water, creating an endless, monotonous expanse. There was nothing out there. Just the vast, unforgiving ocean.

I forced myself to unpack, trying to establish some semblance of normalcy. It felt pointless. This place… it didn’t want normalcy. It felt ancient, steeped in a history I couldn’t comprehend.

I found a small, leather-bound journal tucked away in one of the bookshelves. It was old, the pages brittle and yellowed. The title, embossed in faded gold lettering, read: Arthur Ainsworth, Keeper’s Log.

My heart quickened. Ainsworth. That was my family name. My great-grandfather had been a lighthouse keeper here, on Blackwood Isle. I hadn’t known. My mother had never spoken about him.

I opened the journal, the paper crackling beneath my fingers. The handwriting was precise, meticulous, almost obsessive. The first entry was dated November 1898.

“The light must be maintained. It is a sacred duty. The sea is a cruel mistress, and this beacon is the only thing standing between salvation and oblivion.”

I continued reading, drawn in by the stark simplicity of his prose. He wrote about the weather, the ships he saw, the endless, monotonous routine of keeping the light burning. But as I turned the pages, a subtle shift occurred. The entries became shorter, more fragmented. He began to write about…dreams. Nightmares. Strange occurrences.

“The fog is thicker tonight. It seems to press against the glass, to watch me. I saw a figure in the mist, a woman with long, dark hair. But when I blinked, she was gone.”

“The lamp flickers. It shouldn't. I've checked everything. It feels like…a presence. Something watching me from the shadows.”

A chill ran down my spine. This wasn't just a keeper’s log. It was a record of a man slowly unraveling.

I glanced at the window again. The fog was rolling in, thick and impenetrable. It swirled around the lighthouse, obscuring the sea, blurring the line between reality and illusion.

And for a fleeting moment, I thought I saw a figure in the mist. A woman with long, dark hair. But when I blinked, she was gone.

But when I blinked, she was gone.

I slammed the journal shut, my breath catching in my throat. It was the fog, I told myself. A trick of the light. Exhaustion. Grief, still raw and aching after six months, playing on my mind. I was letting this place, this island, this history, get to me before I’d even settled in.

I needed to be logical. Practical. I’d come to Blackwood Isle seeking solitude, a place to process my loss, to finish the novel I’d abandoned months ago. My publisher had been understanding, granting me an extended leave of absence. But I needed to write. I needed to prove to myself that I hadn't lost the ability to create, to escape into other worlds.

This lighthouse, offered to me by a distant relative I’d never met, old Man Hemlock, the island’s sole other inhabitant, was supposed to be the answer. A remote, isolated haven where I could finally piece myself back together.

But it felt…wrong. Oppressive. Like stepping into a forgotten world, a world that didn’t welcome outsiders.

I forced myself to breathe deeply, to focus on the mundane. I made a cup of tea, the chipped porcelain mug warming my hands. The kitchen was sparsely furnished, functional but cold. Everything felt…preserved. As if someone had simply walked away, expecting to return any moment.

The lighthouse itself was a towering monolith of gray stone, its cylindrical form rising defiantly from the rocky outcrop. It was older than I’d imagined, weathered and worn by centuries of storms. The lantern room, visible through the narrow windows, was a beacon of hope, even in the encroaching darkness. But it also felt like an eye, watching, judging.

I finished my tea and decided to explore. I had to familiarize myself with the layout, to claim the space as my own.

The ground floor was a circular chamber, dominated by the massive stone walls. A narrow staircase spiraled upwards, disappearing into the gloom. Hemlock had shown me the basics, the generator room, the storage areas, the entrance to the service tunnel that led to the small dock. But he’d been strangely reticent, offering minimal explanation, his eyes constantly darting around as if afraid of being overheard.

I started to climb the stairs, my hand trailing along the cold, damp stone. Each step echoed in the confined space, amplifying the silence. The air grew colder, heavier with each ascending spiral.

The second level was a small living area, furnished with a worn armchair, a battered table, and a bookshelf filled with nautical charts and faded novels. A small, circular window offered a panoramic view of the churning sea. I could see the waves crashing against the rocks, sending plumes of spray high into the air. The wind howled like a mournful spirit.

I continued upwards, passing the third and fourth levels, each identical to the last. The monotony was unsettling, as if I were trapped in an endless loop. On the fifth level, I found a small room that Hemlock had mentioned, the keeper’s study. It was filled with books, papers, and nautical instruments. A large, mahogany desk stood in the center of the room, covered in a layer of dust.

I ran my finger across the surface, disturbing the stillness. Underneath the dust, I found a photograph. It was a black and white image, faded with age. It showed a man standing in front of the lighthouse, his face stern and resolute. He wore the uniform of a lighthouse keeper, and his eyes…his eyes were hauntingly familiar.

It was my great-grandfather, Arthur Ainsworth.

I turned the photograph over. On the back, in delicate handwriting, was a single word: Beware.

A wave of nausea washed over me. This wasn’t just a family history. It was a warning.

I quickly replaced the photograph, my hands trembling. I needed to understand what was happening. I needed to know what my great-grandfather had been warning about.

I returned to the journal, flipping through the pages with renewed urgency. The later entries were even more disturbing. Ainsworth wrote of strange sounds, of shadows moving in the periphery of his vision, of a growing sense of dread.

“The light feels…tainted. As if something is trying to extinguish it from within. I fear for my sanity. I fear for my soul.”

“She comes to me in my dreams. A woman with long, dark hair, her face obscured by shadow. She whispers my name, promising oblivion. I wake up screaming, drenched in sweat.”

“I saw her again, standing on the rocks below the lighthouse. She was beckoning to me, her arms outstretched. I almost…I almost went to her.”

The final entry was dated October 31st, 1901. It was barely legible, scrawled in a frantic hand.

“They’re here. They’ve come for the light. God help me.”

The journal ended abruptly, leaving me with a chilling sense of unease. What did he mean by “they”? And what had happened to him?

I looked out the window again. The fog had thickened, enveloping the lighthouse in an eerie, spectral glow. The sea was hidden from view, swallowed by the swirling mist.

I felt a presence behind me.

I whirled around, my heart pounding in my chest. But the room was empty.

“Just the wind,” I whispered, trying to reassure myself. “Just the old house settling.”

But I didn’t believe it. I could feel it, a cold, watchful presence, lurking just beyond the periphery of my vision.

I decided to go down to the kitchen, to make another cup of tea. I needed something to calm my nerves.

As I descended the stairs, I heard a noise. A faint scraping sound, coming from the level below.

I stopped, listening intently. The sound came again, louder this time. It sounded like…someone dragging something across the floor.

I held my breath, straining to hear. The sound stopped.

“Hemlock?” I called out, my voice trembling slightly.

There was no response.

I continued down the stairs, my hand gripping the railing tightly. As I reached the ground floor, I saw it.

A small, wooden rocking horse, sitting in the center of the chamber. It was old and battered, its paint chipped and faded. But it wasn’t the horse itself that sent a shiver down my spine. It was the fact that it was rocking.

Slowly, rhythmically, back and forth.

But there was no wind. No draft. No explanation.

I stared at the rocking horse, frozen in place. It felt like a scene from a nightmare, a macabre puppet show orchestrated by some unseen force.

Then, I noticed something else.

A small, tarnished silver locket, lying on the floor beside the horse. I picked it up, my fingers brushing against the cold metal.

I opened the locket. Inside, was a miniature portrait of a woman. A woman with long, dark hair.

The same woman I’d seen in the mist. The same woman Ainsworth had written about in his journal.

My blood ran cold. This wasn't just a lighthouse. It was a tomb. A repository of secrets. And I was trapped inside, with whatever haunted it.

The light above flickered, threatening to extinguish itself. The silence descended once more, heavier and more oppressive than before.

I was utterly, terrifyingly alone. And I knew, with a certainty that chilled me to the bone, that I wasn’t the only one on Blackwood Isle.

The sample ends here.