Read The Lighthouse Keeper's Wake free: the opening chapter

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, its smooth surface a small comfort. Inside were Sarah’s paints, brushes, and unfinished canvases. A piece of her he’d carried with him, a silent friend in his sadness.

He began the climb to the lighthouse. The path was steep and rough, winding through a forest of gnarled trees. The branches scratched at him, the wind whispered sounds he couldn’t understand.

---

The lighthouse was a Victorian structure, built of dark, weathered stone. It was imposing, beautiful, and completely isolated. The beam swept across the water, a steady pulse of light in the gloom. It felt less like a guide and more like a watchful eye.

He found the key under the doormat and let himself into the keeper's quarters. The air inside was stale and musty, smelling of damp stone and disuse. Dust motes danced in the light from the windows.

The space was small but useful. A narrow kitchen, a small living area, and a staircase leading up to the lantern room. Dust covered everything, but it wasn’t just from time. It felt…as if the place had been left quickly.

He set down his bag and the box, then walked to a window. The view was breathtaking, and frightening. Waves crashed against the rocks below, sending spray high into the air. The wind howled. Blackwood Isle was surrounded by a wild, unforgiving sea.

He ran a hand across the cold glass. He’d wanted isolation. He’d found it. But as he stood there, looking at the water, a feeling of unease settled over him. It wasn’t just the storm. It wasn’t just being alone. It was something else. Something watching.

He heard a sound. A faint, sad melody, carried on the wind. It sounded like a woman singing. He listened, trying to find where it came from. But it was gone, lost in the roar of the sea.

He told himself it was the wind. It was his imagination. He was tired. He was grieving.

But a cold dread began to grow. He wasn’t alone on Blackwood Isle. And he had a feeling that whatever else was here didn’t want him.

He forced himself to breathe, to focus on simple things. He began to unpack, carefully arranging his few possessions. A worn leather bag with books, mostly poetry, a habit Sarah had encouraged, a small radio, and a few useful items. He avoided opening the wooden box. Not yet. He wasn't ready to feel that pain.

The radio crackled to life, spitting static before settling on a weather report. A gale warning. The storm would get worse overnight. He turned it off. He’d known what to expect. He’d deliberately chosen this time of year, this remote place. He’d wanted the storm, the isolation, the force of nature to…to what? He wasn’t even sure anymore. To punish himself, maybe. To drown out the memories.

He moved to the kitchen, looking at the cupboards. Mostly empty, but a few old tins sat gathering dust. Enough for a few days. He found a kettle and set it to boil, needing the simple comfort of tea.

As he waited, he noticed something. A small, carved wooden bird on the windowsill. A puffin, its wings chipped, its painted eye staring blankly. He hadn’t put it there. He ran a finger over the smooth wood. It felt…old. Ancient, almost. And strangely familiar.

He decided it was just a relic from the previous keeper, a forgotten trinket. But the feeling of being watched grew stronger. He glanced around the room, expecting to see someone, something. But there was nothing. Only the dust motes dancing in the light, the shadows growing longer as the day faded.

He brewed his tea, the steam rising in a fragrant cloud. He carried it back to the window, seeking comfort in the view. The sea was angrier now, the waves larger, more violent. Whitecaps churned the water. He could see a small, rocky islet just offshore, barely visible through the spray. Old Man’s Tooth, the fisherman had called it. Said it was haunted.

Ethan scoffed at the memory. Superstition. Sailor’s tales. But even as he told himself that, a shiver ran down his spine. Blackwood Isle seemed to create those feelings, to make every shadow and whisper seem real.

He took a sip of his tea, the warmth doing little to ease his worry. He tried to remember Sarah, to picture her face, her smile. But the memories were broken, blurry. It had been two years since the accident, two years since he’d lost her to the icy river. He’d been driving. He’d been distracted. The guilt was a constant weight, a shadow that followed him.

He’d left everything behind after that. His job, his friends, his life. He’d needed to escape, to find a place where he could be alone with his grief. He’d hoped solitude would bring peace. He was starting to think it would bring something else.

The sad melody returned, fainter this time, but still there. It seemed to come from the islet, Old Man’s Tooth. He listened, trying to make out the words, but it was just a haunting, wordless song.

He shivered, despite the warm tea. He wasn’t a man who believed in fanciful things. He was a scientist, a rational man. He’d dedicated his life to logic and reason. But Blackwood Isle was challenging his beliefs, breaking down his defenses.

He turned from the window, needing to distract himself. He reached for the wooden box, his fingers tracing the smooth surface. He lifted the lid, and a wave of bittersweet emotion washed over him.

The paints, the brushes, the canvases. Sarah’s world. Her unfinished painting lay on top, a picture of the coastline he was now looking at, but painted in bright, hopeful colors. It was a strong contrast to the bleak reality outside.

He picked up a brush, turning it over in his hand. It felt strangely heavy, filled with her spirit. He hadn’t touched a brush since…since she’d been gone. He’d lost his own creativity along with her.

He looked out the window again, at the darkening sky, the raging sea, the ominous shape of Old Man’s Tooth. The melody had stopped. But the silence was even more unsettling.

He had a feeling the island was holding its breath, waiting. And he knew, with a chilling certainty, that he was about to find out what it was waiting for.

Blackwood’s Embrace

The lighthouse stood tall. It wasn’t just a tall building, it was the island, it seemed, in the dimming light. Grey stone, worn by storms, rose from the sharp rocks, a pointing finger against the bruised purple sky. Ethan hadn’t fully understood how large it was from the boat. Close up, it felt less like something built and more like a natural part of the land, an old creature waking from sleep.

He carried his last bags up the winding path, the stones slippery with sea spray. The air smelled of salt and something older, something…wet. Not just from the sea, but from stone untouched by sun for years.

The tower wasn’t perfect. Moss grew on the lower parts, and some window frames were cracked or missing glass. It was beautiful, in a lonely way. A beauty that spoke of hardship and strength. He touched the cold stone, feeling the rough surface. He imagined the people who built this place, the keepers who kept the light burning for years. What stories did these walls hold?

He found the main door, a heavy oak one with iron bands. It creaked open, and he stepped inside, the sound lost in the huge space. The smell was stronger here: salt, wet stone, and a faint metallic scent, like old metal. He quickly told himself it was just his imagination.

---

A small, wiry woman stood in the doorway, blocking his way. She wore a thick, oilskin coat, her face lined from a life spent fighting the weather. But her eyes were sharp and bright blue.

“You must be Mr. Bellweather,” she said, her voice rough from years of shouting against the wind. “I’m Mrs. Ainsworth. I bring the supplies.”

She pointed to a stack of crates and boxes near the bottom of the spiral staircase. “Everything you need for a month. Mostly canned food, some fresh vegetables, a little fruit. And a newspaper, if you want to know what’s happening in the world. Though out here, it hardly seems to matter, does it?”

Ethan managed a small smile. “Thank you, Mrs. Ainsworth. I appreciate it.”

“Don’t mention it. Old Man Hemlock sends his greetings. Said he’d be by later, once he’s finished fixing his nets.” She looked around the large entrance hall. “It’s a grand old lighthouse, isn’t it? It’s seen many winters.”

“It has,” Ethan agreed. “It’s…large.”

Mrs. Ainsworth’s gaze turned serious. “It is. Blackwood Isle…it’s a place you have to get used to. People say it has a feeling all its own.”

Ethan frowned. “A feeling?”

“Aye. They say the island remembers. It remembers everything. And it doesn’t like being disturbed.” She paused, studying his face. “Old Silas Blackwood, the previous keeper…he was a good man. A little strange, perhaps. Too interested in the island’s history. But a good man. He disappeared almost twenty years ago.”

Ethan knew the official story. Silas Blackwood had retired, moved to the mainland. But the official story didn’t feel right. Something was missing, some details left out.

“The authorities said he retired,” Ethan said carefully.

Mrs. Ainsworth snorted. “The authorities weren’t here. We were. We know what we saw. Or, rather, what we didn’t see. He just…vanished. Some say the sea took him. Others say the island did.”

She shivered, even with her layers of clothing. “Best not to go poking around, Mr. Bellweather. Blackwood Isle has its secrets. Let them stay hidden.”

Ethan felt a prickle of unease. He hadn’t come here looking for trouble. He’d come here to escape. But Mrs. Ainsworth’s words, her strange warnings, were stirring something within him. A need to know, and something darker, like fear.

“I understand,” he said, though he wasn’t sure he did. “I just want a quiet place to…to think.”

“Quiet you’ll have,” Mrs. Ainsworth said, a strange look in her eye. “Too quiet, maybe.” She turned to leave. “I’ll be back in a month with another delivery. Don’t expect visitors. And don’t go near Old Man’s Tooth. Bad luck, that place.”

She disappeared into the dim light, leaving Ethan alone with the lighthouse and the heavy silence.

---

The keeper’s quarters were simply furnished but clean. A narrow bed, a small wooden table, a chair, and a worn bookshelf filled with charts and old novels. There was a small, cast-iron stove and a window looking out at the rough sea. It wasn’t fancy, but it was useful. And, for now, it felt safe.

He unpacked his things, putting his paints and canvases on the table. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed the feel of the brushes. He set up a small easel, facing the window. The light was fading, but he could still see the waves crashing against the rocks, the white foam against the dark grey stone. He started to sketch, carefully at first, then with more confidence. He tried to capture the sea’s power, the island’s rough beauty. He lost himself in the work, letting the brushstrokes calm his troubled mind.

But even as he painted, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched. It wasn’t something he could feel, but a prickle on the back of his neck, a sense of someone being there. He glanced around the room, but there was nothing. Just the shadows growing longer.

He told himself he was tired. He’d had a long trip, and the island was getting to him. He needed to rest.

He finished the sketch, stepped back to look at it. It wasn’t good. It didn’t have the life, the color that Sarah had put into her paintings. It was flat, lifeless. He sighed, a wave of sadness washing over him. He would never paint like her.

He turned to the window again, and that’s when he saw it.

A quick movement at the edge of his vision. A glimpse of something pale, disappearing behind the rocks near Old Man’s Tooth.

He strained his eyes, but it was gone. He told himself it was just a trick of the light, a wave moving strangely. But he couldn’t shake the feeling it was something else. Something…human. Or, at least, something that had been human.

The sad melody returned, barely audible, carried on the wind. It was closer now, clearer. He could almost make out words, but they were broken, like a forgotten dream.

He felt a cold fear in his heart. He hadn’t come to Blackwood Isle to escape. He was starting to think Blackwood Isle had called to him. And he had a feeling that whatever it wanted, it wasn’t peace.

He forced himself to breathe, to calm down. He was a reasonable man, an artist. He didn’t believe in ghosts or legends. It was the isolation, the island’s atmosphere, playing tricks on his mind.

But the melody…that was real.

He decided he needed air. He grabbed his coat and went outside, needing to feel solid ground. The wind was stronger, whipping his hair and stinging his skin. The lighthouse loomed over him, a white column against the dark sky. It felt less like a beacon and more like a silent, watchful guard.

As he rounded the base of the tower, he saw a small, weathered boat coming towards the rocky shore. A woman was steering, expertly navigating the dangerous currents. She was small and wiry, her face lined from a life spent fighting the weather. She wore a heavy oilskin coat and a knitted cap.

“You must be Mr. Thorne,” she called out as she tied up the boat. Her voice was rough, like pebbles tumbling on the beach.

“That’s right,” he replied, offering a hand to help her ashore.

“Ainsworth. Mrs. Ainsworth. I bring the supplies. Old Man Hemlock said you were coming.” She didn’t bother with greetings. She started unloading boxes from the boat: canned food, flour, coffee, and newspapers.

“Thank you, Mrs. Ainsworth. I appreciate it.”

“Appreciate it when you’re not staring out to sea looking for things that aren’t there,” she said, looking at his face.

He frowned. “I’m sorry?”

“Just saying. This island…it gets to people. Especially those who come seeking solitude. It shows you what you want to see, what you need to see. And often, that isn't pleasant.”

He helped her carry the supplies up the spiral staircase, the stone cold and damp.

“Have you been coming here long?” he asked, trying to change the subject.

“Long enough,” she said vaguely. “My family’s been servicing this lighthouse for generations. Seen a lot of keepers come and go. Most don’t last a full season.”

“Why not?”

She paused, her eyes meeting his. “The sea takes its toll. And Blackwood Isle…it has a hunger. It feeds on loneliness, on regret. On the things men try to hide.”

He felt a shiver. “That’s…a grim outlook.”

“Realistic,” she corrected. She finished unloading the supplies and turned to leave. “Just remember, Mr. Thorne. The lighthouse keeps ships away from the rocks. It doesn’t keep anything else away. And don't go wandering near Old Man’s Tooth after dark. Some places are best left alone.”

Before he could ask what she meant, she was gone, sailing away. He watched her, a small speck against the grey ocean.

He went back inside, feeling uneasy. Mrs. Ainsworth’s words echoed in his mind. The lighthouse, the island, the melody…it was all starting to feel less like a retreat and more like a trap. He looked out the window again, towards Old Man’s Tooth. The rocks were hidden in mist. He could still feel the prickling on the back of his neck, the sense of being watched.

He tried to focus on his painting, but his hand trembled. The canvas stayed blank, the white surface mocking him. He was haunted by the memory of Sarah’s bright landscapes, her easy skill. He was lost in a sea of his own making, and Blackwood Isle seemed determined to pull him under. He put out the lamp, leaving himself in darkness, and listened. The sad melody returned, closer than before, and a single, chilling word seemed to drift on the wind: Remember.

The sample ends here.