The first day on Kuru Island unfolded with a quiet unease, a calm that felt more like the eye of a storm than true peace. The old lighthouse keeper, a man who seemed to carry the weight of the ocean in his hunched shoulders and weathered face, arrived shortly after I did. His eyes were sunken, as if they'd seen too much, and his voice rasped like stones grinding together. He handed me the keys to the rooms in the lighthouse with a firm grip and a list of rules scrawled on a yellowed piece of paper.
"Don't break them," he said, his gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that made me shift uncomfortably. "They're not suggestions. They're surviving."
I nodded, brushing off his ominous tone. Rules were rules, and I'd always been good at following them—mostly.
He didn't linger. After a brief tour of the lighthouse, he and the principal keeper were gone, leaving me alone with the creaking structure and the endless sound of the sea. The lighthouse itself was ancient, its wooden beams groaning with every gust of wind, its walls steeped in the scent of salt and mildew. The light at the top was massive, a towering beacon that seemed to hum faintly when I flicked it on at exactly 6 p.m., as instructed.
The wind howled outside, a constant reminder of the island's isolation. I barely noticed it, though, as I busied myself with settling in. The small kitchen was stocked with canned goods—beans, mostly—and I spent far too long trying to figure out how to make them taste like something edible. A pinch of salt, a dash of pepper, and a hopeful splash of hot sauce later, I gave up and ate them straight from the can.
It was a calm night, nothing special with the weather or any signal from ships riding the endless wave. I reported the weather and checked the light as regularly as required. The coast guard's response crackled through the radio, lifeless and mechanical: "Yeah yeah, Roger." It was as if they were already bored with me, eager to sever the connection and leave me alone in the silence.
After the midnight report, I was bored as hell. I lay down on the narrow bed, the faint creak of the mattress was the only sound in the room. Maybe I could take a nap until 3 a.m., I thought. There was nothing to do, no one to talk to. Just me, the lighthouse, and the endless, consuming darkness. But then, as the frigid air began to seep into my bones, I knew I had to act. I forced myself to wake up, to find something to refill the empty stomach and fight off the relentless cold night.
Suddenly, the radio on the counter hissed softly, a low, static-filled white noise that I tried to ignore. If I wasn't required to keep the radio on 24/7, I would shut it down immediately.
Every so often, though, I thought I heard something—whispers, faint and indistinct, like someone calling my name. I paused, the spoon halfway to my mouth, and listened. I picked up the microphone, hesitated for a while.
"Hello?" I called out, feeling foolish. My voice sounded small, insignificant against the vast, oppressive silence.
No response. Just the wind and the static. I shook it off. Probably just the wind. How can I sleep in conditions like this? I decided to stay awake until the daytime, so that I can sleep for 6 hours straight, at least.
As the evening went on, I explored the lighthouse more thoroughly. The living quarters were cramped but functional, with a narrow bed, a small desk, and a shelf filled with dusty old books. I picked one up—a journal, it seemed—but the pages were waterlogged and unreadable. I set it back down, my fingers brushing against something cold and metallic. A key, tarnished with age, lay hidden beneath the journal. I pocketed it, unsure if it was important but unwilling to leave it behind.
By nightfall, the wind had picked up, rattling the windows and making the lighthouse groan. I climbed the spiral staircase to the top, where the beacon cast its steady light across the dark ocean. The view was breathtaking, the waves crashing against the rocks below, the horizon endless and black.
But as I stood there, I felt it—a prickle on the back of my neck, like I was being watched. I turned, half-expecting to see someone there, but the room was empty. The whispering returned, faint but insistent, and this time I was sure it wasn't the wind.
"Who's there?" I called, my voice trembling slightly.
Silence.
I shook my head, trying to dispel the unease. It was just my imagination, I told myself. Just the isolation playing tricks on me. But then a deafening, jarring noise shattered the silence like a scream. My heart skipped a beat, and I cursed under my breath. "Goddamn it! Why the hell did I set the alarm so loud? Am I trying to scare myself? So stupid!!!" I descended the stairs, each creak of the wood sounding like a warning, and silenced the alarm. Stepping outside, the cold air bit at my skin as I prepared to complete the 3 a.m. report.
But then, a thought slithered into my mind, cold and insidious: What if I didn't report to the coast guard? Does he even care? Or is it just some automated response, a lifeless echo from the void? The truth was, I hadn't seen a single ship since I arrived. Was it even necessary to report every three hours? Or was I just feeding some unseen entity, some lurking presence that demanded my voice? But I didn't want to get into any trouble on the first day, so I still reported through the radio to receive the same mechanical response from the coast guard.
I returned to my room, the key in my pocket a small but persistent weight. As I lay in bed, the wind howling outside and the radio hissing softly, I couldn't shake the feeling that the lighthouse held secrets—secrets that the old keeper hadn't shared.
As the dawn came, I completed the last nighttime report. Sleep came slowly, and when it did, it was restless, filled with dreams of whispers and shadows.
Day 1 on Kuru Island was an uneventful Sunday, I supposed. But something about it felt… off. Like the calm before the storm.