Lost in my own thoughts, a chilling realization came to my mind: The coast guard hadn't reminded me. Unlike last time, the radio was dead—not just silent, but broken. I couldn't reach him. My hands trembled as I checked both the marine radio and the long-distance radio telephone. They were functioning fine, yet the other end was a void.
"Where did he go?" I muttered, my voice barely audible over the oppressive silence. "Was it because I didn't turn the light on time? Did they take him?" The question hung in the air, unanswered, as if swallowed by the darkness itself.
I grabbed the microphone, reported the weather, explained why I was late for the daily tasks, and waited. The silence that followed was like eternity. Only static, long and unrelenting, hissed back at me. No voice, no response—just the sound of emptiness.
I tried again, my voice cracking as I spoke, "Hey man, are you there? You didn't check for my attendance at 6, and now you're not responding. Is everything okay?" I twisted the volume knob to its limit, trying to hear even the faintest whisper. But there was nothing. Only the static, mocking me.
"Maybe he fell asleep," I whispered to myself, though the words felt doubtful. "Or maybe he went out and couldn't get back on time." I tried to convince myself, but the anxiety in my chest refused to be silenced. He had saved me once, and now he was gone. Was it my fault?
I glanced at my phone: 6:35 p.m. Normally, I would be cooking dinner, but the taste of salt lingered in my mouth, bitter and unshakable. My taste buds were ruined from lunch earlier, but the sensation felt unnatural, like something more than just food, it just stayed there, refusing to get away.
Maybe I would eat later, at midnight—if I could digest it. Admittedly, I didn't know what to do. Sleep was out of the question; the nightmare paralysis still had its way inside me, leaving me trapped in a waking horror. I couldn't talk to the coast guard—he was gone. I couldn't use the radio—it was cursed, it seemed I was left with no choice.
So, I sat there, the weight of the silence pressing down on me. I guessed playing games on my phone was the best option. Then I would do the daily tasks, wait for sunrise, and then try to sleep again. But deep down, I felt really anxious: Something was out there, something that could have taken the coast guard.
As expected, I didn't get any response from the coast guard when the clock struck 9 p.m and 0 a.m. By midnight, the storm had unleashed its fury—heavy rain dropped on the lighthouse like a thousand tiny fists, and the wind howled like screams. I checked all the windows in the lighthouse, the last thing I needed was rainwater leaking in, leaving me to clean up the mess or even worse, a big minus on my payslip for damaged furniture and equipment inside.
I was already fed up with playing games on my phone, it offered nothing but mindless things that did little to distract me from the creeping unease. If I had an internet connection, even the weakest 2G or 3G signal, then I could have read stories or news, anything to escape the repetitive activities like these. Then I guessed it was time for late dinner, this time, to avoid salty disaster like the last meal, I would give it a taste first, directly from the can, so that I could adjust the amount of seasoning or toss it into the trash.
Then, suddenly, it happened.
The radio crackled to life, but the voice on the line was not the lifeless drone I used to know. It was the coast guard—finally—but his tone was strangely cheerful, almost too cheerful. "Kuru Island Light station, I repeat, Kuru Island station, this is Coast Guard Rescue Boat 12-00, do you copy, over?"
My blood ran cold. "This is kind of formal, not the coast guard I know," I muttered under my breath. But the signal wasn't coming from the coast guard station. It was on the marine radio, meaning he was close—too close. "Was he here for me? Would he knock on the door like that 'thing' did last night?" A shiver ran through me, and the memory of last night's encounter crashed over me like a tidal wave, intense and suffocating.
"12-00, this is Kuru Island Light Station, I'm the keeper and being on duty, over." I responded with awkwardness, and wondered if it was that thing or the real coast guard, where he had been the whole day?
"Copy that, Kuru station. What's your status? I received your distress signal but it cut out. Are you injured? Over."
The words hung in the air, heavy with doubt. My distress signal? I hadn't sent one. My fingers trembled as I gripped the radio, my mind racing. The storm outside seemed to grow louder, the wind screaming like a chorus of the damned. Who sent the signal? Or that 'thing' was trying to lure me one more time, into its trap to make me open the door and let it in?
"No… no injuries. But something's wrong here. I… I didn't send a distress signal, over." My voice trembled, barely audible over the storm raging outside. The words felt heavy on my tongue, as if speaking them aloud might summon something else. "Could you please check again? Over."
"Kuru station, say again? Did you say 'them'? How many people are with you? Over." The voice on the other end crackled with urgency, distorted by static. I froze. Them? I hadn't said that. Had I? Or was there something else in the transmission, something I hadn't heard—or something I wasn't meant to hear?
"Not people, 12-00, not people," I hissed into the radio, my voice rising in desperation. "I mean I didn't send a distress signal. I repeat, I didn't send any distress signal, over." The storm outside howled as if in response, the wind clawing at the walls of the lighthouse like a beast trying to get in.
"Kuru station, you're breaking up. Repeat your last transmission. Are there survivors from a shipwreck? Over." The voice was calm, too calm, as if he hadn't heard me at all. Or as if he wasn't listening.
"NO SURVIVORS! Listen to me!" I screamed out loud, almost lost my temper, "I didn't send any signal, I only reported the weather conditions, but you didn't respond. Over."
"Kuru station, we're having trouble understanding. Are you experiencing equipment failure? We can evacuate you. ETA to your position is fifteen minutes. Over." Then the transmission cut to static, left with long white noise.
I sat there, in quiet, with the storm's fury pounding against the roof and the endless howling of the wind. My mind raced, but it felt empty, as if all my thoughts had been swallowed by the storm. Someone—or something—was coming. I didn't know if they were real, if they were human, or if they were even from this world. I had fifteen minutes to prepare for the unknown.
I rushed to the kitchen, my hands trembling as I grabbed whatever I could find: A handful of cans, a dull knife, a rusted fork. If this thing was coming, I wouldn't go down without a fight. It knew the lighthouse. It knew me. What if it wasn't alone? What if it wasn't even human? I sat behind the table near the front door, my eyes fixed on the window, waiting for the first sign of its movement.
Fifteen minutes later, a beam of light pierced the darkness, inconsistent and unsteady, dancing with the rhythm of the waves. I tightened my grip on the knife, my other hand holding a can above my head, ready to hurl it at whatever—or whoever—came through that door. I looked out the window, the heavy rain was like a relentless curtain, preventing me from seeing the boat clearly, but I could still identify its position and its shape. It was heading toward the lighthouse.
The engine cut out, and the light vanished. Silence. Then, a rapid, insistent knocking at the door.
"Anyone inside? I'm the coast guard on rescue boat 12-00. We contacted each other on the radio. I came to evacuate you guys, please open the door." The voice was calm, soothing, but it sent a chill down my spine. It sounded… too normal, too human. And yet, something about it felt off, like a predator mimicking its prey.
I crouched lower, my heart pounding in my chest. The knife felt cold in my hand, the can heavy with dread. The storm outside seemed to hold its breath, waiting. The knocking came again, louder this time, more insistent.
"Open the door," the voice said, and this time, it wasn't a request. It was a command.
As if he could read my thoughts, his voice dropped to a chilling whisper: "If the keeper's inside, then you must have known me. Do you remember the last time I overlooked your mistake?"
If he wasn't the real coast guard, how could he know that? I swallowed hard, forcing myself to respond instead of hiding in silence. "I've just reported the weather to the coast guard station. He was there all day. Who are you? How did you get here?" My voice trembled, but if he was the real one, he'd know the answer.
He paused, and for a moment, the only sound was the howling wind outside. Then he laughed—a sharp, unnatural sound that sent shivers down my spine. "Hey man, are you kidding me?" His tone was mocking, almost amused. "Are you for real? If you actually reported to the coast guard station, you should've received no response. I've been absent since 4:30 p.m until now."
A wave of relief washed all over me. My legs melted immediately then I collapsed to the ground. It was him, my savior. I stood up, rushed to the door, fumbling with the lock before throwing the door open.
There he stood, drenched in his raincoat, the dim glow of his flashlight casting shadows across his face. I leaned forward, wrapping my arms around him despite the cold, wet fabric. "Oh God, thank God it's you! I've been wondering where you've been all day!"
His flashlight dropped to the ground as he pushed me back a little bit with light force. "Hey man, easy. Are you alright? What happened?" I could see his face now, and it didn't match the voice I had heard over the radio. He was young, far younger than I had imagined, with a boyish face that didn't belong to the deep, low and grunt voice I had known before.
"Oh my bad, where's my manners? Please come inside and I will make you a hot cup of tea, if I can find one." My voice was cheerful as I helped him out of his soaked raincoat. "Please have a seat, I will turn on the heater now."
"Thanks, man. But you know, I think you were too careful a moment ago. Tuesday is already over. You've lived through it. It won't come again this week, so... relax. Nothing's going to happen." His voice was calm, like he was soothing a child, as I fumbled with the heater, my hands trembling as I prepared his drink.
"Yeah, I know, man," I muttered, my voice shaky. "But today... Everything was such a mess. I was just... confused. So… Forget it." I tried to brush it off, but the weight of the day clung to me like a shadow. "Where were you all day? You didn't respond after my report at 6 p.m."
His eyes narrowed, and he leaned in closer. "I received a distress signal from a wrecked ship near your lighthouse. I had to act immediately. When I got there, they'd already fixed it and set sail. I was about to head back to the coast guard station when your distress signal came through. That's why I'm here." His gaze sharpened, piercing through me. "Everything seemed fine. Did you send it by accident? Or is there something else I need to know?"
I swallowed hard. "I tried to explain over the radio, but the transmission cut out. I didn't send any signal. All I did today was report the weather. Nothing else." I pointed to the marine radio, its microphone glowing faintly in the dim light. "We can test it, see if it's working. Maybe it malfunctioned."
He paused, his expression unreadable. "The storm's getting worse. I can't go back now. Looks like I'll be staying here for a while. We'll test the radio after the storm passes." His voice was steady, but there was something beneath it—a tension I couldn't place.
I nodded, forcing a smile. My hands clumsy as I searched through the cupboards, looking for something besides boiled water. All I found were sugar, canned food, and more water. "I'm sorry," I said, my voice cracking. "I couldn't find any tea. You must be hungry. Let's eat together. Dinner won't take long."
He didn't respond immediately. Instead, he stared at me, his eyes were cold. "How long have you been here?" he asked, his voice low. "Did you read all the rules for this place?"
I froze. Was there something I'd missed? "Just three days," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "I'm still figuring things out. Maybe you can share some tips—secrets, even. Anything to make this place easier to handle."
He frowned his eyebrows, unsettling smile. "That sounds good," he said softly, "Finish cooking. Then I'll tell you everything. About the lighthouse, its own past. And... what you really need to know." The air became heavier, the storm outside howling like a beast. I turned back to the stove, my hands trembling as I stirred the pot. I couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong—terribly wrong. And whatever he was about to tell me, I didn't know whether it would make things easier or It would only make them worse.
In the depths of my mind, a big regret began to grow. Letting him in could be a mistake, but the storm had been the perfect excuse—how could I refuse, especially when I owed him. From a positive perspective, perhaps two people were better than one in this forsaken place. Whatever horrors awaited, at least I wouldn't face them alone. And then there was the rescue boat, my last fragile hope. If anything closed in, I could still flee this cursed island. So, I told myself, it wasn't all bad.
"You're a good cook. That dish smells… interesting," he complimented as I set the table. I handed him a glass of sugar water, the best I could offer in this desolate place.
"Sorry it's not much," I muttered, sitting down. I poked at the chicken with my fork, its dark brown meat made me think it was from the drumstick, I guessed.. I took a hesitant bite. The taste was salty, but luckily still edible. I scooped a bowl of the meat and beans, sliding it toward him. "You won't find a better chef around here," I joked, though my voice wavered.
His eyes gleamed with a strange excitement as he leaned forward. "I think it's time for stories," he said, his voice low. "To be precise, I'll tell you the history of this island first, then the real stories. The ones they don't tell in the daylight."
"This lighthouse," he said, pointing to the crumbling walls around us, "isn't on Kuru Island. Not the real one, anyway. This is just a small, unnamed land, near the original Island, a shadow of what once was. The true Kuru Island vanished decades ago, swallowed by the rise of sea level . We call this place Kuru Lighthouse station now, but it's like a tribute—a gravestone for the dead island."
His voice grew heavier, like he felt sorrow at the old island.
"The Portuguese found the island uninhabited in 1733, with an abundance of trees and fresh water. The terrain was quite flat, no mountain, no hill, so they guessed there wasn't much resource on this island. They decided to make this island as a transit point for ships travelling by Cape Route from Europe to Asia, so that they could resupply food, fresh water, rest and leave sick mariners on the island to recover."
He paused, taking a slow sip of water, his eyes never leaving mine.
"They imported livestocks, fruit trees, vegetables, some simple food crops, then built a few houses, an infirmary. There weren't many inhabitants on the island during the early years, most of them were people who lost their home in the war, natural disasters or the poor ones who were offered free lands and shelters. The others, as I said before, were mostly mariners who were sick, they came and went in a short time. So you know, it was really really difficult to attract permanent residents despite advertisements in big cities and many benefits."
Then he stood up, walked to the kitchen to pour another cup of water, the sound of the liquid splashing into the glass echoed in the room. I glanced at his bowl, it was turning cold, the broth within became denser, a thin layer of fat forming across its surface. So I asked him: "Hey man, I think you should start eating before the broth becomes frozen."
He turned to me and said: "I don't want to be rude," his voice low and distant, "but I'll explain to you later. It's also a part of the story, we'll get to it soon." After returning to the table, he asked me: "Do you know that we have tea in the storage room? Maybe not, I'll show you when we finish the story." Then he continued.
"In the following years, after the 1800s, the Island was widely known as more ships traveled and that was when the conflicts started. The British war ships began to lie around the island, and waited to attack Portuguese ships. Then with the development of the Far East trade, the Dutch also began to reside on the island.
However, with no official Government on the island, relentless rebellions among inhabitants broke out during 1820 - 1835, between the 3 above countries. Environment problems like deforestation, drought, vermin, all made the island less and less attractive. After 1825, the Portuguese were the first one to flee, then followed by the Dutch, partly because they used ports along the West African coast and also the island offered no benefits for them. Therefore, the British formally claimed Kuru Island in 1850."
Suddenly, he stopped, his head tilting unnaturally as he stared at me. "Are you bored with history?" he asked, his voice dripping with mockery. "I'm afraid you have no interest in events in the past. But you know, it's my habit to build momentum whenever I tell stories, I'm so sorry if the plotline is too slow. Don't worry, the best parts are coming." His laughter was jagged, broken, as if it came from someone—or something—else. It was the laugh of someone who knew what was waiting for me, what had been waiting for me since the day I arrived.
He continued, his voice now a low grow. "The first official governor, Captain Jim Witherings, arrived in 1859, making Kuru Island one of the earliest colonies outside Europe. A fort for the Witherings Family and more houses were built, and Witherings Village was founded.
At the beginning, everything seemed to go smoothly. Captain Jim, the village head, enacted new laws, policies to maintain peace between villagers and ended the rebellions. He used to be a captain of a big ship, so he knew how to attract traders to do business.
Over the following months, he taught the villagers how to negotiate and bargain with traders, showed them how to value their goods and resources on the mainland markets. He trained them to become skilled fishermen and farmers, rearranged lands to distinguish between cropland and housing land.
Through time, the Witherings Village became one of the most famous rest stops for ships that traveled through Cape Route. Captain Jim managed and decided whether to exchange for shortage goods or trade for money, by that way, they never ran out of essential goods on the island. To attract more traders, he built this lighthouse, so that ships could never miss this island and they could visit the village, even in the dark night."
He leaned closer, his breath cold against my skin. "But you know, good days don't last long. The opening of Suez Canal in late 1869 ended the prime period of Kuru Island. It saved 7 to 10 days compared to traveling through the Cape Route, so ships no longer took this route and visited the island.
Even sick mariners were abandoned in the infirmary of the Witherings Village, so they were left to choose whether to become a resident of the village, or wait for a rare ship to pass by and come back to mainland, but most of the ships refused to take them aboard. That was the beginning of a terrible time, the collapse of the Witherings Village."
He smiled again, that same unsettling smile. "Don't worry," he said. "The best parts are coming." I looked out the window, the storm didn't have any sign of weakening. It seemed the night was still young.
He continued. "Ships that couldn't use the Suez Canal were the oversized ones. So usually, they had many supplies on board, and they wouldn't stop at the Island. They didn't need to replenish anything, and the trip was already long, so they would save time by sailing non-stop. Fewer traders, fewer visitors, more of us trapped here. The villagers' income dropped, but their hunger… their hunger kept growing.
The land… it turned against them. Years of neglect, of taking without giving back, of farming, harvesting without taking care of, left the soil degraded, lifeless. The villagers chopped down trees without replanting, and resources in the island became depleted. Food became more and more scarce, the main source of meat was no longer livestock, and replaced by fish only. But even the sea betrayed us. The storms… you've felt them, haven't you? Unpredictable, merciless. The fishermen couldn't set sail, and the food from the rare passing ships became less and less. Captain Jim… he had a plan. A desperate one. He wanted to buy a ship, to sail back to the mainland, and to bring back supplies. But the money they had… it was a drop in the ocean. Barely enough for a tenth of what they needed."
He paused, his gaze locking onto the meal I had prepared. His finger pointed at it, his voice a low, guttural growl. "Do you know what kind of meat this is?" I swallowed hard, my spoon halfway to my mouth. "The old keeper told me it's chicken," I said, my voice faltering. "Canned chicken, brought here by the supply boat, every quarter."
He just laughed, he was laughing so hard that he was crying. "Oh, you poor fool," he choked out, wiping tears from his eyes. "Listen carefully now. This is the part that will make you never forget. If you have questions… don't. You won't want to know."
He changed his attitude immediately, his voice low and grunt. "The villagers… they couldn't take it anymore. Starvation, thirst, the relentless storms, the biting cold… every day was a struggle for survival. They turned on Captain Jim, blaming him for their suffering. He tried to calm them, promised to beg the mainland for aid, to fix the land, to bring back hope.
The promise had brought a fragile, temporary peace to the island, but it was a peace built on lies and desperation. The villagers, clinging to their fragile hopes, continued their daily lives, praying that the mainland would send aid—food, water, perhaps even rescue them back to the big cities. But they had forgotten the truth of who they were. They had been abandoned, discarded like refuse, their homes and livelihoods stripped away. The mainland had offered them this island as a cruel mercy. If they were to return, they would be nothing but a burden, a reminder of a past the mainland had long since buried.
Captain Jim, the self-proclaimed savior of the village, tried to hold the crumbling pieces together. The Whitherings family, desperate and determined, sailed back to the mainland to plead with the government. They begged for aid—dried food, fresh water, seeds, anything to sustain the Witherings Village. But the mainland had already written off Kuru Island. It was a barren land, depleted of resources, a forgotten colony, together with the economic crisis. The government's answer was cold and final: 'No.'
The coast guard leaned in, his eyes sharp as they locked onto mine. "What would you do in that situation?" he asked, his voice low and gravelly. "What would you do to save starving people?" I hesitated, then muttered, "I would run. Let them fend for themselves. If I stayed, they would turn on me. They would kill me, like a criminal."
He nodded slowly, with satisfaction in his eyes. "A wise choice. Most would do the same. But Captain Jim… he had his own way. He couldn't abandon the village. It was his legacy, his burden, he couldn't lose it. So he returned. And he found a new source of food.""
He pointed to the bowl of cold, greasy meat in front of him. "This," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper, "was the new source of food that Captain Jim discovered. Tell me, to be honest, do you enjoy the canned meat here so far?"
I glanced at the bowl, my stomach churning. "It's… edible," I lied. "But it's awful, too salty. I can't tell how old it is."
He smirked, as if he'd expected that answer. "Well, you have a good taste. Now, let me tell you the rest."
He leaned closer, his breath hot and heavy. "Captain Jim was furious. He blamed the sick mariners—the ones the ships had abandoned on this island—for the village's suffering. They were the main reason for the shortage of everything in the village. They consumed resources without contributing anything. They were parasites, and Captain Jim decided it was time for them to repay their debt…"
The chair scraped back as he stood. He didn't speak a word as he moved around the table, a silent shape in the flickering lamplight. When his voice came again, it was lower, then changed the subject to something more philosophical, something about morality.
"Let's assume you are in Captain Jim's position," he began, his eyes glinting. "You are the chief of the Witherings Village. Your people are suffering—starved, sick, hopeless, utterly abandoned by the mainland. You are their only savior. Tell me… would you cross the thin line of moral boundary? Would you sacrifice the benefits of strangers to exchange for the interests of your own people?"
I fell silent, deep in thoughts, turning his words over. What was he really asking? "Are you saying I should be willing to commit a crime? Rob people? Smuggle forbidden goods, contraband—all for the village?"
A slow, unsettling smile spread across his face. "There is no limit to what a desperate man will do. Think of this as a survey—a way to prepare you. To help you understand Captain Jim's choices in the story I'm about to tell."
Then it dawned on me. Captain Jim's actions went beyond theft and smuggling. They must have been far darker. That's why the government paid so much for this lighthouse—who would willingly stay in a serial killer's lighthouse? "I suppose," I said slowly, "Captain Jim didn't stop at robbery only. He killed them, didn't he? Took their valuables and threw their bodies into the sea. Traded lives for his people's survival. That way, he could cover his crime and exchange for essential goods to stabilize the daily life of the Witherings Village."
He clapped his hands together softly, an eerie praise in the heavy air. "You catch on quickly. You're really good at inference. Your guess is very close to what truly happened here on Kuru Island. And that is why there are rules. Each one—the mirror inside the storage room, the light that must never go out—has a reason. They are not suggestions. They are for your safety." He leaned forward, voice dropping to a whisper. "Are you ready for the rest of the story?"
My mind raced back to the frantic pounding at the door just the other night—the thing that had tried to get in. Obviously, I was extremely curious about that man, and what actually happened when I forgot to turn on the light this evening. I was sure now—they were tied to the history of this lighthouse.
Of course if I follow the rules, there would be nothing to worry about, I just needed to let it be, but I had to admit that I was interested in discovering the true reasons, the cause, the roots of everything.
Outside, the storm raged on like a wounded beast. The night stretched endlessly ahead. I didn't want to sleep, and I really didn't want to share my bed with a stranger. I didn't want to be alone with the whispers in the walls.
"I'm ready," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. "What's better than a mystery about to be unraveled? Just tell me everything."
A satisfied smile stretched across his face, but it didn't touch his eyes. They remained dark and hungry.
"I won't let you down, mate," he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that seemed to blend with the moaning wind outside. "The rest of the story… it will send a chill shiver down your spine. And I promise you, before the night is through, you will wish with all your soul that you could unhear every single word I'm about to say."