The Silence of Blackrock Island
It could have been a curious mouse or an errant dust ball drifting across the floor that tickled my fingertips as they dangled carelessly over the edge of the bed. Whatever the culprit, the sensation was enough to startle me from a dream that was loud and colorful and filled with people whose faces I had neglected to think of while awake. It was an old dream, from before the accident with the steam engine, which robbed me of my hearing as a child. While the concussive force of the machine’s demise may have destroyed the delicate organs within my ears, there was never a moment I could recall dwelling on the resulting handicap, or asking outwardly why it had to happen to me. However, my father, who had constructed the engine from his own time and curiosity, spent the rest of his days in torment, believing he had ruined the quality of his son’s life forever. He refused to live long enough to see that it was the reason I was still alive.
I used the inside knuckles of both fists to rub the sleep from my eyes, keen on the quick burst of white light it produced, like firework flashes against a hot, black night. I continued to massage them, long after the tiredness had fled, until an ache deep within my eye sockets convinced me it was time to get up.
If it were anywhere else, I might have leapt from bed excited for the day and progress I had been making. The island would have been a fine holiday spot away from the chaos of city life. It was a place a man could sit on a beach and stare across the great expanse of water, pondering the beauty of the world, were it not for the cursed shores.
I strained to sit up, hinging my aching legs over the edge of the mattress and touched my bare feet to floor where whatever had grazed my finger. The grey light entering through the slit of a window above my bed wasn’t enough to gage the conditions of outside the cottage, except for if it were night or day. I placed a hand against the cold plaster of the wall, feeling for any sign of what the weather could be doing outside. The cottage was sturdy, built of white pine and able to resist whatever the Atlantic Ocean could provide. The weather could also be fierce and unpredictable and I was sure I would be able to feel mother nature whisper to me through the framework. This morning was silent.
I glanced a small, tin-type portrait, propped against a rusted coffee can on the bedside table. The image, the young woman in her mid-twenties, frozen in time, was already watching me, her delicate features appeared doll-like from the overexposed, cheap quality of the image. Her blue eyes and white skin bleached in sepia as a cascade of blonde hair spilled from her shoulders. What impressed me most wasn’t her beauty, but a mischievous smile, curved from the corners of her mouth, that she was able to hold for the duration of the exposure. It was a hint of a personality and lust for life, that such mundanity could not suppress her true nature.
Beyond the portrait, two uninhabited beds, identical to my own, cluttered the far wall. On top of each bed were green canvas duffel bags, stuffed to capacity with clothing and provisions that were no longer required by their owners.
We arrived on the island two weeks prior, tasked with retrofitting the lighthouse with a radio broadcast beacon. This signal could cut through the fog and storms, and darkness, and alert sailors up to thirty miles away, keeping them far out of range of the dangerous shoals. It became apparent almost after our arrival that we were ill-prepared, discovering that we weren’t the only newcomers to the island. It was my deafness, and a nickel-plated revolver belonging to the missing lighthouse keeper, that prevented me from befalling the same fate as my companions. However hard those first few days may have been, I could not weep for them or feel pity for myself. As per the schedule, it would be four long weeks before my rescue, and I feared for the men who would come for me if I did not finish the job in time. Every day since, I toiled with the loneliness of the island and the valuable knowledge lost with my companions.
I wore the same work pants and shirt as the previous day, adding a thick wool sweater for extra warmth. I then concocted an oil black coffee with sugar, indulging myself with the extra rations. As the beverage cooled to a comfortable sipping temperature, I cooked a hearty breakfast, the smell of which filled the cottage with the thick smoky scent of eggs, sausages, and baked beans. The extra calories were necessary as I wouldn’t be returning until just before sunset.
Sipping my coffee, I procrastinated, dreading the inevitable departure from the safety of the cottage. Every moment I wasn’t working was time that the beacon was silent. I closed my eyes, placing a hand over my chest where even through my sweater I could feel my heart thumping like a drum. They would be out there, watching and plotting as they had been since that first day. I cleared my throat, ejecting any bit of cowardice from within. I could not appear vulnerable and provoke some sort of predatory instinct within them. Finally ready for work, I snagged up my tool box on my way out the door, along with the nickel-plated revolver with a single round.
A dense blue-grey fog had engulfed the entire island, a desolate spit of volcanic granite and sand three miles from the mainland. Its cold black rocks rose from the surrounding shoals that had plagued mariners in the region for centuries. The habitable land was just enough for the lighthouse, and the cottage whose. The ancient white paint peeled and flecked away with every storm.
The smell the sea filtered through the fog, mixing with a putrid musk of decay which continuously hungover the island like a slaughterhouse, desecrating anything good that had ever settled its shores. Every exposure since my arrival pushed me closer and closer to a desperate madness that I fought to avoid.
I set out across a sandy path that led to the lighthouse somewhere in the gloom. The yellow-green seagrass wetting my pants with each step. I kept a quick pace, careful to avoid the appearance of panic or vulnerability, lest I set off some predatory instinct. It wasn’t long before the grey limestone bricks of the tower appeared from the fog. An imposing structure that reminded me of the medieval castles of horror novels, full of ghost and ghouls, except for a cone of amber light near the top that pierced the gloom. The torch, whose oil I would need to replenish during the day, took away valuable time, but as the surviving member of my party, it fell on me to keep it burning.
I stopped halfway between the two buildings, in a wide sandy patch of land where it seemed no grasses wanted to grow. My skin was tingling under my sweater and the hairs on my neck were standing on end. Every follicle on my body had become excited by an evil that was vibrating through the air, beckoning me to its source. I could only imagine how it must have been for my companions, who could hear their calls and could not resist the urge to follow.
The creatures were where there, just as they always were, sitting atop craggy black rocks that jutted out from a thick bed of damp seaweed. There were three of them, basking in the cold and damp and rotting stench they had created. While they appeared feminine, their true sex remained a mystery, as their species seemed to have no equal in the natural world for comparison. Long strands of stringy, wet hair fell in black sheets across their pale and naked breast. From a distance, an unsuspecting man may have been excited to see such a sight, but that would be his downfall, for a closer inspection would have revealed their bestial appearance.
They glared scornfully towards me through black rubbery eyes which never blinked. Their skin was grey and corpse like until their waste, where instead of legs was fishlike tail covered in black scales resembling. They mouthed the lyrics to the song I could not hear, yet it had still made my skin crawl. I gripped the revolver in my palm, massaging the trigger with my pointer finger while making sure it was visible to them. While these creatures were unaware of my slim munitions inventory, I know they remembered the devastating consequences the device had on their sisters. It was that thought which had prevented any further attacks, at least during the day, as some unholy commandment prevented them from venturing inland during daylight hours.
With two fingers pointed towards the sky, I showed them how many days remained until I would activate the beacon. Their reaction was both surprising and pleasing as they contorted their faces into snarl, hissing and spitting green, ink-like saliva through their needle-like teeth.
I pointed to my ears, unsure if they would understand the implication that their greatest weapon was no use against me. They knew I was up to something. Something that bid them harm and caused them to investigate the lighthouse. It gave me a sense of control that I had not felt since my arrival.
The ancient oak door bore evidence of the creatures’ attempts to enter during the night. Splintered, bone-white claw marks crisscrossed its weathered brown surface, centering on the latch. They had been studying me and had figured out how I was getting in, but not how the actual mechanism worked. I placed my body so that they could not see as I removed a key from my pocket and slid it into the slot.
Inside, an iron staircase spiraled upward like a coiled spring, its geometry hypnotizing as I followed the black rails all the way to the planks of the lantern room floor. Adjacent to the main tower was the boiler room for the foghorn. It was here that I had installed a magneto to harness the steam from the boiler that would produce an electrical current to the transmitter. The installation was relatively easy, as that was my area of expertise, but without the help of my companions, the transmitter set up had taken more time than it should have, and I found myself racing the clock to finish before the deadline. Never the less, I had managed to finish both on my own, and only needed to install the electrical wiring between them.
It was dangerous work being alone on the rickety scaffolding, and I knew not to trust it completely because I had built it. It trembled and shook and I would take breaks to relax the tension from my body. Some breaks were longer, and I would stare wearily out a small a small window towards the sea. Gradually, the weather changed and a storm from the mainland had blown away the fog, revealing the roiling waters of the Atlantic. I touched my palm against the glass. It was cold and slick like the plaster of the cottage, except now I could feel the vibrations of rain droplets as they popped against the pane. But then, a more ominous and familiar sensation began to tickle my palm I could see the goosebumps on my arms begin to raise and glanced quickly downstairs to be sure I was alone. Then, I had a sudden and more terrible realization.
I burst through the trapdoor of the lantern room, seeing immediately that my intuition had been correct. The Fresnel lens which formed the enclosure of the lantern sat dark and lifeless. I jumped to from the stairs to the enclosure opening, seeing the burner for the lamp was out and cold. I could not smell any fumes, signifying the oil which fueled it must have run out. In the exposed room with only large sheets of glass separating me from the outside, my skin began to crawl, urging me to the windows and beyond. Slowly, I placed my hand against the glass as I looked towards the dangerous shoals on the southern tip of the island. The shallow waters were boiling with white caps as the weather deteriorated, and my heart sank in my chest as I noticed a large object a half mile offshore.
A small vessel had grounded itself into the shoals, her bow leaning to port and rocking back and forth in the wash. To my horror, the crew had jettisoned a small dingy, the four men swapping between bracing and rowing through the gauntlet of white caps. I pulled the lever that activated the foghorn, the tremendous vibration that followed rattled the building itself, shaking the windows and air until it had lost its charge.
There was no sign I had captured their attention. Rather, they seemed more focused as they rowed towards the black rocks and seaweed nest. There the creatures were sitting amongst the pale white bones of previous victims, mouthing the words to their unholy song. I pulled the lever several more times, hoping to dilute their enchantments long enough for the men to recover, and it must have had some effect, as the creatures suddenly leapt from the rocks and disappeared into the sea, ending their song. I continued to with the foghorn until I saw the men looking up in my direction.
It must have been shocking for them to awaken from their trance, finding themselves in the dingy and the waves and hearing the lighthouse horn blasting. We looked at each other in the silence, wondering what to do next. I began banging the glass and screamed with enough force I thought my vocal cords would tear. Every vein and muscle in my neck strained against the skin, even as I was unsure of the sounds coming from my mouth, only that I had to warn them of the danger they were in.
The captain, who sat in the dingy's bow, motioned to his men to keep paddling. Before they could begin again, a clawed hand shot from the water, grabbing him by his jacket collar and ripping him from his seat. In the blink of an eye, he had disappeared under the waves. His men rushed to where he had fallen overboard, but they, too, were met with the same fate. The remaining sailor threw himself backwards, landing on a pile of ropes and cowering against the inside wall of the tiny vessel. I could only imagine the fear he must have felt in that moment, seeing his mates plucked into the sea. His was chest rising and falling rapidly as rain pelted him in the face. I hoped the creatures, having each caught their own meal, would allow the man to escape to the island.
My hopes were dashed when one of the creatures breached the water, smashing over the gunwales like a heavy rogue wave and sunk its claws into his throat. The thing lifting him without effort overboard and into the depths. I was alone again. The only evidence those men had existed was the drifting dingy and vessel stuck in the shoal. I fell to the floor of the lantern room, sobbing, too ashamed to face the sea.
By the time I had refueled the lantern with enough oil to burn through the night, the day had dimmed to a darker shade of grey behind the storm, which had grown stronger in the hours since the incident. With no more time to work, I packed my tools and left the lighthouse, being sure to lock the door behind me. I did not look towards the creatures, nor did I bother to present my pistol for them to see, as I knew they would feed and be uninterested in me for now.
That night, sleep was did not come easy, nor did I dream of happy memories. I tossed and turned, replaying every terrible memory I had accumulated during my time there. I thought of those men in the boat. The ones who found themselves stranded on an island of monsters because I was too inept to have kept the light running. I thought about my father and how he must have felt in those days after my accident. The images of his son near death because of a simple mistake.
While my circumstances had been overwhelmingly against me from the start, there was no convincing myself that I wasn’t to blame for the deaths of those men. The images of them being drug into the water repeated over and over, always bringing me back to the great inadequacies of my being here. I think that night, I finally understood the terrible guilt my father must have felt.
In the morning, I lay in bed longer than I should have. I kept my back towards to the portrait of the blonde woman, who I could feel staring at me as I held my palm against the wall for what might have been an hour. There was nothing, despite what I knew about storms in this area and how they could last for well over a day. I wondered if I had fooled myself into believing I had some ability that I did not.
When I rolled over to face the room and those two empty beds, she was there. The woman in the portrait smiling at me. I imagined she was in bed beside me, comforting me and touching my hand and telling me everything was going to be alright. I was sure if I could see her smile at me as she did in her portrait, all the terrible things in the world would fall away, and my memory of this place would disappear forever.
Breakfast did not go down as easy as it had in the past mornings, my stomach churned and became nauseous with each bite I, but I needed the calories, and I needed some semblance of normality to ease my anxiety. If today were to go as planned, it would be my last day of work.
I finished breakfast, and I wiped the excess coffee from my mustache. I picked up my toolbox and revolver and set out to finish the job.
A blast of cold, wet wind nearly knocked me backward when I opened the door. A tempest had been raging outside that I could not sense through the plaster wall or even during breakfast. The rain was coming down in thick sheets and the sea grass blew wildly in the gale that passed from one side of the island to the other. I threw on a baggy yellow rain jacket that been hanging in plain sight on the back of the door; something I should have already done any out of caution.
My feet splashed through shallow pools of water that the ground could no longer absorb. The seagrass reached out from below the surface, as if looking for me to save them from drowning. By all evidence it must have stormed throughout the night, but I knew they would be there, watching me in my commute.
I stopped, surrounded by rain which pelted me and canceled out any sensations that might have been I could have felt. I clinched my hand around the grip of the revolver, feeling the skin around my knuckles become tight and turn white. What I would have given for just two more rounds. I looked towards the black rocks. They were there, the three of them, huddled over a pile of soggy corpses half submerged in the frothy sea foam. One of them noticed me glaring back with a mouthful of stringy flesh and inky green spit that dangled from its lips. It did not hiss or try to sing, just stared with those black rubbery eyes, unblinking through the gust of rain. For a moment, I could see a curiosity in the way it watched me, as if it were pondering the very nature of what I was. Maybe I was the first human to resist them. Maybe it sensed, as I did that one way or another, our standoff for control of the island would soon end. In that sandy clearing, surrounded my rain and wind, I swore I would finish the job, and drive them away from here forever. I raised my middle finger to her, knowing she could not understand the connotations of my gesture, but never the less, showing her and her sisters that she had one more day.
I found no signs of tampering on the lighthouse door, unsurprising given the creatures’ full bellies and lack of urgency or understanding of my proximity to completion. I unlocked the door, then shut myself inside, insulated from the storm outside, and continued my work.
Today I would finally connect the electrical cables from the generator to the radio beacon’s broadcaster. After that, I would switch on the device and begin transmitting a warning out to sea. Today would be precarious, as I had to run the wiring through the central gap in the floor to the lantern room. This meant that much of my day was moving the scaffolding from the wall over the gap of the spiral staircase.
On completion, I could pull myself across the open space and install the brackets that would fix them to the ceiling. Afterwards, I could feed what remained through the hole in the center and into the room above.
Just then, I thought I felt the scaffolding shift underneath as I lay on my back. I stopped, holding my breath as I waited for any further motion. After a moment passed, I exhaled in relief, feeling confident enough to shake my body to check for any excess play. When I felt comfortable again, I continued working until I had fed all the excess cable through. I lay there, satisfied with my work. I only needed to connect the wiring upstairs.
I suddenly felt myself go weightless as the scaffolding below me collapsed towards the floor. It was the same sensation of being startled awake from a dream. I was falling through the center of the spiral staircase, unable to process what had happened. Then there was a painful jolt from around my waist that snapped my legs and torso like a whip.
I must have passed out. When I opened my eyes again, I couldn’t see and wasn’t immediately sure where I was. My face felt swollen and engorged with blood. My body flinched, and I realized I was hanging upside down from a rope tied around my waist before crawling onto the scaffolding. I looked up to see my feet protruding awkwardly into the air as the weight of my torso worked against them at the hip. The rope gripped me tight around the top of my hip bones, burning the skin around my waist. It was a pain which grew worse the more awake and the longer I hung there. I wasn’t concerned the rope would break, as it had held me this long, but I was certain it had to be causing some damage internally the longer I stayed.
The windows around the edge of the tower showed light entering at a low angle as the sun nearing the horizon. There was a sense of urgency when I realized the lighthouse door was unlocked and would not prevent the creatures from entering once it was dark. I had to get to the cottage, or at least secure the lighthouse door. They would most certainly come, realizing I had not left.
I moved my legs and arms, flopping like fresh bait on a fishing line, trying to build some kind of moment to swing to the closest section of the staircase. Unfortunately, the closer railing was too far below for me to grab, and physics was not allowing that I swing without an opposing force to the railing at my level. I stopped moving for a moment, trying to think through the pain at my hips. Knowing I didn’t have the strength, I attempted to pull my body weight up the rope towards the ceiling, making it only have a body length before losing my grip and snapping back down onto the rope. I clinched my teeth in pain as I spun a slow circle and watched the light from the windows dim.
Even if the creatures couldn’t reach me from this position, it would be a long terrible night of them trying to, and I feared my mind could handle the stress. Just then, I remembered my pocket knife, grabbing at it to be sure it was still there. I could not cut the rope; the fall would have broken my legs, leaving me in an even worse position.
I lifted my right leg to the rope, wrapping entwining my ankle around it so that it could take some of my weight from my waist, then gripped the slack with my left hand and pulled it into the crook of my armpit Using my teeth, I pulled the silvery blade from its wooden grip with until it locked in place, then began sawing the stringy fibers. I watched the strands and braids separate one by one until the entire until it snapped, unable to support my weight.
In one sweeping move, I dropped the knife and grabbed the rope with both hands, allowing my legs to swing in front of me. I stretched them as far as I could towards the railing. It was just enough that I could grab the railing with the toes of my boots. My legs shook, using every muscle I had to hold on, but knew that there was not enough grip to pull myself up. If I was to slip off, I would not have enough momentum to swing again.
I pulled myself as I could, the muscles in my arms and shoulders burned, and my torso cramped. Just before losing grip, I pushed away from the bar, swinging over the open space in a wide arc, then back towards the railing with enough force that I grabbed the railing with the crook of my knees and pulled myself over the railing. I collapsed on the steps with tears in my eyes, but there was no time to cry.
I burst from the door in almost a full gate, having to stop myself and return to the entrance and lock it. As I fumbled with the keys, I could feel my skin begin to tingle and vibrate towards the sea. The creatures were surely excited to see me leaving so close to dusk. I locked the door and ran as fast as I could towards the cottage, never looking in the creature’s direction for fear they were already chasing me.
I hit the cottage door with the full weight of my body, pressing the latch at the exact moment of impact. It burst open, slamming into the wall, once inside and the door safely shut behind, my body collapsed to the floor. Exhausted and in terrible pain, I began crying while trying to catch my breath. Today, I would not finish my work as I had promised, but at least I was still alive.
It was another restless night, assisted by a heavy slather of a creamy mint scented salve I smeared upon the rope burns around the rope burns. A large snakelike bruise, black and deep, encircled my waist and was hot to the touch, causing discomfort with every movement. Eventually, exhaustion and pain gave way to sleep. I did not dream in a formal sense, as my mind drifted feverishly through thoughts and images of a tortured alternate reality. I envision myself leaving the island and returning to the mainland alone to reconcile with the rest of civilization what had happened here. I found in that dream no one who believed the trials that I had endured, no matter how passionately I declared it to be the truth. They laughed and teased me as school children might, that I had gone mad and murdered my companions. The thought had never occurred to me that I might be blamed for their deaths, or for causing the deaths of the 4 sailors who had been scuttled against the rocks because of my negligence.
I weas once a man who loved the sea, but now if I survived, I wouldn’t venture within ten miles of her coast. I have seen enough of her terrible beauty to last a lifetime. Perhaps I had gone too far to convince myself there was hope in this ordeal when there was none, but what was I to do otherwise Would I lay down and die? Would that be preferable than surviving only to be called a liar?
I sat up in my bed, my back against the wall, alerted by a dreadful feeling that I had forgotten something during the day. Did I remember to lock the door behind me? Did I somehow break the latch when I through my body against it? The candle on my nightstand still burned, albeit on such a short wick that the slightest breath could have put it out. Something isn’t right I thought, staring in sleepy terror at the door of my room, the doorknob just visible in the orange glow of the candle.
I place a hand against the wall, sensing a vibration that was so light that I had to stop breathing to be sure it was there. I reached to the nightstand, grabbing the revolver and aimed my last round towards the door. The candle flickered, casting shadows all about the room before resettling itself. I stared at the door, watching the knob and the dark crack between the door and the jam for any sign of tampering. In the dim light, my vision had gone wild, making me unsure if I was seeing any true movement. However, the vibrations were still there. Maybe the creatures were just outside the walls of the house, trying to find a way in. Maybe I should get up and push one of the spare beds in front of the door at the risk they were inside and would hear me.
In the candle light, I caught a glimpse of the woman in the portrait, smiling out the corner of her mouth. Now more than ever I wanted to see her in person and feel the touch of another human being before my time was over. Then another, even more terrible thought from my previous dream came to me. What if those whose I cared for most, whose I held in the highest regard, would doubt my sanity enough fall out of love with me, unable or unwilling to believe such a fantastic tale.
I pulled the hammer of the revolver back, and lifted the barrel upward to my chin. I fooled myself into believing I was going to win this battle, and I had come close, very close. Had my scaffolding not broke underneath me, I there could have started the beacon. I could handle failure, and the guilt of the continued death that I had become accustomed to. But I could not handle the idea that the woman in the photograph would not believe the truth of what happened, and would look at me as a stranger who had brought about some tragedy. I continued to watched the door, ready at resolved to pull the trigger if it opened. I wasn’t even sure they were there, but content that I was once again in control.
My body flinched, waking me from a sleep that I could not remember falling into. The candle next to my bed had extinguished itself into a shallow pool of tallow on the nightstand, and a soft blue hue of dawn was seeping through the tiny window above my head. I looked down at the revolver resting in my lap, my fingers wrapped around the handle and the barrel pointing uncomfortably at my feet. I placed my thumb onto the textured metal of the hammer, holding it in place while applying pressure to the trigger, disengaging the weapon to a safer position. The door of the bedroom was closed and appeared untouched, just as it had the night before and every morning before that. The woman in the portrait smiled and teased that I had sat up all night for nothing.
Moments passed, and the light cast from the window had become tinged with yellow sunlight. A high-pressure system had settled over the island once the storm passed, replacing the winds and rain with a crisp autumn chill. I slipped on my pants and jacket, hurrying as I shuffled across the room, past the woman in the portrait and the two empty beds, eager to start my day. I couldn’t help but to smile as I gripped the cold door knob into my palm.
In the parlor, the air was even colder, and I found myself suddenly unable to step further. The battered front door hung wide open, letting light and air spill in over splintered shards of wood that littered the cobblestones. The dining table lay toppled like some dead bovine on its back, its legs pointing to the ceiling. My coffee pot and dinner thrown against the wall. The creatures had ransacked the kitchen shelves and cabinets under the counter, ripping their small doors from their hinges and smashing their contents onto the floor. They had raked their claws across the walls, scoring deep gouges into the plaster and door. I looked down at the bedroom doorknob, which, oddly, remained untouched. It was then I noticed it differed from the levered handle of the main doors of the lighthouse and cottage. The creatures had watched many times as I had used them, but they did not have the capacity to understand the door knob.
I sighed deep, taking a moment to appreciate the circumstances and how once again fate had seemed to side against the creatures. I took my time getting ready, cleaning the cottage, and making myself a coffee before setting out. I used an extra scoop of sugar and savored the drink for as long as it would stay warm. After, I wiped my mustache, grabbed my tool bag, and exited through the open door, not bothering to close behind me.
There was indeed a cold in the air, but the wind had calmed to a gentle breeze, carry the scent of death from the island’s shores. I did not feel any tingling of my skin as I walked, nor did I stop to see if they were watching me. I wanted to gloat, and do a dance for them, to show that I was still there. However, it was a pleasant morning for a change and I decided I would pretend it was a regular day on a regular island where I was walking to a regular job site.
I unlocked the door of the lighthouse, shutting it behind me. I sighed again as I looked down at the wreckage of the scaffolding laying across the floor, the silver blade of my pocket knife laying on top of the rubble. I grabbed it, cleaning the silver blade on my pants before closing in and placing it safely back into my pocket. I then followed the spiral stair case upward to the rope that I had dangled from the previous night, its end frayed and unmoving in the still air. I picked my wood handled knife from the floor, giving it a quick look to be sure it had not been damaged when I dropped it, and began up the stairs to finish my work.
The day’s work went on for longer than I thought it would, but remained on a good schedule. I took my time, double checking everything was connected properly and resting my battered body on the floor of the lantern room. It was around midday that I finally connected the all wires to their terminals. Afterwards, I went to the steam powered generator, like the one that my father had showed me when I was younger, except this one was new with fresh paint and shiny steel handles and would provide the electricity to power the transmitter. I filled the furnace with coal and lit it, watching as it grew from a small flame to a raging inferno that could sustain itself and heat the boiler.
Back upstairs, I waited for the orange dials of the boiler to rise, slowly at first, then quicker as the tank lost its coolness and came to life. It wouldn’t be much longer until the pressure within the boiler was enough to push the generator. I placed my hand on the window, feeling for any vibrations that would signal the creatures were out there, but felt nothing but the cold glass against my palm. Had they gone? Had they given up in the night, knowing they had failed to stop me?
Finally, the orange arrow of the pressure gage had reached the right level, and engaged the generator. A vibration in the floor traveled into my shoes and through my legs. A smile had snuck onto my face, the first one in weeks, as the building came to life around me. I moved to the transmitter, turning the master power switch on, and watching as several tiny orange lights blinked to life. My fingers twisted the power output dial, following the numbers around the outside until the tiny arrow pointed to 7. Then, without fan fair or hesitation, I flipped the transmit switch. A green light blinked on, showing the transmission was in progress. My work was done. The signal was traveling out to sea at the speed of light, faster and clearer than any song the creatures could sing.
I did my usual maintenance on the light before leaving, being sure there was enough oil and that the radio still worked before leaving. With my toolbox in hand, I locked the door behind me before beginning my journey back to the cottage.
I turned to see what the creatures were up to, but to my surprise, they were not sitting on the rocks as usual, but were lying in the surf, their white bodies writhing in the sea foam like fish out of water. I approached them, slowly, cautiously, in case it was some new strategy they were employing to lure me close. As I did so, I could see each of them was holding their ears with their sharp, talon-like hands. A blackish liquid was seeping from between their fingers as though their ears were bleeding, and their eyes, black and unfocused, were distressed. I looked back to the lighthouse, wondering if the beacon had created some sort of sound, loud enough to damage their hearing. Or if it was just the radio signal itself, rendering them useless as their own songs had been against humans.
I came closer, close enough to touch them, and they continued to ignore me. How long would they be in this state? I realized they might work themselves into deep enough water to dampen whatever it was causing them such pain. I could not let that happen. They had invaded my space the night before, coming within mere feet of finding me out. I would not miss my opportunity.
I pulled a hammer from the toolbox, feeling its weight balanced against the length of the handle for the most efficient swing. Dropping the rest of the tools onto the beach, I moved quickly, swinging the hammer into the creatures’ skulls. One by one, I dispatched them until their black eyes were only inky pools of green blood. After finishing the last one, I stood amongst their corpses, out of breath and hands dripping in black ooze.
I dropped the hammer into the surf, no longer needing it, and walked away from the massacre. I found a spot on a low rise far away from the creature’s nest facing out to sea. Far out from to sea, golden rays of sunshine pierced through pin prick holes within the blue-gray clouds, bathing the most distant swells underneath in an ethereal glow. There were no ships, no birds. There was nothing but the sea, and a radio signal that destroyed the creatures who had haunted its shores since men had taken to the water. I thought about the blonde woman in the picture, and how I would explain to her what happened here, hoping that somehow I might see her smile again.
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