As part of his duties, every first of the month Thomas Stern sent a report of weather data to a dedicated station on the mainland for both study and potential evacuation warnings. When the information passed hands, the standard procedure dictated that a radio call precede sending the gathered data through a secure connection. In the case the storm became dangerous to the many towns that dotted the shoreline though, he was to call through a dedicated emergency line. The mainland station made it their business to keep the emergency line running at all hours, no matter what disaster might unfold.

  Thomas had gone through all the right motions to make his emergency call, working through trembling fingers to adjust the old ham radio. The stupid thing had never worked right, not even when his grandfather used it, the constant whining of static that crackled from the old speakers made the radio a chore to use. Try as he might, he could find nothing under blaring static and a low groan of unknown origins. With hasty motions he tossed away the radio headset, ears ringing from the wailing interference and dull drone, which came in a constant pulsing rhythm akin to heavy breathing. Dr. Porter from the mainland team must have left the station radio running again while he slept at his desk, which would explain all the noise.

  “Hello? Dr. Porter? Can you hear me? Please respond! Evacuate Glynnwood, get everyone out of there now, our numbers were wrong! Hello?!” Thomas’ throat dried by the time he had finished screaming into the microphone, with no reply save for that same metallic screech and low pitch hum of static coming from the abandoned headset. Even the breathing sound fell silent under the dull drone. Several things could explain the lack of communication, the thought occurred that evacuations could have already taken place. Even with those assurances, the thought of deaths caused by his own incompetence spurred the keeper on. Thomas flipped through every frequency he could think of, his hand pounding against the old radio with each passing failure, even the line for emergency services was down. That made no sense though, even after evacuations there would always be someone at the end of the line to pick up stragglers.

  “Goddamnit! Someone! Anyone! Please respond!” Thomas shouted, followed by hoarse coughing, his throat cracked from years of neglect. He cursed the lack of conversation on the island, as annoying as tourism used to be, at least he could talk to people during those boring hour-long tours of his property. He was about to check the receiver for any problems when a bright flash of lightning lit up the room.

  Under normal circumstances such a common occurrence wouldn’t bother Thomas at all, it was the immediate boom of thunder and the lights of his house blowing out that made his heart stop. His hand shot out and slammed onto the desktop to keep from falling from his chair as he struggled to catch his breath. The radio went dead silent from a lack of power and the room fell into a crushing silence save for Thomas’ wheezing. With his hand clutched to his chest over his frenzied heart, he rose to stand, hunched over the desk while he attempted to figure out the culprit. It was just a power outage; he assured himself while uncommon they occurred from time to time. His mind jumped to the lightning rod strapped to the top of the lighthouse, it should have sent the bolt straight into the ground, but instead, the decrepit wiring of his grandfather’s home took the blow.

  Thomas’ hand wrapped around the handle of his lamp with a tight grip, the first thought occurring to his mind was the light projected from his tower; the surge could have blown a fuse and shut the entire system down, and if that were the case it demanded immediate attention. It would be a cold day in hell when he would let any more ships capsize on his watch, never again.

  The climb to the top level of the lighthouse put a great deal of strain on Thomas’ body, the steep ladder forced him to hold his lamp by the teeth until he could reach the trapdoor leading to the room above. The rusted hatch of the trapdoor gave way after a sufficient pounding, it flew open as its hinges screamed with protest. With his lamp now in his free hand, he threw it over the ledge leading to the top floor and dragged himself up. His heart fell to the bottom of his stomach when he saw the state of the room. Shards of broken glass that had been the north-facing window lay scattered on the floor, allowing the storm’s freezing cold wind and fat droplets of rain to flow inside. Rainwater had already seeped into the floor, ruining the polish that Thomas took so much pride in maintaining, which caused him to groan in anguish. It was always the little things that went wrong for him, even when disaster struck the world somehow added insult to injury. Burn marks and black soot which evidenced a recent electrical fire that died after the storm cut the power coated the floor. Far above his head, the light itself seemed undamaged along with the lenses that encapsulated the ancient lamp. Thomas climbed a small ladder to the lower rafters and pulled a heavy metal shutter down over the broken window to keep at least some rain out, his oil lamp clutched in his teeth all the while. The elements pelted the metal shutters as though it were under fire from a light machine gun. The sounds of the storm outside rose to a cacophony as the metal shutters shook under the force. He always hated using the shutters, they obscured too much of the light for his liking, but it was the best he could do on short notice.

  With heaving breaths, Thomas ascended further up the ladder to inspect the lightning rod, following the cascading spider web of scorch marks to the rooftop access. Throwing open the access hatch revealed a sight that shocked Thomas to his core, the lightning rod that protected his home from the constant lightning that bombarded his home lay snapped clean in two, the metal rod hanging by a loose wire and dangled off the side of the roof. The sturdy metal appeared to have sheared, something that wind couldn’t do, the designer had built it to prevent such things. It must have been something that damned intruder did, Thomas thought, it snuck onto the roof and screwed with his power and who knows what else just to spite him. Another harsh crack of lightning lit up the dark skies, forcing the keeper to duck back down out of reflex. He didn’t have the tools or experience to fix the rod himself, so blackouts would be inevitable from then on. It was then that the thought occurred to him, if there was no power, then the lighthouse would stop working. Wide eyes scanned the horizon to see a distinct lack of the familiar light of his tower, with haste the trapdoor slid back into place once more and Thomas slid down the ladder to check the gearbox of the lighthouse. Without the guiding light the lamp provided, ships would doubtless run aground on the sharp reefs and cragged rocks that lay just below the surface of the murky water.

  The metal plating that protected the inner mechanism popped out of place without issue, revealing that the gears had fallen out of alignment. The electronics were in even worse shape, the electric motors streamed out thin streams of smoke while the wiring melted and fused together. There was no doubt it wasn’t operational, the best Thomas could do was switch the light back to the antique circuit and pray that the light still worked. Thomas let out a string of curses that would make a sailor blush in shame, infuriated at the poor display of a lazy electrician having rigged new technology to an archaic and delicate machine with no real effort. Just how difficult was it to use electrical tape to cover up wire nuts? The sight of the shoddy job brought Thomas second-hand shame. It took close to half an hour to remove the mess of wires and motors, like stripping a cast from of a long unused limb the more modern technology gave way to the antique system beneath. Several of the cast iron parts had rusted and jammed from years of neglect and were in need of immediate replacement, which meant another visit to the tool closet. Oh how he hated the tool closet, the thought of dark cramped corridors brought back flashes of the nightmare he had the other night..

  Thomas came close to meeting his end by falling down the stairs from his long strides taking him down three steps at a time on his way to gather the needed supplies. Thomas tried the light switch out of muscle memory to no avail, to which he swore and grabbed hold of a nearby flashlight, in need of more directed light. Near the back of the room sat a large gray toolbox, covered top to bottom with rust. Thomas pried the lid open to reveal the ancient contents within, old spare parts his grandfather had kept around during his time as the keeper. His grandfather had always been a hoarder, holding on to every tool and spare part he could get his hands on in case he ever needed it. Careful to avoid any jagged rusted edges Thomas extracted the contents of the box, which included a detailed repair manual for the lighthouse mechanism. Thomas placed each part he could think of needing in a nearby leather bag, one of many stacked up next to the box, another object of his grandfather’s obsession. With a huff Thomas heaved the bag over his shoulder and made his way back upstairs, this attempt took much more time as the heavy bag weighed him down every step of the way.

  By the time Thomas made it back to the top floor the storm had worsened, each gust of wind made the handrails of the outer catwalk whine and bend from the force. The glass panes that protected him from the storm were so saturated with water they looked like miniature waterfalls. He had to get the light fixed and fast, no excuses or delays. The sight of old gears and antique cogs gave Thomas a deep sense of nostalgia to the days where people would come from miles to poke about the property and learn about the way vintage lighthouses worked.

  The Stern’s peak lighthouse had once been a tourist attraction for the nearby town of Glynnwood, which featured a clockwork mechanism to turn the lenses. Cast iron gear wheels strung with a durable cable connected to a two hundred and seventy-five-pound weight that sat at the bottom of the lighthouse, kept inside a metal shaft that the house wrapped around. Because of its simple and durable design, it seemed to have survived the fire, someone had covered the original mechanism during the electrification of the lighthouse which meant there was still a chance it worked. The metal bolts that held the parts in place were a pain to remove, the nuts holding them in place had seized up. With a groan and creaking the rusted gears popped out of place and fell to the side with a thunderous clang. New cast iron gears slid into place without issue, followed by a healthy dosage of oil to lubricate the system. With each bolt pushed into place Thomas felt a pang of satisfaction, like a kid assembling a new toy he worked away at restoring his grandfather’s pride and joy back to its proper state. Thomas held his lamp close to the now reassembled gearbox, other than cobwebs and it looked to be in working order. With a scowl Thomas shoved the mess of unusable electronics into his leather bag, what tools he had wouldn’t be enough to replace the entire electric setup, not that he would ever want to either. He would have to resort to doing things the old-fashioned way. With all the equipment and broken parts packed away, the metal sheet swung back into place with a resounding clang, held in place by a sturdy padlock.

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  Before renovators installed the electronics, Samuel Stern would spend a few minutes every two hours winding a large crank that drew the weight up from the bottom of the lighthouse. That descending weight would power the gearbox, rotating a glass lens around an oil lamp to project a beam of light through the perpetual darkness of the storm. The same old technology served the lighthouse for generations, left alone to preserve the history of the building. Thomas’ shoulders clicked with each rotation of the giant brass crank, the cogs, and gears inside clattering from motion as the massive iron weight ascended the shaft below. When the weight reached the top of the shaft, a click resounded through the room as a latch slid into place, holding the cables in place so the lamp could be lit before the weight fell again. With a burst of flame, the oil lantern beneath the lens roared to life, which cast a light that sliced through the gloom outside with ease. With a contented sigh Thomas pulled down a metal lever, and with a click and shudder, the weight descended the shaft below, pulling the gears into place and rotating the lens around the base of the lamp and restored the sight of the tower to any vessels that dared to travel the storm. A warm comforting light filled the room which Thomas took time to bask in, this was his favorite place in the lighthouse just from the light alone. If he could move his office to the lamp room, he would do so in a heartbeat.

  With his task complete, feeling refreshed and satisfied at a job well done, Thomas exited the room via the ladder and set about putting his tools away. When he moved to toss the now useless electronics into his waste bin however, he snuck a glance inside; the book was still there as it had been earlier. With great care, he covered every last bit of the book with the electronics to hide it, out of sight, out of mind. The man dusted off his hands and wandered to his desk, from one drawer came an old satellite phone, one given to him in case of dire circumstances. Though he preferred it over the radio, the phone lacked access to the secure line that all of his reports went through. Thin fingers mashed at the buttons to input the number for emergency services, anyone that would pick up would do. But much to his dismay, the phone didn’t have a charge left, which only made sense, he hadn’t used the phone in years. If he wanted to call the mainland with the phone, his sole option was to use the generator in his weather station to charge it, and while he was there, he could try to restore power to his home.

  Plan in mind, Thomas turned to his front door and removed the barricade, only to freeze in place when the door swung open. An endless deluge of rain poured down the awning that protected his porch, it fell from the sky in frigid sheets that could buckle knees and bruise skin. This was the worst night the keeper of the lighthouse had seen in years, it was as if the sky were getting ready to collapse on his head under the weight of the water. Something stood out to him though, a noise he would not expect to hear on his porch, the sound of rainwater hitting metal. Leaning close to the ground he waved his lamp across the wooden floor, revealing a gruesome sight, the remains of a satellite dish lay scattered all across the porch. It looked as something had taken a bite out with jagged teeth, Thomas’ stomach churned that the thought of what a bite like that could do to an arm, or a leg. A thought occurred to him, there was but one dish like that on the island, that is when his heart fell through the bottom of his stomach.

  It was his satellite dish, the one he used to call in emergencies to the mainland station, the sole way of communication with the outside world. Choking on his own spit from the shock he recoiled, looking around for any clues why such a thing would have happened. It was then that something caught his eye in the dark as the beam from the tower swept over the shoreline of the island, two gleaming yellow dots staring at him. His heart locked up at the sight of two piercing eyes staring through his soul from the dark, scrambling to shut the door he glimpsed something flying right towards him through the darkness. A lump of reflective metal crashed onto his front porch, skidding to a stop at his feet. After a terse second of being frozen in fear he dared to look down at the object at his feet, the sight made his blood run cold. The crushed remains of a boat motor lay flattened on his porch, a rather familiar one. The sole way off the island had been a small boat used for emergency supply runs, whose engine now lay warped beyond recognition. By the time he had the courage to look back up, darkness had once again consumed the island and obscured the dots. The intruder could be anywhere from across the island to right at his doorstep for all he knew, a chill running up his spine told him it was the latter.

  With movements that came close to dislocating his shoulder, Thomas slammed the door shut and barred it in place, bracing his back against the door while gulping down air. With eyes shut tight, he sank to the floor and leaned on the wood behind him for support. It wasn’t real, it could not be real, he refused to accept that any of this was happening. Perhaps he was still asleep in bed, and he would wake up in the morning with everything right back where it should be. Thomas brushed his fingers against his arm and pinched hard, twisting the skin under his fingernails, and hissed from the pain. The feeling was all too real for any of this to be a dream, his eyes drifted open to face the grim reality of his situation. Trapped on an island, miles of the coast with no way to call for help or escape. He weighed his options, either he could dig in his heels and wait for the supply ferry to come, which was already weeks behind schedule, or he could risk restarting the generator. Neither of those options appealed to Thomas, he had neither the food to survive another week nor a weapon that could help him feel safe leaving the house.

  Something cut his musings short though, a loud sound broke the overwhelming silence, a clattering that came from the area around his desk. Standing up on weak knees Thomas raised his lamp high above his head and crept through the room, ready to dive for cover at a moment’s notice. Upon reaching the oaken desk at the other side of the room he met with a confusing sight, his dustbin lay sideways on the floor and perched on the desk sat the leather-bound book. The same book was there in the nightmare world, no matter what went wrong, the old tome was always constant as if begging for his attention. It sat there in silence, almost as if nothing were wrong. The sight annoyed Thomas, this damn book was hovering around like an annoying fly, just another abnormality in his comfortable life.

  In a fit of frustration, Thomas scooped up the book in hand and turned it over, looking for anything to tell him where it may have come from or what its purpose might be. Yet again he found no markings or anything to differentiate it from any other book one might find, he felt his face curl into a scowl as he tossed the book back into the dustbin, yet he never heard it land. In confusion he turned to inspect his dustbin to make sure the book made it inside, just to find that neither the bin nor book was there, and in their place sat a pile of books and looseleaf paper covered top to bottom in scribbles. The room then fell into darkness. Looking back to his desk, the lamp he had just set down was missing, as if it had vanished into thin air.

  Thomas could feel a bead of sweat pour down the back of his neck as a lump grew in the back of his throat, a familiar thudding sound came from the distance in his home. He screwed his eyes shut and assured himself again that none of this was real, but the thudding sound did not stop. He was hallucinating again, maybe the food in his icebox had already gone bad, maybe his gas line sprung a leak which was causing him to see and hear things that are not real. The noise drew closer, these footsteps far softer than the ones from before though, they sounded much more human. Thomas bit back his reasoning and scrambled to hide, deciding that crawling under his desk would be the best option, as that was the sole hiding place other than the piles of books and odd machines that littered the immediate area. From there he curled into a fetal position, desperate to take up as little space as possible in his hiding spot. With each passing second, the footsteps grew closer, until they reached the desk. Thomas’ lunch crawled up the back of his throat, the taste of bile stinging his mouth as tears streamed down his face. This was it, it would see him and then everything would be over.

  The crinkling of paper brought him to awareness, he was still alive, and the footsteps had trailed off, wandering away from his hiding spot. Thomas counted to a hundred and then poked his head out from underneath his desk and reached into the darkness running his hand across the floor, his fingers met a cylinder wrapped in paper. Pulling it close, he felt a small switch on the rod; it was a flashlight, a strong one at that by how it lit up his hiding place. He yelped and shut it off in hopes nothing had seen, but that left him unable to see the paper in his hands. Compromising, Thomas used his shirt to dull the light and flashed his torch on the paper.

  It was a map written with a red crayon, complete with a large dot labeled ‘You are here’ next to a crude drawing of a desk. Thomas could not believe his eyes, had one monster helped him or was this just an elaborate trap? Regardless of whether the map was legitimate, he had no other option but to follow it to the exit shown on the bottom left-hand corner. With a shuddering breath, Thomas crawled out of his hiding place with newfound determination and took slow shaking steps into the darkness.