The skies were black, suffocated by clouds which robbed the world of light as they loomed ever closer. Thunderheads swirled punctuated by jagged streaks of lightning arcing across the sky while gale force winds ripped the seas, whipping them into a barrage of ink black waves. Thick sheets of rain pounded without mercy on the brave and foolish alike. A capsized boat, a crushing death from monster waves rather than a chance of drowning. It was as if a great tar fist from the seafloor hungered to drag sailors into the murky depths. And the wind’s roar filled the seaside air dominating the thoughts of any not blown off their feet.

  A sweeping ray of light pierced the darkness, which stretched far into the raging storm. The beams sole purpose is to guide the unfortunate few that dared to brave the raging seas. A decrepit lighthouse stooped over the crashing waves atop a small plateau. The once red and white building had long since lost its color to the endless rainfall. The island beneath chipped away by the rushing water piece by piece. A silhouette of the tower showed a crooked slant, sagged from years of punishment by the disastrous weather. A variety of weather monitoring equipment sat scattered across the island. Kept in good condition, these devices were key in the lighthouse’s secondary purpose: monitoring weather patterns and studying the perpetual storm.

  Beneath the boarded windows and chipped brickwork of the tower sat its keeper, a thin and pale man. The keeper hunched over an oaken desk, his head of unkempt red hair sagged from the humidity. With eyes sunken in from head-wrenching bouts of insomnia the man’s eyelids drooped to a half-lidded state. A great crack of lightning startled the drowsy man from his doze, the roll of thunder caused his unsteady hands to jolt. The keeper’s inkwell pen flew from his hand and landed on the day’s notes. A large blot of ink soaked into the parchment, which soiled hours of work. Thomas Stern swore and gathered the now ruined parchment, mopping up spilled ink with a deep scowl. The long-held tradition of using old-fashioned parchment and pen brought more misery than joy.  Though the smell of old parchment and ink resonated with the weathered keeper. The frustrating tools of his grandfather gave Thomas a sense of nostalgia. A sensation that outweighed the annoyances of spilled ink. A sharp pang of guilt came from the thought of his family. He had left behind his past life as a college student to pursue his dreams of following in his grandfather’s footsteps, the man he idolized. Out of all his many regrets, abandoning the family that loved him in a desperate bid for independence was his greatest.

  Tired eyes drifted to a crisp letter that sat perched on his desk, a fine layer of dust obscuring the address a clear sign of neglect. It had been months since he received the letter from his mother, the thought of what might be inside the envelope made Thomas’ stomach turn. With a glance down at his now soiled parchment and a heavy sigh, he reached for the letter, determined to put to bed whatever may be inside. As his fingers brushed the thin layer of dust, he reconsidered, remembering back to when he first left his family to pursue his grandfather’s work. Thomas had not left home on good terms in the slightest, his family had insisted he stay far away from the madness of his grandfather’s “world”, even threatening disownment should he leave. In trembling hands, the letter returned to its place on the wooden desk, with the promise of being opened at a later time. Thoughts of the outside world left a bitter taste in Thomas’ mouth, in the months that followed the letter, he had received no other messages from his family nor from past friends, or even the taxman. The common assumption was that like the lighthouse itself, he lay forgotten to the sands of time. Dull throbbing pain was ever present in Thomas’ heart at the loss of his family and friends, that along with the constant burning migraine that grew and shrank with the storm made for a dismal and gloomy life at Stern’s peak. A deep scowl spread across Thomas’ face, who shook his head to banish the thoughts. The research took precedence over family, dwelling on the past held back new discoveries. Trembling hands pulled a fresh piece of parchment from the oak desk and refilled the ink pen, only to drop it once more. Thin fingers slammed onto the aged desk as Thomas attempted to right himself, tremors became more of an issue as the days went progressed.

  The familiar pangs of hunger rose from Thomas’ stomach, which reminded him of his skipped meals for the day. The habit of working before eating had emerged soon after he moved to the island. A teary-eyed yawn convinced the weary lighthouse keeper it was as good a time as any to take a break, the gnawing pain in his stomach agreed. On creaking knees, Thomas rose from his oaken desk, his body fought against even the slightest of movement on his way to the cramped kitchenette. From a small icebox came a few links of dried jerky and a glass of water, a full meal by recent standards. The meat was bitter as it ground into Thomas’ teeth. Supplies had been wearing thin for weeks as the supply ferry faced endless delays at the hand of the storm. Thomas’ heart fell to the bottom of his stomach as the thought of being left to die echoed through his aching skull. The mainland had long since given up calling about the ceaseless delays at regular intervals as they had before; they kept all communication curt and to the point, which left the sole occupant of the island concerned and suspicious to a slight degree. Something had happened on the mainland during his absence, but his focus on research and apathy kept him from asking questions, he was comfortable in his current position and nothing was about to stop that. He’d rather have misery be familiar than embracing the unknown and risk everything crashing down around him.

  Thomas could equate his situation to being stranded on a deserted island, with books and work being his sole company, years ago his home had been a tourist attraction and a prized fishing spot for competition. As the storm blew in, visitors thinned until they vanished, not even the supply ferry stayed to chat during the many runs it made back and forth through crashing waves and blistering winds. Each supply run the amount brought to the island shrunk, in part because of wavering funding, it seemed like each day that passed came another cut to the annual budget, commodities such as toilet paper were fast becoming a precious resource. Another flash of lightning punctuated the thought of the weather, which prompted Thomas to gaze out his darkened living room window through the shutters that reinforced them against the winds.

  Local weather patterns had turned for the worse, which had caused a myriad of disasters across the nearby shoreline. Eyes shifted to Thomas for answers, answers that had yet to arise. Now accompanied by the harsh grinding of bitter salted meat, Thomas mulled over the frustrating lack of progress. A brief glance around the bottom floor of the lighthouse forced Thomas’s eyes into a severe squint. The dim lighting of candles made it difficult to distinguish furniture from scientific equipment. A sigh slipped from Thomas’ mouth at the sight of cobwebs and dust that had built up from years of neglect. The pounding pain between the man’s eyes as another bolt of lightning shot across the room through boarded windows forced him to screw his eyes shut. In his mind, Thomas assured himself that everything was in order and that nothing had changed, his house was his fortress. Even with those assurances, however, the overpowering urge to check around the house remained. A nearby candle provided much-needed light as Thomas rose from his chair, joints clicking and complaining the entire way. Thomas crept through the house, away from his lit work-space and into the dark living room at the house’s center. A chill ran up the thin man’s spine as he ventured further into the darkness. The feeling of being watched never left Thomas whenever he ventured away from the light and safety of his desk.

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  Dim candlelight flickered and danced across the dark house and cast shadows that loomed across the room from the various devices scattered around the room. The paranoid chill of being watched made Thomas fidget. With a huff, Thomas through the slumped doorway that leads to the house proper, determined to rid himself of the distraction. It wasn’t often that the lights were on as they put a much-unneeded strain on the aged generator that powered the rest of the lighthouse. The light blinded Thomas as it burst to life; he cursed and shouted as the light worsened his migraine. Thomas screwed his eyes shut behind his hands until they adjusted to the change. The joint pain of the light and migraine was stomach turning. When the pain lessened, tired eyes peeled open to take in the room. The moth-eaten furniture and portraits that covered the walls brought back distant memories of the space. Various clicking machinery and beeping devices lied scattered about the room, walls covered in charts. Decades of weather patterns written on the framed charts. The common trend of the joint data was that the supposed eternal rain had been worsening over the last few decades with no plausible explanation.

  With a grimace and bloodshot eyes, Thomas glared at his wicker chair, which stood slumped behind his desk. Small books and piles of paperwork covered every inch of space on the desktop. The dread of working for hours to restore work he had just finished leaving a drained hollowness his heart. Checking for the supply ferry instead crossed Thomas’ notice. That appealed better to Thomas than using the rest of his time hunched over his desk making up for his past clumsiness. There was no real way to tell time anymore, the gloomy clouds above had long since blotted out the sun. The sole indicator for the time was the ticking clock that counted the minute’s in-between work hours. His worn slippers scuffed as he shuffled his feet across creaking floorboards to the door. Heavy bars which blocked the storm from slamming the fortified door wide open and spreading paperwork everywhere groaned as they shifted as if they shared their keeper’s endless fatigue.

  Aged wood creaked under the burden of the wind when the bars shifted. The door came close to dislocating Thomas’ shoulder as he worked to close it; it forced him to brace his foot against the door-frame to pull it shut. When he had secured the door, Thomas peered over his surroundings. From underneath the awning which sheltered the modest front porch, visibility was poor, as the constant rain dropped from the sky in heavy blankets. The shaking keeper reached for an adjacent rack and took hold of a stout umbrella with a white-knuckled grip. As Thomas ventured out, the gravel pathway made satisfying crunching sounds with each stride, it was the little details that propped up his morale. The island itself was little to speak of, thin patches of grass and monitoring equipment marked the path to the sole port on the island. A ragged shoreline made up of sharp rocks encapsulated the dismal plateau that was his home.

  The moor at the edge of the narrow passage through the sharp rocks swayed and groaned with the passing wind. A sturdy handrail was all that kept passersby from being swept into the sea. The small dilapidated shed that served as a drop-off point stood bare, not a single can of food in sight. It had been weeks since the last supply ferry had come by. The storm had long since cut off radio communication to the outside world, save for the restricted channel for his data. Despair pried at Thomas’ heart as he feared if the mainland refused to send the ferry out into the storm.

  The exhausted keeper trudged his way back to the security of his home, the winds having depleted him of his strength. A crash of thunder and a burst of lightning from overhead cast shadows across the craggy rocks of the island, Thomas’ eyes flitted back and forth as his gut twisted. Even though it was unthinkable for anyone to enter the island due to the nightmarish raging storm, the ever-present suspicion of being watched persisted. Thomas ran back to the door and slammed it shut behind him. With a huff, Thomas sagged against the door from the inside. The overhead light was out again, owing in part to the storm. The faulty wiring of the decades-old building did not age well. And with the dark came paranoia. Thomas’ legs trembled and fretted while his eyes darted around the dim room. Something was hunting him, uninvited guests in his home, those thoughts which lingered in Thomas’ aching head.

  The chiming of Thomas’ favorite clock snapped him out of his paranoid daze, it had hit midnight without his knowing.  With a hoarse groan of exertion, Thomas rose to his feet, a slight unfitting of a man his age. Stern’s peak had taken its toll on its sole occupant’s mind and body. And yet something kept Thomas from leaving, a nervous blackened part of his brain insisted that he stay. He couldn’t abandon his grandfather’s life work, and he lacked the funds to pay the fines that came from leaving.

  One aching foot in front of the other, Thomas scaled the circular staircase to the upper levels, hoping that sleep would put his frayed mind back in order. The second floor of the lighthouse comprised a worn mattress with a squeaky frame and a small bedside cabinet. A small round window on the far wall displayed the rain outside, saturated with water. A small half-eaten can of peaches served as supper flew into an ever-growing pile of used tin in the far end of the room. From there Thomas sagged and fell onto the ancient bed as springs whined underneath, he didn’t bother removing his clothes; he kept himself dressed for bed no matter the occasion because of the lack of visitors. Thomas curled up in his thick mouth chewed blanket and stared at the far wall. Bloodshot eyes drooped they scanned the room, in search of anything out of place. Whenever his eyes closed, they opened a short time later at what Thomas thought were the sounds of movement that never turned out to be true. His insomnia continued until his body no longer had the strength to stay awake, and his eyes crept shut, which led him to a fitful sleep.