The Keeper. Ch.1/2

They would come for him as soon as he closed his eyes. They always did. So the answer was as simple as it was impossible: don't close your eyes. And don't ever sleep.

George gazed at the horizon, at the exact point where the sky fell into the arms of the sea, and he could see nothing. His hand swept over his face to try and brush away the drowsiness, the stubble grating on calloused skin like sandpaper over wood.

How long since he had slept? Briefly, and only then to awake retching, choking on phantom salt water burning his throat. That recurring dream was getting stronger. The terror of it. A life with the sea and yet never having learned to swim.

George sighed and searched around for his now only other companion on the lighthouse, the cat 'pickle'. His colleague, and the cat's real owner, had died in a terrible accident, having been swept off the rocks and out to sea by a rogue wave three months ago. That's what they say anyhow, but George wasn't so sure. Neither were the authorities. They were suspicious. It was, after all, only George's word on what had actually happened. They never did find the body. Since then, and until they found a new 'keeper' to partner him, he was alone here. That was fine with George.

The cat was there, gazing back at George from the far side of the room, in the way cats sometimes do, looking right through you as if you're not there at all.

‘Ah, so you feel it too, eh, boy?’

George turned and looked out over the sea, through huge glass windows. Oily calm and at odds with his inner torment, the waves lapped at the jagged rocks around the base of the lighthouse much like that cat at a bowl of milk. But both sea and cat could turn ferocious without warning if disturbed. Or annoyed.

The sea itself seemed to induce within him an almost trance-like state. He could feel its pull starting to take its hold. He shook himself, annoyed, then growled, ‘Where the Hell is Tom?’

Grabbing the binoculars, he found the familiar black shape of a small boat inward bound from the shore. There was Tom, standing nervously on the foredeck, ready to cast a securing line to the jetty at the base of the lighthouse. George smiled at the sight, he knew Tom was no seaman. He liked this young man who came over once a month to service the electronics. Though he would never admit it, he looked forward to his visits.

After watching him tie up, George went down the circular stairs to the base. He could hear he was already inside the ground level storm-door, no doubt with his toolkit in hand. Tom, of course, always carried his own set of keys.

‘How’re ya doing George, everything ok with you today?’ Tom called out as he did on every visit. ‘Got some fresh fruit for you, hope you like them.’

‘Aye Tom, I do enjoy those,' George replied, 'something to get the taste buds working again.’

'Can't hang around today George, I'm late enough as it is, just a quick visit, I'll just do my checks and be off.'

He liked Tom well enough, but he always found it difficult to communicate with people, especially these days, preferring his own company. It came with the job, he told himself. So he simply stood and watched as Tom opening his toolkit, rummaging around as he got his things together and headed towards the electronics at the back of the room.

'This shouldn’t take too long George – just checking a few things and replacing this fuse, and that’s all I think…yeah, looks pretty good.’

It wasn't long before Tom called out, 'Well, I guess that's it, George, all done', he said, giving a long final look around the dusty room. 'Right, well, I'll be on my way back then. George? You take care, you hear?'

George turned to gaze once again out the window. ‘Aye, well, that’s good I guess, Tom, 'cause I don’t think this here calm sea is going to last that long– you’d best be off home - and you'd better be quick me lad…’ and saying that, he turned and climbed back up the circular stairs.

Tom didn't reply as he finished gathered up his things, gave another last look around, and left.

Once George reached the top of the lighthouse, it was clear to him the weather was turning. The horizon already darkening with an approaching storm front. He heard Tom’s voice echo around the circular stone structure of the building as he again called up. ‘Until next time, George!’

Watching Tom negotiate his way over the black rocks towards his waiting boat, George could feel that familiar feeling of dread building again, deep within his guts.

‘Aye Tom, until next time. Scuttle back to dry land, that’s where you belong, no place for you here, not here, not today with this storm building.’

It was time to prepare for the coming storm. Without delay, he began throwing all the heavy storm door latches into their locked positions. Once that was done, the barometer again checked. Yes, the pressure was dropping fast, faster than normal. A shiver went through him, just as the cat appeared at his feet.

‘Pickle, it look's like we’re in for a proper show tonight, worthy of your name, you’d better not venture too far, best stay close.'

Instead, the cat backed away.

'What's up, lad?'

With a snarl and hair raised, it spun away, diving into the dark depths beneath a tattered sofa.

Only then did George hear what the cat had already heard.

A high-pitched wail came floating over the sea, like a lament for the dead. His skin crawled as he recognised the sound, but the familiarity failed to bring any comfort. Again and again it came, a desolate cry that was not just a song, but a warning.

The whale must be close, George realised. But there was not a sign of it amongst the building steel-grey waves. A bad sign, signalling the worst of storms. He began double bolting the windows shut with a renewed sense of urgency. The coming fury would find any weak spot in his, as well as the lighthouse's, defences.

The storm grew inexorably, searching and finding the smallest cracks in windows and doors, screaming its presence as the light of the day seeped deeper into darkness. The ferocity of the gale sending storm spray crashing over the height of the lighthouse, the water pattering like the fingers of the dead against its windows.

All the while, the rotating beam of the lighthouse gave up deadly glimpses of the primordial fury surrounding the isolated rock that was George's home, as its warning finger of light stretched far out to sea.

Then George heard something that cut through the sound of the storm. A sound that had him gripping the surrounding iron rail in real fear. From far below, from the very base of the lighthouse, it echoed hollowly up the staircase. Every hair on his arms rose as one. The sound was unlike anything the storm could create, and it was coming from the outside door.

‘Damn flotsam thrown up by the storm, that's all it is, nothing more …’ George snarled under his breath.

He began his way down the stairs and the sound, a heavy banging, abruptly stopped. In the sudden silence, George paused and waited, watching as a lightbulb suspended from the ceiling swung gently, caught by the storms tendrils blowing through the tiniest of cracks. The light casting dark, moving shadows, the room appearing to move as if a ship at sea. George steadied himself against the phantom swaying, staring at the suddenly silent storm door. Had he imagined it?

Then, it came again. A sound with an awful intensity that shook his soul. George staggered back in shock.

Tremendous hammer blows were raining down, the wood splitting, cracking under the relentless attack. Dust blown off the door began filling the room, filling it in a shifting fog of light and shadow. The iron hinges were shaking, loosening.

George shouted at the door and to himself, ‘Nobody's out there, not in this storm, you're just bloody flotsam, nothing more!’

The door was about to give way and, in desperation, he hurled himself against it. The sounds ceased. There was silence. Nothing but the sigh of the gale and his own ragged breath. He took hold of himself. He knew what he had to do. The door had to be opened, he had to clear the flotsam crashing outside against it, that's all it was, and to clear his mind. But his hands shook as he unbolted the securing locks, one by one.

As the last bolt was freed, the wind caught the door and it swung open, knocking him to the floor with a blast of sea-spray. George climbed to his feet, gripping the door frame for support and stared out into the darkness. Of course there was nothing there. Just the wind, the sea, and himself, gasping for breath.

The great searchlight came swinging around, reaching out its finger of brilliance and there - frozen as if caught in the flash of a camera – were strange shapes revealing themselves within the swirling spray before vanishing again into the night.

The image that remaining on his half-blinded retina burnt into his mind. Grotesque remnants of men, of women and smaller shapes that could only be children. Their moving corpses made translucent from long immersion in the cold depths of the sea. Bodies torn and broken, having been feasted upon by the denizens that lived there, the crabs, the eels. Silent, broken spirits, bodies streaked with the blood of the sea, their flesh hanging and ragged.

George was transfixed. It couldn't be real. He was going mad. The great light continued on its arc, coming around, closer, closer …

What he saw made George scream.

The creatures had almost reached him. Staggering, eye sockets alive with crawling things, imploring. Each time the light swept around, they had moved that much closer to him.They called to him, as if the very gale itself was forming their ethereal words.

‘Help us! Help us, please help us, you must help us …’ , over and over again.