The Lighthouse

Fiction

The lights went out.

In an instant, the neighbourhood was in darkness. The birds stopped their singing.

Inside the town hall, the residents of Hamlet squealed and clutched at one another.

Torches flared along the walls, casting frantic, dancing shadows that only deepened their disorientation. Their shadows moved with combative force, racing up the wooden planks. It was impossible to understand what anyone was saying anymore as their muffled voices merged into one ear-splitting clamour.

Above the residents’ voices, the wind rose in a frenzy.

Outside, a storm began to rage. It shrieked around them, battering the wooden structure of the town hall building. At each assault, the whole structure flexed and shuddered with a loud groan of metal; the residents cowered in alarm. The doors were next to fail, as they unraveled from their ties and flapped at the entrance. The flames of the paraffin torches that illuminated the doorway flickered.

The storm felt personal. It was as if it had regurgitated a deep rage reserved for them. This wasn’t the first time the electricity had shorted. But it was the first time it had taken this long to snap back on. Usually, the residents returned to their arguing, drinking, eating, laughing … and forgot it ever happened.

But it was difficult to tell what would happen when, if, this ever came to an end. How long had it been? A few minutes? Fifteen? Twenty?

The broad-chested men had begun to feel afraid. The darkness had grown claustrophobic the longer it stretched. The mutters had died down to a flat silence. They all held their breath waiting for something incongruous to transpire beneath the blanket of the dark.

The bulbs turned back on.

Roars and cheers escaped the men. The tension that had held the room together dissolved with immediacy, embarrassment washing over them. They had stood at every corner of the room hunched in positions of defence awaiting an enemy to attack. The light had done a great job of exposing the absurdity of the situation. They laughed it off.

The meeting was adjourned. After all, the budget for the fisherman’s festival was something that could wait.

The men walked out of the hall, nearly holding hands, as they crouched toward one another. They laughed and marched, their boisterous laughter carrying into the homes of nearby towns. A passer-by would’ve believed the scene illuminated in front of them was one of celebration, had it not been a transparent facade.

Across town, an Irish bell began to ring, a ditty tuned to match the absurdity of the night. Many of the men hurried in that direction, eager for light relief. Had they looked closely at their path, they might have seen the red streak that had dried into a rusty trail. And had they bothered to take a headcount, they would have realised they were one man short.

None of them noticed.

The sing-song Irish tune directed the men to the shore. It had been a flash alarm. Warnings of tides that were to come were dispatched; a storm so violent it threatened to scour the town from the soil.

The men drifted frantically in groups and waves, moving towards opposing directions in search of the melody. Inebriated by the need to survive, the men began to move toward the piers.

The storm still raged. And no one could leave the island. The boats cannot come until the wind dies down.

In the centre, between them and what the fog permitted them to see, stood a lighthouse. It appeared whole and perfect before them, its light steadily flashing into the abyss of the night. Only an hour before the lights went out, the men had gathered around this very shore to watch the ceremonial appointment of its new lighthouse keeper.

But now, its perfection stood as a threat to their sanity. The Irish bells, which had fought the gale all night, were ringing from within the hollow structure of the lighthouse.

The men froze. They stared at one another. Suddenly, they became aware that the storm was not the only invader.

The Irish bells have turned into a scream of terror. Where was the lighthouse keeper?

Eyes dart around in question.

But the man was missing.