Philip Cadden

No one lived on the shore near the lighthouse, and the vast, empty desolation only deepened the eeriness of it, built long ago upon barren rock. Fishermen feared its craggy, jutting stones, despite the fact that every night the lighthouse guided them to port. Notorious for many shipwrecks, the unforgiving coastline was plagued by cruel currents, and the shining dot of the lantern kept travelers away from the reefs.

Apart from the erosion and decay of the sea, all remained untouched in these lands and Philip's dark eyes flickered to the waters, the glassy surface of the Dark Sea that ran with no end, disappearing at the horizon. Odd men made port and went, some staying longer than others, and some never leaving, choosing to settle in a small town hidden in the fog, a mile away.

The townsfolk did their best to mind their own business, knowing better than to disturb the keeper's strange solitude. Superstitious folk. He watched them stumble along, making deliveries and coming back from the sea in small boats, nets sometimes empty, sometimes loaded with fish. The locals always stared warily at the lighthouse, casting glances and whispering tales about its keeper, about men whose ears and noses were malformed from exposure, who spoke funny-sounding languages of the old sea.

The secluded lifestyle did not bother Philip, though. Quite the opposite, in fact.

For, unknown to everyone, he considered his land not a barren stretch of stone and dirt, nor a mere hovel. He studied the tide, watched it rise, fell, rise again, and in the quiet solitude, Philip had caught sight of them in their fishy and tentacled shapes and heard them whisper in languages that were foreign and incomprehensible to mankind, yet beautiful, deep and powerful. Philip knew to avoid their territories, straying the ships and boats away from their way, and the location of their sunken city, which laid buried and hidden underneath the waves, where men weren't welcome to tread.

So far, he has kept watch.

As the wind billowed around him, his gaze followed the whitecaps crashing in gentle waves against the craggy beach. A small light of a lantern moved in the distance, signaling the coming boat. Philip took up the flashlight and clicked it on and off, a series of pulses meant as recognition. The boat blinked in response, moving closer, its form taking shape out of the fog that curled around the shore.

Strange noises in the dead of night - the screech of barnacles against the lighthouse base. Philip blinked groggily, barely registering the sounds. This was no dream; the throbbing behind his eyelids proved that. With effort, he pulled himself up on trembling arms and stared at the window. There, a black void framed by haphazard curtains met his gaze; something moved outside. Philip turned away.

Deep Ones did not tire. Unlike him, who had a schedule to keep once the day would come.

It had rained the whole week, and he didn't like the damp, its bitter sting as salt spray mixed with air. It seeped deep into one's bones and settled there until all warmth leeched away, leaving one with an unnatural chill. An ember smoldered at his feet, a single glint of old metal heater glowing, illuminating the bed upon which he lay. Philip threw an arm over his head and fell back into a dreamless slumber.

In the early hours, the gray dawn seemed to creep through cracks and crevices. He found himself again at his window, gazing out across the inky waves, but no sign of the deep ones had remained. No hint of life save for gulls who winged silently, swooping along a sliver of light. Philip dressed mechanically, glancing at the clock: five-thirty a.m., which meant breakfast.

He set a cezve with coffee atop the burner. As the it brewed, Philip puttered about in the kitchen area and readied some ingredients for breakfast: eggs, a hunk of butter and some salt pork he'd traded with the fish merchant. Then he toasted a loaf of bread. The scent filled the cramped space with its sharp, salty tang.

Food: ready; he stirred his brew once more, before settling himself down at his table. It was Sunday, so he only expected three boats to port. Not a lot of work. Philip wrapped his fingers around the cup.

As the first ray pierced his window, he ate a solitary meal in near silence. Then began his daily routine. Steps spiraled, creaking under Phillip's weight, each hollow echoing more loudly than the last. "It's chilly." His voice echoed against bare walls; no answer came.

He inspected all lamps, wicks, and gears in the lower level, checking their functioning condition. Then, he climbed up the steps to see if the topmost oil lamp required relighting. It did. Philip poured fresh fuel into the reservoir, lit the wick, and went on his way, satisfied that his duties were upheld for another morning.

His thoughts on the way to his living space were interrupted by a loud knock.

Cadden rarely ventured into the town, mostly because he did not desire interaction and did not wish to leave the lighthouse unattended, yet some business was necessary to run his operations. He trekked a mile on his own feet, walking a barren path beside the sea and between rocky cliff edges to the town below. With only a lantern, his lonely figure vanished into the mists.

The journey was solitary, with nothing but the rush of waves to keep him company. When he arrived in town, ships crowded the docks, smoke billowed from the chimneys, rising against a gray sky. Sailors milled about, rolling barrels and crates. He headed straight for the inn and, as expected, there were already a few patrons mingling in the pub's warmth, drinks in hand.

"...this town might be cursed," one fisherman slurred between gulps of alcohol.

"Nah," another one interrupted, " 's bad weather. Just bad weather."

Philip was met with startled glances as he came in through the door, yet none tried to engage him in conversation or inquired. His presence was acknowledged by a nod here and there, perhaps the briefest of looks and maybe the most awkward of smiles. Apprehensive acceptance, mixed with careful politeness and quiet respect. Cadden let the lantern's glass shield clang against the bar counter before nodding the inn's owner, who then walked up to him, rubbing a rag over a cup. "I'm here for supplies, Jordie." Paper, ink, rope, nails, matches - anything that was running low at the lighthouse was added up.

"Anything special?"

"No, just the usual."

Jordie counted up the total, as Philip rummaged for coins inside his pockets, then handed them over in exchange for the small, unlabeled packages. Those went into the large inner pocket of his coat, almost blending in with the cloth itself.

The sand, stones and rough gravel shifted, his boots leaving grooved impressions behind. All was still. Craggy granite and empty skies were his companions as Philip walked down the coastline on the lookout for stray boats or objects, washed ashore. Dull gray waves crested with foam rolled and broke, spitting sprays of water, which kissed Philip's cheeks. Wreckage occasionally came his way, all manner of oddities: pieces of wood, gleaming metal pots and pans, bottles half-sunken, glinting dully as the sun struck the surface.

Philip usually brought back anything usable or salvageable, knowing the fishermen of the nearby town would take these odds and ends in a heartbeat. Any refuse that couldn't be restored was burned, the remnants fed to the tide. Sometimes he received word from the town of a missing boat or ship. These messages, often written on weathered parchment in chicken scrawl, gave him an indication to look for the bodies, that might've been carried ashore by the waves. This wasn't likely, as most would have ended up food for the fishes, but rarely Phillip did find corpses in the trenches, cold as stone and white as marble.

So each night and foggy day he tended the lighthouse lamp, wicking its oil from canister to bowl, feeding the fire and stoking its blaze to ensure safety. The smell of kerosene and smoke clung to his hands, reminding Philip of the mundane duties that kept him busy, as a lighthouse keeper. Two months had passed since the last wreck.

The townspeople never lingered by the rocks and Philip didn't blame them. Often they claimed they saw strange shadows and lights, creatures creeping out from hidden grottos and beneath the churning brine. No wonder that on those nights where no breeze disturbed the waters or when fog gathered and stretched its miasma far out to sea, they kept indoors.

Superstition was thick, when a sailor lived and breathed the sea, and these people had the sea woven into the fabric of their very souls. Philip walked to a ridge, worn smooth by centuries of storms. Its crenellated edges were worn and waterlogged. Here he paused, straining his ears in the silence to pick up on sounds.