The Lighthouse

It's snowing again. The fog did not help to see the boat's and vessel's lanterns around the glaciers. Though it is rare for ships to pass through there, we must do our duties still. Lately, my father has gotten ill, perhaps from the breeze that the mounds of ice blew or from the tireless watching and guarding of this lighthouse. Either way, his health has severely declined, to the point that somedays he could not see, yet he still stares from afar. As if watching something that isn't there. I tend to him every day, feed him hot soup, and make him drink medicines that I create. Perhaps I should call an apothecary or a mage to look into this, but we have no more money left because of the winter's rush. So, I will take care of him, for now. At least until the summer's sun dissolves that thick encumbering snow outside. It's ridiculous to travel to Wazarick, for the miles, more so in winter, will take me to death's embrace. It is merely too far for one's feet to travel.

The next day, I woke up with a strange feeling that festered in my stomach. I do not know whether this is anxiety or hunger. I had not eaten for weeks, and even that I haven't remembered. The malign air of winter makes one delirious. As if their sanity is stolen by the wind. I told him to move to the city three winters ago, but he didn't listen. He said that this place is special. He said there is a treasure in its soil or walls waiting to be found. I didn't get that, and I still don't. Maybe he's right, but whatever treasure is in this lighthouse isn't worth starvation or hypothermia. But I do like sightseeing, I'm only allowed in the service room though. I don't know why I'm not allowed at the pinnacle — the gallery. And my father's obsession with that room creates wary illusions in my mind. It's as if it is more of an importance than his son — than me. Even so, the severe phosphorescence of the lantern's light is deteriorating his eyesight. That doesn't explain his sickness, though. But for now, I should watch over the lighthouse. If pirates or bandits attacked, we wouldn't have much of a fight. We'll be immediately dead.

It has been weeks since then, yet the feeling of fright and strangeness had never left me. Added to the queerness was my father's behavior, or perhaps the lack of it. I have not seen him. He's holed in the gallery of this lighthouse, though I hear his murmurs whenever I'm in the service room. It was unintelligible, and the language of which he spoke was not human. Perhaps it is sidgir or alike. Perhaps... it is the human language. I just couldn't comprehend or hear because of the muffling and obscuring ceiling. I like to imagine that; instead of other horrifying possibilities I dare not assume. I believe, for sure, that he is doing well. His voice was loud, not frail like those who are ill. I guess he sneaks out of his hole whenever I sleep or rest. That's the only possible reason why the food I cook disappears from the pot whenever I wake up the next day. I'm glad his health improved, but I'm wary of his worsening obsession. I'm plenty sure that could lead to insanity at some point. I only hope that never happens.

Hours later and the sheep outside mysteriously disappeared. The only evidence of their disappearance was the trail of blood leading to the gallery. My father is hiding something from me. Harboring a secret that I crave to know. So, I opened the door upon the floorboards of the gallery. What welcomed my nose was not the fresh winter air or the smell of oil but a stench only I could compare to rust — it was blood. It trickled down my cheek when I opened the door. Have I gone mad? Or did my father? I peeked on the opened wedge of the door and saw my father kneeling in front of the sheep carcasses. Why was it rotting? They were slaughtered earlier, but it seems like they were killed many months ago, or year almost. Their body was rotten that black molds ate most of the wool and their body seemed sapped of any nutrients. The lighthouse's glass pane, too, was bloody. Blood splattered everywhere. It clung to any surface and crevice of the room. I closed my eyes and opened it again, but my sight did not deceive me. I have not gone mad; my father did.

I went up the gallery and exposed myself, confronting this whole maddening charade of insanity. I called with a shout many times, yet he kept his head down, staring at the dead sheep. His demeanor was lifeless. His bone etched upon his skin like there's no meat or blood left in his body. The bones on his chest protruded, and every curvature of it was pronounced. The skin, too, was odd. It's nearly see-through. It was so thin that even a pinch would tear it apart. Finally, after the loudest scream, I had spit in my life, my father looked up. But his eyes were void — it was gouged brutally. His eyelids weren't there, too. The more I stared at it, the more petrified my body became. The macabre scenery that was upon me was something only a madman could describe. Dried lachrymal blood clung to his cheeks, and then he smiled at me, toothless and devoid of the tongue. He flapped his mouth as if saying something, but I couldn't possibly hear it from the unsettling crackles of the lantern fire.

I ran, despite the intense petrification that befell me. I ran, despite the thick winter tears that made me quickly fatigued. Each step I took, the deeper the snow got. It felt like I was running to the sea, not the forest beyond. And before I entered the woods, I made a mistake. And that was I looked back at the zenith of the lighthouse. The light of the lantern was hellish, almost crimson. As I peer back, it stared right through my soul. The lantern? No, the ball of flame that nearly blinded me. The terrible cyclopean and ever-watchful giant eye of the lighthouse.