Autumn was the perfect season for all kinds of trouble to stir. It was a long standing tradition for the kids from the highschool to row over to the lighthouse and vandalise it with painted swear words and their names. I never had to wash any of it off, not that I could. The sea took care of that.
'The Looking Lighthouse' is what it's called by locals. It was different from other lighthouses. Instead of one light to guide the ships it had two, both haphazardly placed, as if someone had carelessly thrown them on there. They didn't face the expanse of the sea, but rather the town, giving the semblance of two eerie eyes looking at you from a distance.
Because of the placement of the lights, ships seldom found their way to the little coast town, and if they did, they ended up colliding with the lighthouse, ship and treasures and people alike drowning in the bottomless waters.
The lighthouse, for some unknown reason, never seemed damaged beyond the mould and erosion that has always decorated it.
Those who survived the wreck, either by being spat out by the cold sea, or swimming to the shore themselves, found themselves captivated by the little town. The people could only be described as enigmatic. They walked and talked and went about their day but if you happened to listen to them two days in a row, you may be able to notice how they seem to say the same things, at the very same time, in the very same way,
And soon enough, you become part of the little town itself. I know so much about it only because of a journal the old keeper used to keep. I've read it over and over and the message is clear. Stay in the lighthouse. You'd be safer in the raging waters than that quaint little town.
Still, it was quite the picturesque portrait for anyone who glanced at it. But take a second look, and the haunting image of spindly dead trees on the horizon, or the hundreds of crows perched on their branches, might be enough to deter you.
I'm a simple woman. I wake up. Put the kettle on. Make my cup of tea. Inhale the cinnamon scent.
It hasn't escaped me how the weather always seems the same. How it never snows and the sun never shines. It doesn't escape me how every halloween, I see the same seniors row their run down boat up to my lighthouse, vandalise it, and try to row back, only to be swallowed by the vengeful sea.
I keep a journal, just like the old keeper. I do not know where he went, or how I came to work here. I have no more memories other than that of waking up in the rickety, springy bed, back aching, and just simply knowing what to do. Maybe he got too old, and decided that he would row to the little town and spend the rest of his days there.
Maybe he is now just a character in that melancholy story.
I know that one day, I will be the old keeper. I do not know how that will come to be. But for now, I will keep doing my simple things and keep a watchful eye on the little coast town, in case one day it just ceases to exist.
