THE LIGHTHOUSE

It was dim.

Waves could be heard crashing against craggy old stone. Above, a ceiling lamp swayed hypnotically, revealing orange-hued glimpses of Mr. Wake's home.

Ephraim stepped forward tentatively, snorting while removing his hat. There was a slight odor that accompanied a small table with two chairs; a reverberating and subtle stench that caused saliva to swim up Ehpraim's throat in growing disgust.

"Mr. Wake?" The young man called. The home seemed crypt-like, empty. Ephraim marched forward, his movement breaking silence like shattered glass. He spied a spiraling staircase to the far left, beside a dead, iron fireplace backed by rows upon rows of books.

Ephraim turned towards the table.

There were markings etched on the table's sides. Carvings? Symbols? Ephraim was unsure.

They curled and danced across dark wood. The chairs carried the etches as well, standing guard under the gaze of Wake's moon-like lamp.

The house creaked. A groaning moan emanated from heavy oak. Wind whipped about outside, screaming gale battering against harshly pointed windows.

Ephraim suddenly jumped, swearing as his eyes darted towards the stairs.

A man stood at the crown of the steps, staring at Ephraim in regal silence. He wore a simple black shirt paired with heavy-looking overalls, dirtied by decades of salt water.

He was older, cleanly shaven. His hair was pecked with salt, long and pushed back. He might've been handsome in his youth, but in old age he bore an almost unnerving gaze.

"The new Wickie, are ye? how fortune finds us," His voice was heavily accented- nearly comical. It was also surprisingly genuine in its silence, Ephraim found himself straining to hear the man.

"Mr. Wake," Ephraim nodded. Wake smiled thinly, stepping down the stairs with deliberate slowness. His steps were accompanied by a heavy, pointed thud-

A peg met Wake's thigh, catching Ephraim's green eyes before they shifted back to the old man's visage.

Mr. Wake climbed down the stairs without offering any more words. Ephraim swallowed, exhaling as he began breathing from his mouth. 

"Ephraim Winslow," The young man's voice adopted a false roughness. A hand was offered to Wake as he labored past. Wake gripped Ephraim's hand, dragging the younger man along slightly before releasing him.

He hobbled for the fireplace. Grunting, Mr. Wake reached for iron keys that dangled from his back pocket. 

It was then Ephraim spied a black statue smelted from the iron floor and upwards, taking up nearly three feet in height, and a foot in width.

The image bore the shape of a woman, pregnant, crawling forward on all fours. Her mouth was closed, and long hair trailed downwards, pooling on either side of her cheeks.

Frowning, Ephraim watched as Mr. Wake stabbed his keys into the statue's back. A latch opened.

The older man picked choice small pieces of wood from the statue, opening his furnace with a free hand.

"Never seen anyone lock up wood," Ephraim said with a furrowed brow.

"Best to keep the dryness. Wood isn't as common as you'd think," the old man chuckled in surprisingly good humor.

Mr. Wake turned as he deposited the wood into the fireplace.

"Sit if it pleases ye," he said, nodding towards the chairs that stood sigil behind Ephraim.