At last he arrived--a fine lad as a companion to slack off within this weather-worn lighthouse that stood for decades; keeping watch of the bays and the treacherous reefs and shoals of the Atlantic on the edge of the jagged rocks by the solitary sea cliffs.
He waved at me as he came, carrying his baggages; and I returned with a smile and tipped off my hat.

Ensign Sherman Doyle, he was. Temporary leave brought him out of the navy into this tower of dark boredom and sleepless nights.
I felt sorry for the kid though. If he would ask me, I would like to be out into the civilization than being pitted on this solitary confinement disguised as a formal duty.
Doyle is a merry lad; used to talk a lot about himself and his adventures out there in the big wide blue. It seems that he was a direct juxtaposition of myself, for I have no stories to tell him or to share a bit of my experiences; the only fact that we have in common is the same brand of delicate mainland weed that we smoke in our pipes.

Of course, Doyle knew the true nature of our duty. It was terrifying and unbelievable at the same time; but it might all worth the risk.
For almost three years I have been alone in this tower; and I have seen many things beyond comprehension. It is a duty that no man can easily handle, and I knew that Doyle knew it too, for he isn't here if he didn't. That night, I made him swear, we swore at each other to carry out our task no matter what happens, even if it cost us our very lives.
I gradually observe him; everyday, everywhere and everything he does. I must keep an eye on him, for I don't want him to back off from this job. He had kept the joyous manner of his; but I knew and I smelled the air around him--it reeks of impending doubt and fear.

In exactly two days from now, the hurricane will hit on land; it will be our cue to carry out our confidential task.
I came from the top tier, after checking the condition of the lenses and the oil lamp, and went to the first floor, and alas! There stood Doyle staring on a tightly shut trap door. His face was grave and sullen and muttered words that wishes he is not here. In a few minutes, I knew that the lad would lose his nerve.
I tried to calm him with a bottle of bourbon which I kept for almost two years. He took cheers with me and he drifted away in an uneasy sleep.

I went out of the lighthouse and into the small dock where I kept my longboat, gazing far into the gloomy horizon, standing on the edge of the rocky cliff with the vile wind blowing like heaven's bellowing horns warning us of the upcoming wrathful storm; the seas raging with the waves bludgeoning each other, jetting out foams that smells of fish.
I stood and shuddered with the embrace of the cold wind. Suddenly, my religion, my belief that I had almost forgotten spoke to my mind. I uttered a prayer of safety and deliverance; shelter and absolution. I haven't been a religious person for my fifty six years of existence but still I remember the hymns and the prayers of the local church that seemed to converse with the heavens.
This is maddening days. It always has to go on and on each year, and it must not stop.
For three years I have seen and done terrible things. Things that I had so much remorse-- regrets.

The night was cold and windy; moonless and starless. Thick dark clouds spanned the sky, like dark nebulae reaching somewhere far where no eyes could see.
Doyle and I retreated in the second tier of the tower, where we had our sleeping quarters. The creaking beds, sheets and pillows were decent enough to rest, just don't mind the mites and bedbugs.
He was quiet all night; lying down on his bunk, facing the crumbling wall.
It was unusual for the kid for keeping his mouth shut, so I striked up a story. It wasn't a decent story to keep us company; it was my story of how I ended up in this lonesome tower. I used to be a young lad like Doyle; I had my life ahead of me, not until I ended up as a replacement for a dead keeper's assistant. I lodged up in here for almost three years, becoming the lighthouse's keeper and maintenance crew.
It was the universe--the infinite breadth of mysteries and the myriads of unanswerable questions, the ongoing conflicts of fiction over the facts, the surreal dreams that keeps us wonder--they were all the factors that kept me in here, with a belief waning over time, as the mysteries of the world peeled over the curtains of my eyes, unfolding the truth into my mere human cognition.

That night, I wandered into a sleep, a fine decent slumber since I had my first sleep.
I'm in a verge of dreaming, when Doyle shook me as to wake me up. Leading me into the top of the tower, he pointed out far into the dark blanket of the sea. It was plain to see--a small faint light, jingling in the middle of the waters, of which I presume was a lifeboat. I blew my whistle and flashed some signals but I received no response.
We went out into the dock and paddled ourselves towards the lone boat. It was indeed a boat, and with it was a worn passenger; a sailor, burdened with wearisome fatigue and tremendous stress.
Bringing the man back at the lighthouse, we learned that he was a crew of a whaling ship from Newfoundland. The man is weak and nearing catatonia, but still he had some strength enough for him to speak.
His name was Julien Moriarty, so as he says, one of the crew of the 'Liverpool' at its whaling voyage until it toppled over and sunk by a tremendous force under a harrowing rainstorm. But this man believed that apart from the rainstorm and the raging waves, something else had sealed the fate of the ship and its crew. The man was in great hunger, dehydration and trauma, so we let him sleep for the night with me staying on guard.

That night, I resumed my sleep and wandered into a dream. It all seemed real; but I managed to pull myself into thinking that it wasn't.
I stood by the cliff, overlooking the calm seas.
I was alone and the lighthouse was whitewashed like it used to be back before. The wind blew ceremoniously, like the sounding of the flutes and of the cries of the swaying leaves.
A voice spoke to me but I could not understand what it said, and despite of it, I trembled down on my knees and I wept.
I begged for forgiveness and calmness of my soul.
I knew that I have wronged so many souls to save many, but still it torments me; it rips me off my humanity, that I even wonder if there's anything left.
I cried out so loud, thinking that my outburst would reach the audition of those who would listen.
Then, the landscape and the space itself swirled into more macabre shapes and figures that baffles my mind until I ended up, arms and ankles bound inside a dark, damp pit, lit only by a large grated oval window that gives an ominous view of the deep blue sea; menacing and wonderful at the same time.
There came a terrible noise, a distortion foreboding of danger.
I felt a sudden shudder when I realized where I was.
The tides rose and the waves reached the window, breaking off the metal grates. Quickly I stood, in flight of fear.
I knew that this was a dream; but in this case, from the dark facts that I have known so far, this could turn out to be true.
There came a hulking shadow, crept inside the hole and I felt it--I felt it pulsating, wriggling, drooling and violent.
I couldn't see what it was but I already knew what it is--it is my death; claiming the rightful price of what all I have done.
I gave all of my strength to deliver a grave cry of misery, terror and of the horrors that all of us wrought for the sake of our own existence.

I woke up, soaked in sweat and in short of breath. The dawn loomed outside; but Julien Moriarty is not on his bed.
Quickly, I rushed towards the main tier of the tower, and I saw Julien--his eyes suddenly shifted on me from the sight of the trapdoor that he opened. I saw mixed fear, anger and frustration in his face when Julien charged at me with outstretched arms. I struggled as he reached and grabbed my neck, squeezing it until I squealed like a slaughterhouse pig, baring his teeth in desperation towards killing me. I tried to push him backwards, but this sailor isn't going that easy. We wrestled against each other; slamming and hurting ourselves in painful ways possible. I coughed and my sight is going dark until a loud clap of a firearm discharged from the air. Julien's grasp suddenly become loose and I took that opportunity to take a mouthful of air. He stepped backwards into the ajar trapdoor where he fell, and Doyle, sheathing his gun, sealed it shut.

It was an uneasy day. Doyle never spoke to me again. He just stayed on watch at the top of the lighthouse. I knew that he was distraught about the nature of our job; but in addition of the unnecessary murder of a man, he just really might have to be with himself alone for a little while.

Tomorrow's the big day. The day that decides the fate of the world and the existence of humanity. Again, it is my job to get things the way they were all supposed to be.
I remained on my bunk, reading the same paper and of the same headlines about thirteen missing people; thinking about what, where and how tomorrow could end.
It might be too heavy and depressing for the kid, but it is I who will do much of the needed procedures. I reviewed my lines and the proper gestures. I even did some silent rehearsals when Doyle's not around.

Afternoon came and the dinner came ready; just in time for the arrival of our annual guests, Abbot Silas Kearney and Lieutenant Frederick Naughton with another pair of guests which surprisingly had knowledge of the things to come, 'volunteers from the mainland,' as the lieutenant says.
After Doyle finished the final feeding, I prepared the dinner--fried fish and loaves of bread. It was an uncommon dinner we shared, not a merry one. We discussed the dangers and the seriousness of the matters at hand that we must carry on with extreme caution and without a slight of errors.

That night, as the moonlight spanned across the starless ebony sky, we retreated to our beds. I rouse from my bed as sleep couldn't touch my sense, leaving Doyle on his bunk muttering a silent prayer.
I went below and I saw that the Lieutenant and the Abbott had just taken care of the 'volunteers', cleaning up the liquor glasses on the table,----overdosed with sleeping agent. How ingenious. Another inclusion for the mystery of unexplained disappearances.

As the sky turned dark blue and the sun had its crest rising from the red horizon, we all rushed and braced ourselves. Dark thunder clouds filled the breadth of the sky pouring down a storm of heavy rain swayed by malevolent strong winds. The seas roared with great strength, waves rocking and slapping on its dark ominous depths.

That day, after several months of preparation and collection, the trapdoor has been opened. From that dark and murky pit, the people emerged--the ones who went missing; presumed dead. They were all bound and gagged, weary but well fed. All of which are the ones our agents gathered for the sake of mankind. We led them to the dock, aboard the barge. From the top of the tower, I ignited the oil from the lamp, with its light projected by the lenses creating a spear of brilliance that pierced against the obscuring stormy weather across the horizon, serving as our guide towards our destination.

Our vessel traversed on the waves of the dark angry sea, sailing with the furious wind towards the course of the Skinner's Rock-- a spire of rock that emerges for once a year, veiled from sight and plot courses of common navigators, for the rock's location does not belong of this world, unknown to many but to those who had witnessed the lurking shadows that dwell therein.

The storm turned much grave, winds blowing much stronger, stretching out the fabric of the barge's sail. Thunder boomed like an angry god together with lightnings that flashed on the dark clouds like a tear that leads into another unknown dimension. The waves grew much worse, rising and falling. The wave rose before us as if we're sailing upright on the side of an ever-growing hill. Visibility turned down and everywhere was just a thick veil of humid gray mist and the treacherous blankets of the dark sea. The coast is far from view but still the light pierced from the lighthouse.

As I took control of the barge, I recovered the path guided by the light; and behold!
In the middle of the raging sea, towered a great dark spire of sea-carved rock; its jagged facade glittering, illuminated by the ray of the lighthouse, like a fang of the gnashing waters, shrouded with clouds of mist.
Each step we made as we set foot on its steep surface seemed deadly as the natural narrow stairway was slippery, jagged and ever winding. With a gas lamp on hand, I led the pilgrimage towards the top of the dark tower of rock, through its murky caverns onto the unbelievably flat surfaced peak.
The time came again--another year to appease for the fate of all we've known.

On the middle of the uneven circular surface of the black spire was a large scorched pile of rotting human remains, drenched in the torrential rain.
All of the men with me shuddered on the lingering evil that lurks about the dark mortuary, trembling, maddening themselves for the great unknown that is about to come.
As the storm grew much horrible; lightnings crossed the sky with the deafening claps of booming thunder that shook the ground; and echoing through the dark grey sky is a bloodcurdling cry, much louder than a thousand bellowing trumpets.
And with it, the colossal horror came from the sea--rising with an overwhelming, tumultuous upward torrent that nearly touched the tempestuous sky---it is the most ancient behemoth that came with many names, much older than the Earth itself--the dreadnought of ages!

Silhouetted by the thick fog, its immeasurable cyclopean form rose above the thunderclouds, striding on wild waters, causing tremendous paths of humongous waves that seems to part the seas. Its shadow, O, its shadow is black as pitch towering over the great pointed rock, spreading across the waters, turning the day into night as it overlapped the faint light of the sun.
Beginning the unholy rite, the Abbot stood by the pile of bones and spoken with loud hoarse voice, the prayers and the worship dedicated to the unfathomable god of eons unknown; the great deity of destruction. The words that came out of the Abbot's mouth were words of pure wisdom and excellence, praises of exaltation and humility.
Thunders rolled much heavier and lighnings clapped as ever, striking the waters. The enormous being strode still with great rumblings and much loud bellowing as if it indulges the praises and the worship of the Abbot,

Behold, O humble creation!
Rose from his slumber, the Great Ancient has come!
Come let us offer ourselves for he is worthy of sacrifice!
Let our flesh and blood be his, so that he may have his mercy be upon us!
Almighty One of the greatest ages, accept these offerings and spare our world once again!

The moment has come for my part. Yet again, another year has come for me to uphold this task.
Rounded up in the middle and on the pile of scorched bones: the bound ones gathered--dazed and drugged.
Slowly I walked towards them, a dagger glittering, held in my hand.
As I made my way, I uttered a quiet prayer inside my shut mouth--a prayer of forgiveness, not for these people but for my weary soul. I looked into those sober, wandering eyes of those who were bound, but deep in me I could not find pity anymore. It felt that it became a norm to me; I became a candidate for being a psychopath.
And so I did. Forcing them one by one on the ground permeated with puddles of murky waters, and like a true lunatic, I slowly plunged the dagger deep into their throats; fighting off their desperate struggle as I made the appalling slit through the tissues of the neck down to the vertebrae which turned the ground red with vast amounts of blood.
Doyle's eyes met mine as I made the horrid, cold-blooded slaughter, and I saw in him the combinations of fear, disgust and of the unspeakable, indescribable horrors wrought upon this accursed dark place. He vomited at the infernal sight of my deed, screaming at me to stop---yes, I wanted to stop, but the powerful Great Being that stood watch would not permit me to.
And as all of those who were bound--the sacrifice, lay lifeless, the Lieutenant poured a jerrican of gasoline onto their corpses and tossed a burning wick, creating a great pyre that burned even against the tempest.
The prayers of the Abbot goes on, prostrated on the watery ground, exalting the bellowing god. The pyre burned great, and on the horizon, blazing with similar light, came the other sacrificial pyre from the neighboring rock towers like beacons from afar.

Everything in this moment is pure madness! It's indescribable with simple earthly words, this--nightmarish moment of clashing souls against the unknown darkness that goes on beyond belief.
It is horrible, it's unholy for our eyes; but the great god whom we beseech seemed delighted in our deed. Out of his mind as the visible and otherworldly torment had overcome, as well as the visceral event that was occurring, Doyle rushed towards the Lieutenant and they wrestled and rolled on the damp ground as he struggled for the Lieutenant's sidearm which he did successfully. A gunfire echoed through the air, loud as the thunders themselves, creating a puncture on the back of the Abbot, sending him on the edge of the surface, plummeting down deep on the dark waters.
Doyle then turned towards me; glowering with the firearm shaking by his grasp. I quickly rushed towards him, to knock him down; but my eyes grew dim. The thing I felt as I came to my senses is the warmth of something flowing on my arm, and Doyle's cold body slumped against me, with the knife stuck deep on his side.
Only me and the Lieutenant were left before the colossal bellowing god; taking the Abbot's manuscript, I continued the prayer which completed the unholy ceremony.

And so, the day has ended and once again, the world was spared from an untimely end.
The warmth from the cup of espresso touched and plucked out the chill on my lips as I stood by the banister of the lighthouse, gazing far on the never ending horizon in which a sea of mysteries cascades into the reality.
Still I wonder, how many times must I carry on; how many times would I play the role.
Still I wonder how and when could this come to an end.
And then, at last he arrived---another fine lad as a companion in the crumbling walls of the lighthouse.