The Colmery Logbook 
 
A quaint little thing from afar, the distasteful malignance of Colmery Island becomes plain by the time one moors their row boat upon its dingy pier. Like a knife thrust through the heart of the Atlantic, sharp and slanting to one side, the shoreline is beset by red algae that bobs up and down with the tide. Split-edged stony outcroppings populate the sparse brown-green grass in place of trees, gleaming wet in the sun, sharp and shiny as honed steel. Slickened by sea mist and seasonal showers, the moss-coated staircase carved haphazardly into the vertical crag that looms over the dock seems almost desperate to kill the man who steps too carelessly upon its rugged visage. 
The state of the lighthouse itself and the living quarters attached to its side are, unfortunately, befitting Colmery Island. Upon the highest peak of the promontory, more like a shed with an enormously bloated chimney, it sits lamely. Once it was white, evidently, but now large patches of paint have peeled away exposing dark green membranes of mold hugging dark brown wood. There is one small window at the far left, dark and opaque, and the door is made of a copper-toned metal which moans loudly in its frame when confronted with every ocean breeze. Within it is a single, claustrophobic room choked with food rations, a table with an old lantern and no chairs, cupboards, a yellowing bed nearly half the size of the room, and a deep coating of dust. On the far-right wall is a doorway, bereft of a door, which leads into the tower. 
The tower, too, is white on its outer walls, but the paint has not faded from the masonry like it has the wood. The base of the tower is thicker than the living quarters, though it quickly narrows as it rises. It must be only twenty-five to thirty feet high yet becomes uncomfortably tight at its uppermost reaches. A black metal cage lined with round panes of glass crowns the very top, within which the light itself is roosted. Inside the lighthouse, a hefty column of brick stands erect at the center, around which slithers the rusty spiral staircase, coiling up around the tower’s spine until it meets the small, grate-like metal platform just beneath the light. 
It was up on this platform, while repairing a broken pane of glass, upon the base of the light, that I stumbled upon the logbook. A small thing, it was easily filled front to back with the unsteady, at times, nearly illegible scribblings of its previous possessor. Curiously, pages were torn out seemingly at random and some words were crossed out so violently the ink bled through to the next page. The words that remained and the things I read this past night have come to haunt me, and so I shall chronicle it here before I make haste to leave this island come sunrise. Neither this notebook, nor any other artifact from this place, shall be accompanying me home, so I will spend these last remaining hours of dark to transcribe, to my best accuracy, the writings of the unnamed lightkeeper. I do not believe I will be finding any sleep this night. 
 
— 
 
 
“April 21st, 1839 
Let this entry mark the first day of my work here upon Colmery Island. I, the new lightkeeper, shall maintain the structural integrity and functionality of the Colmery Lighthouse and log my work within the pages of this notebook to assure I receive fair compensation for my labors. 
It is here upon this jagged-rocked protrusion, somehow deemed worthy of the title of ‘island’, where I shall alone preside over the next twenty-eight days and nights. The tower is unshapely, but at least seems wholly sturdy and trustworthy. The living quarters leave much to be desired. I cannot help but sneeze with every step as the dust beneath my foot takes to the air, and the house groans and creaks without abatement. I tried to sleep this afternoon in preparation for my first night’s duties and my new nocturnal lifestyle, but it seems nigh impossible to find rest in such a foul place. Were it not for those depending on me ashore, I would never debase myself to an employment such as this. These trying times, however, have called for continuous debasement and self-subjugation. 
My first night of upkeep went smoothly enough. The rusty crank which turns the light fought hard at first but eventually gave way, and one of the many oil canisters began to leak, but it is no matter. The novellas I brought along were pleasant company as I waited to refill the light's oil reserves or turn the crank again, and as I finish this log, my eyes grow heavy with fatigue. I hope to find sleep more easily than yesterday. 
 
April 22nd, 1839 
Sleep came, though fitfully. I woke often to the strange noises of the house and its rotting, rattling walls. Being midday, light snuck its way through the small holes in the ceiling, wriggling slowly across my body and face as the sun turned in the sky. It was the dust, though, which truly plagued me. Teary-eyed and wheezing, I woke in fits of sneezes that made my lungs and nose raw. It was shortly before sunset when I cursed the stiff bed I slept upon and begrudgingly rose. The first thing I did was eat, then make use of the final hour of sun to attend the outhouse, before I set to work preparing the light. While outside, it occurred to me that I had not seen a seabird upon the island or soaring in the cloudy sky since I had arrived. This struck me as peculiar, but I do not have much experience with these matters, so I figure it must be ordinary. 
The next thing I did was search the cupboards for a broom for the dust. I found a small dustpan and brush instead and set to work. My nose and throat blazed with agitation by the time I had finished, but the sun was down, and in the flickering light of the lantern, I could see the floorboards for the first time. 
From that point forward things progressed much the same as the previous night. I lit the Light, turned the crank, and replenished the oil as frequently as needed, finding solace from unrest in the pages of a book. 
I see the orange hints of sunrise on the horizon. I shall be retiring to bed. 
 
April 23rd, 1839 
Sleep came more steadily at first. As it grew later in the day, however, the house began to creak and moan much louder and more frequently than before. In my half-asleep mind, I assumed some shift in the weather had simply given rise to stronger than usual winds and tried to ignore it. The noises began to creep into the world of my dreams, though, and I envisioned angry gales flattening my hovel and carrying me out to sea. While falling beneath the waves and gazing up helplessly as the lighthouse sprang to life, I woke with a start to a particularly loud roar and leapt to my feet, heart racing. Dead silence and stark darkness greeted me, and for the most fleeting of moments, there was a presence about me. Unplaceable, unrecognizable in any way. My balance went sideways. I fell back onto the feather mattress, then began fearfully fumbling about the table which I had pulled beside my bed the previous night. Eventually, my shaking hands caught purchase of the lantern and set to lighting it. By the time the oily wick caught fire, and the room became corporeal in the wavering flame, my heart had mostly settled, and that sensation had ceased. I ventured to the door to see what sort of weather had borne such a cacophony and woken me so unceremoniously. 
   
When I stepped outside, bare feet gingerly kissing cold stone, I once again felt a strange rise in my chest. The night was cool, and utterly calm. Suddenly I felt dizzy and sat on the step just before the door, resting the lantern at my side. I looked up to see if I could discern any clouds, but instead was met with a bare sky speckled with stars. I envisioned a dark ocean filled with lighthouses peering down at me. I rose to my feet, grabbed the lantern, and headed inside to begin my shift. 
 
April 24th, 1839 
I believe it was a mistake to take this job. I do not have what it takes, it seems, to live this sort of hermit lifestyle. My mind is playing tricks on itself, and I have no better explanation than isolation. It has not been long, but this island has a way of making each day feel a century. I long for the mainland with its trees and comradery. 
Perhaps I could have blamed exhaustion for these happenings, but last night was the deepest sleep I have had in ages. I did not stir once, nor did I dream. It was bliss compared to the previous nights, but what I awoke to was a sort of nightmare, blanketed in the reddish hues of the setting sun. 
The house is drowning in dust, again. I am not sure how this could have happened over the course of a single night, but it has. That is an oddity in its own right and a point of great frustration, but it is the footprints that worry me most. Footprints, my footprints, exactly shaped and sized as my feet, mark a trail in the dust across the floor and into the tower. There they vanish, as the brick floor of the tower nurtures not a speck of dust. It seems that I have begun to sleepwalk, and thoughtlessly meandered my way to the tower. I have never been afflicted with bouts of sleepwalk before, but I have heard tales, and this sounds undeniably similar. What I cannot shake from my anxious thought, though, is that the trail goes only one way. 
How could I leave a trail one way, yet wake in my bed? My soles were caked in dust so I know it must have been me, and no one else is staying on this island. I suppose with great care it is possible to tiptoe through the prints I had already left behind, but the awkward, shambling gait of my trail tells me I had not been particularly steady on my feet. How then? 
I hugged closely to the wall and crept across the room to the tower entrance. When I walked through, I scrutinized every step of the staircase to see if I could further puzzle out my journey, but to no avail. Nothing seemed any different than it had previously, even at the top of the stairs where I figured I must have gone. A frightening thought, that I had ascended and descended this shoddy staircase while asleep. 
I write this now from the top of the tower. I have seen to my duties this night, and now as the sun rises, I feel a strange sense of comfort here, away from the dust and the trail and the creaking wood. I have set out an old shirt upon the ground to sleep on, so I am not directly atop cold metal, though it does little in the way of comfort. I know I will have to return to the living quarters again soon, but for now, I think I shall sleep better by the Light. 
 
April 25th, 1839 
Wrong. Things are wrong. So very wrong.
 

April 26th, 1839 
I cannot describe what has happened in a manner that shall seem sane. Perhaps it is not. Perhaps I have lost all my wits and am experiencing hallucinations wrought from madness. I cannot be certain of anything. There is no certainty here. 
I awoke yesterday atop the lighthouse as was expected. There was no trail or sign of my having traveled in my sleep. Despite the sunlight flooding the top of the tower through the glass, I again slept without interruption. It was only after my awakening that things had become disconcerting. Wrong. 
I could not descend the spiral staircase. I could walk down, step-by-step, counting each step as I went, but never would I descend. With every step counted, it was always the same number of steps to return to the top. Eight steps. That was the number of REAL steps I could take. The point where the platform with the Light disappeared behind the brick pillar. Every step that followed was a fool’s errand. As soon as I turned and ventured back up, I was on the seventh, then sixth, then fifth step until in a moment I was back upon the platform staring face to face with the Light. Panic took over, understandably, and for nearly three hours, judging by the sun, I sprinted down the staircase, circling around and around until I got dizzy and began tripping and stumbling, never ceasing. My feet and shins bled from the impacts, and my hands became blistered from wildly grabbing at the railing. Each brick upon the pillar became familiar to me. It seemed, in my delirium, that they laughed at me as I marked them one by one, desperately hoping to see a brick I had not yet met. The sun was setting, and what little illumination I had from just behind the pillar dwindled rapidly. Only once all was black and I could no longer see the steps beneath my feet or mark the bricks did a hopeless apathy consume me. At that moment I sank down and sat upon the eighth stair, but no sooner did the Light hum to life. 
I jumped back to my bloodied feet and balanced myself between railing and pillar. I stood frozen, back to the Light, staring down the way I had so desperately and fruitlessly fled. A dark, blackish water sloshed and lapped at my toes. The blurry mirage of the staircase below disappeared beneath the water and spiraled away into the abyss. I was too confounded and tired to truly appreciate the insanity of it all by this point. Instead, I let out a shaky breath and ascended the staircase backwards upon equally shaky legs. By the time I reached the summit, the Light had begun to spin, though the crank sat undisturbed. I finally dared to look away from the staircase and felt a shiver race its way down my body when I gazed beyond the windows. An endless crimson ocean spanned in all directions beneath an empty, black sky. The creaking and moaning and groaning of the house that had, at one point, laid below the tower raged out from the void-like sky. Only that, and the sound of gentle sanguine waves stirring just beyond the lighthouse walls. 
I am not ashamed to admit I began to cry. How could one not cry at a sight like this? Oh, for this truly must be Hell.  
I shrunk down to the floor, eyeing the slight shimmer of the darkened waves through the array of small openings in it, and closed my eyes. I cried long, and then I fell asleep. 
It is the next day, I think. There is no way to be certain. I still cannot leave. The Light is still on and spinning.  
I am still in Hell, or wherever this is, but now I have company it seems. Off in the distance, I see a spinning light. It is very far and very dim, but it is there. I have stared long and hard and I am sure it is there. It is another lighthouse. 
April ??, 1839 
I slept long again, yet I still wake to a nightmare. I dreamed, though, last night. I was beneath the waves again, but this time they were red. As I thrashed my arms and legs I seemed to sink faster. I did not have the courage to look, but I could sense there was something in the water with me. 
There are more lighthouses. Some are nearer than the first, some are further. They spin and spin and spin and expose more and more of the rippling crimson surface. It is only us out here. 
 
?????? 
Last night I dreamt again. Of home, of the people I loved. Suddenly, that presence was in it. The one I could not bear to face. I still could not. When I awoke, it was all gone from me, though. I could not picture home, or my loved ones. Like many dreams, it fled from me quickly and no matter how hard I tried to recall, it was gone. But it took with it everything. I no longer know their names or faces. It is laughable, I do not know my own name any longer! Oh, how I wish I wrote my name in this journal! The only name I know now is Colmery! Oh, how pitiful! Yet how liberating it is to forget! Now I no longer mourn! Now I no longer want! I no longer cry! Pitiful! How laughably Pitiful! 
 
?????????? 
The lighthouses have stopped spinning. They all face the same direction. All the Lights, they are watching the same spot. The darkness consumes their beams greedily. What do they see? Oh, God in Heaven what do they see? 
   
I feel that presence again, but I am awake. Or am I? There is no way to be certain. But it is there, where they all peer. It is hidden in the darkness. 

 
? 
The Light is gone. They are all gone. The waves thrash heavily against the lighthouse. I cannot see them, but I hear them. The water beneath my feet in the stairwell is raging, too, and droplets fly through the grating beneath my feet, and it seems to have risen above the eighth step. I am making this final entry only as a goodbye. To whom? To you? To me? I do not know. I will place this logbook upon the light and pray it is not swept away when I shatter the window with the wet, useless lantern I have beside me.
 
- The Colmery Lightkeeper”