Blackwater Beacon

After the funeral, the attorney reminds attendants of the will reading. This is pointless, you barely even knew the man. Your great-grandfather the lightkeeper of the graveyard of the Atlantic, friend to only himself and the sea. RIP, Silas, you murmur to yourself and head towards the attorney’s office. In a room, surrounded by cousins you have not seen since the last funeral, you choose a seat not at the conference table but in a corner. You met Silas twice, once you were a child and the next time years ago when you went on vacation to Rodanthe, North Carolina. You watched the sunset together at Pamlico Sound. He told you stories of the sea, the lighthouse, and solitude.

The attorney arrives dressed in a grey suit with a matte black tie. He prattles about bank accounts, a house in Buxton, NC, an old fishing boat; assigning inheritance to cousins. You are mindlessly scrolling on your phone when the attorney states, after a pause that feels dramatic, “The last item on our list is the lighthouse, which Silas decrees to his great-granddaughter, Eden.” You shift your eyes up to the attorney as the room falls silent.

He gives you instructions and hands you a worn wooden box, a ship's wheel carved into the top, and saltwater stains that drip like tears. Leaving, you are suddenly excited; time at the ocean might be nice. You head home to gather what you will need for the journey. With coffee in hand, and, Ash, your German shorthaired pointer in the backseat you hit the road.

Crossing the bay bridge, you recall the box, you stop and collect it from the car floor. Ash lets out a low growl. This is surprising, Ash is a docile dog. Opening the box, the smell of cedar, decay, and sea wafts. Inside is a corroded brass key tied to a pale pink, torn and faded ribbon. This must be the key to the lighthouse. Heading south, the sky bursts with red hues and you think of the adage red sky at night sailors delight red sky in the morning sailors take warning.

You have never seen Blackwater Beacon in person, only photos and they were stunning. A beacon in the dark, a sailor’s respite. It was a stark white lighthouse with a black lantern room with a tiered Fresnel lens. Blackwater now is not what you expected, battered by the sea with a grayed yellow shade and the lantern room in shambles. The Fresnel lens is cracked and there are seagull nests inside.

Exiting your car, Ash darts to the ocean and you inspect the property, bringing the key so you could get into the lighthouse, however; the keyhole on the door is a modern one and will not fit this skeleton key. Doubtfully you turn the knob, but thankfully it turns.Whistling for Ash, you step into Blackwater, but Ash does not follow you inside. She waits outside looking at you quizzically.

Inside, the mood shifts. The sunshine from outside is gone and there are rays of sunbeams from the window. A layer of dust covers everything. It smells of seawater, salt air, and rot. Remnants of a wickie life scattered everywhere, tide charts, radios, light bulbs, and books with worn covers and dog-eared pages. You choose one and crack the cover and inhale deeply to enjoy the scent of an old, treasured novel. You notice a ribbon in the pages remarkably similar to the one attached to the key.

You ascend the spiral staircase, it is steep and the railings are jagged. The view is remarkable and has visibility for miles. Blackwater stood tall and mighty for decades and there is something ancient in these walls.

As night falls you make your way to the keepers’ inn connected to Blackwater. It is cozy with pine paneled walls. There is a twin sized bed with a crocheted quilt that adds warmth and color to the room. A humble kitchen with a stove and small refrigerator. A bathroom with a pedestal sink toilet and shower. The studio smells fresher here faintly of men’s aftershave.

Finally, Ash has decided to join you and is sleeping on the quilt. In the corner of the room sits an old accordion. Tapping on the keys, it sits silent. Outside the air is stagnant, a storm is brewing off the coast. Sheets of rain and lightning in the distance. Resisting the palpable urge to climb up Blackwater to watch the storm roll in from the lantern room is hard but sleep weighs heavily as you drift off to the sound or rain and thunder.

Hours later Ash awakens you with that same low growl she voiced when you opened the wooden box. Turning on the bedside table lamp, you do not see anything, but Ash is on the floor hackles raised growling at the accordion. She sees something. You look closer.

The bellows are breathing.

Inhale. Exhale. Silent.

Thunder cracks and startles you, lightning flash fills the room and illuminates the wooden box. The ribbon is floating like a flag waving in the wind. You do not feel a breeze in fact the room feels stuffy and oppressive. You pick up the key and outside the waves are violently crashing the surf. The ocean is angry tonight. Pulse after pulse the water pounds the sand like a heartbeat.

The key feels warm in your hand and the ribbon is still waving frantically now. You begin opening cabinets, pulling books from shelves, and running your hands along the walls. You rush back over to Blackwater. Swinging the door open you are drenched with brackish water that stings your eyes. Closing the door you illuminate the room.

There are puddles of water on the floor that look like footprints. The key in your hand starts to burn you and you drop it. The ribbon is pointing in the corner where the lighthouse connects to the keepers’ inn. You look around carefully and the ribbons tucked in the books are fluttering. You hear soft crying and wet footsteps sloshing from near the wall. Suddenly you are terrified.

Someone is here, your head tells you to go but your body and soul tell you to stay. Calling out softly, “Hello? This is private property, my name is Eden, if you are injured, I can help you, I mean you no harm." A male, gruff, smokers voice from the depths responds, “I need to see Silas. I need to pass.” You move towards the sound of the voice and behind a map of the coast sits a door with a skeleton keyhole. You slide the key in which is now very chilled to the touch and turn it.

“Silas passed…” you start to say as you open the door and are struck by what you find.

A man sits on an old wooden chair in the corner. Water pools underneath him in small rivulets running down the floorboards. His skin is ashen and pale. He wears a sailor's cap and glasses. The room is full of lit candles but no modern lighting. Quickly glancing you notice a small bed, a desk, and artifacts that seem ancient. “Are you injured?” you ask. “I am a nurse; I can help you let me go get the kit from my car and my phone.” The weathered man replies, “I need to see Silas, I need to pass.” You explain to this stranger that Silas died, you inherited the lighthouse, that you are unsure what the man needs or how he even got into this locked room.

Backing away, you think this man must be having a mental health crisis and you are not equipped to manage this. You will go back to the keepers’ inn and call for help. He does not seem dangerous, but he also does not seem stable. Was he in the ocean? Caught in the storm?

As you are retreating, the man says, “If Silas trusted you with Blackwater he trusted you with us. The drowned cannot stay here forever. If you do not pass me the sea keeps me.” Quickly exiting the room, you say, “Pass then! Leave my property!” Slamming the door shut the man exclaims, “What about the final judgement Eden?”

Back at the inn, you attempt to call for help. No service, thunder groans above like something ancient shifting in its sleep. You put Ash on her leash and jet into your car and leave to seek help. Returning with a sheriff, he inspects the entire property. There is no man, no footstep puddles, and the door with the skeleton key hole is gone. As if it never even existed in the first place. The storm has calmed and you can see the moon shallow over the horizon. For the rest of the night, you sit on guard. You will not find sleep tonight.

Morning sun rises over the Atlantic you need coffee and clarity. You brew a pot of coffee in the old Black and Decker coffee pot and walk the surf with Ash. What a bizarre night. That man must have been caught in the storm and broken in to get out of the rain. Once back at the inn you retrieve the key and head back over to Blackwater. You shift the coastal map, and the door sits there.

Opening the door, the room is lit with sunlight, but from where you are unsure. The hair on your arms and neck stand and you are suddenly very cold. You start searching. The walls are littered with newspaper clippings of shipwrecks. Carrol A Derring (1921) with a note in what you now believe is Silas’ handwriting: All Souls. Mirlo (1918): Three Souls.

The rooms' walls are cedar, and there are carvings in the walls: ships wheels, jetties, ocean swells, Blackwater. There are notes scribbled on parchment hanging on the walls.

I tried to save them.

The captain goes down with the ship.

The fire was so hot.

Tell my mom I love her.

It was not my fault.

It was my fault and I am not sorry.

On the desk, there is a huge worn leather-bound book with yellowing pages. Several pens sit on the desk, ranging from a quill and ink to a modern gel pen. Sitting at the desk, you breathe deeply and start to read.

Sifting through the pages, a pink pale faded ribbon slides in your lap. Attached to it is a sealed envelope with Eden written in cursive on the front. You tear open the letter and read:

Dear Eden,

Welcome to the passing room. I chose you for a reason, your connection to the sea can be felt. I met with your cousins in the last ten years to pick the keeper of the souls and chose you. I apologize to task you with this, dear child, but the drowned always come home. After finding you, I was able to pass through myself and finally rest. The keeper of the souls is quite the task. You are the fourth keeper in Blackwater’s history. This is a generational debt that must be repaid to the Atlantic, eventually you will understand why. The accordion in the inn will alert you that a soul will be entering. Sometimes the bellows will breathe. Sometimes the bellows will howl. Be wary of howling bellows.

Shipwrecked souls must enter Blackwater to be judged. You are the judge. You determine if they may pass and you must make sound judgment, my child. Non-passed souls remain and belong to the sea, and their torment has reaching implications. Only you can open the door now, the key only works for the keeper of the souls. The door is not visible to anyone but you and the lost. Once a soul enters, they remain until you release them. I met hundreds of souls in my decades at Blackwater. Evil, funny, and sad souls. The weight is heavy darling, but without you, the sea will always take back what it desires.

Regretfully yours,

Great Grand-Father Silas

Dumbstruck you open and sort through the leather-bound book and are transformed into separate times.

Entry 01: written with the quill and ink and scripted in beautiful cursive

The Widows Wake (1892)

These damn mates on this ship could not follow a course to save their lives. All was lost in the storm. I have never seen swells that large. One more day and we would have had everything! The gold. The jewels.

As you touch the page you are transferred to the room. The walls are bare, and a lone candle burns in on the writing desk. It smells like rum and salt water. Six men are in the cramped space all wearing pirate apparel. They are all wet and dirty but appear to be having fun except the man sitting at the desk. He is forlorn. The other men carry-on holding bottles of rum, their pockets heavy with coins.

An elderly man enters and bluntly tells the men that they have died in a shipwreck. The Atlantic demands their souls. They will belong to the sea now then he slams the door and exits. The pirates guffaw and carry on while the writer accepts his fate. This man is unfamiliar to you but does carry a resemblance to Silas. Was this one of the other keepers of the souls?

Entry 74 written with quill and ink and is scripted in rushed cursive.

Mirlo (1918)

The Germans destroyed our oiler tanker. We are losing this battle! We lost good men. Many men. There was fire everywhere. The men, we find ourselves burnt and smoldering in a room at the bottom of the Blackwater Beacon. We cannot leave this room. My men! Good men!

As you read this, the room starts to glow. Transfixed to a time of a century ago. The room is sparse now, with few items on the walls and it smells of smoke and burnt flesh. The room is hot and now occupies four men who are burned head to toe, their clothing is tattered and wet. Two are weeping softly, one is banging his fists on the walls demanding to be set free, one looks relieved and at peace. None of them realize they are dead. Silas enters the room and is a young man. He tells the souls they must tell him their story.

He is the keeper of souls he is the one that permits them to pass or to be tied to the Atlantic for eternity. The man banging his fists charges at Silas. Silas does not flinch or even move as the man furiously tries to land blows on Silas the air in the room shifts but Silas remains unharmed. The men regale Silas with their stories of good, and bad. Of the war, and their families. Silas explains to the men that they perished in the shipwreck and a debt is to be paid; the Blackwater will pass the souls as it sees fit. Silas releases two souls through Blackwater while the other two are judged and sentenced to the sea.

Entry 169 written in pencil and scrawled with love and care.

Storms End (1992)

My Dearest Silas. I am sorry I had to leave this earth, and I am sorry that you must judge me like you judge the others. I too belong to the seas just like you do. We are part of Blackwater as our children and grandchildren and theirs alike will be for eternity. Be careful in choosing the next keeper and I shall see you soon darling.

The room is now filled with charts, maps, carvings, notes, candles, and personal artifacts. It smells faintly of floral perfume. Jackets, clothing, boots, oars, gold pendants, and chains. It houses the memories of the lost. The souls of the sea. The drowned. An old woman sits at the desk. She has short graying hair and smiles pensively. Silas enters, kisses her on the forehead, whispers in her ear and quietly leaves the room. The woman reminds you so much of your mother.

Entry 214 written in a modern gel pen

Marrow Point (2022)

I did it. I killed them! I sank that damn boat myself. Every one of them! Finally free of their greed. Their noise. Their hands around my throat. Now if I could just get out of this lighthouse I can go back to Maine and be free and enjoy my insurance payout on that stupid boat.

You are in the room from last night now. You see yourself telling the man to go ahead and pass then as an evil grin creeps over his face. You understand now. You made your first mistake. You failed the Atlantic, you failed the debt. The wrong judgement was passed. You owe the Atlantic.

Reading entries for hours, some are horrifying with violence and anger, some are soft with acceptance and pride. In every one of them Silas enters the room and makes his judgement. Oftentimes the judgement returns the souls to the sea. Blackwater passes the worthy; the sea keeps the rest.

You met your first soul last night. He did not deserve to pass. How are you supposed to decide the eternal fate of lost sailors? How often do the souls pass through here? And how long until the generational debt is paid. A choice comes now; you can leave but then what happens to the souls and the debt? You choose to stay, learn, judge and be the keeper. To pay your debt to the Atlantic.

Blackwaters beam sweeps across the water. Pale. Enormous. You understand that Blackwater was never warning ships away from the shore. It was calling souls’ home. The salt-soaked key hangs heavy in your palm. You think of the names of those the sea swallowed, as the moon rises you feel a chill against your face and somewhere deep beneath the pounding waves, something answers.

In the inn, the accordion howls.