October 4^th, 1973

Senior lighthouse keeper Cormag Docherty was waiting for us, as we stepped onto the old, weathered pier of Dúrnach isle. He greeted each of us with a firm handshake and a hearty smile.

He showed us around the isle. First the lighthouse, a white tower streaked with salt and age, its beacon lighting up the thick fog permeating the surrounding sea. He briefly showed us the house we will be staying at, a large house befitting a large crew. Then we took a short look at the small, squat stone church near the back, its bell silent, but still casting a long shadow across the isle. We walked across a small, wind-battered field where stubborn grass clung desperately to the soil. And finally the cliffs beyond.

They rose high upwards, so high that their tops disappeared into a dense, thick mist. I felt a sense of calm as i looked at the cliffs. I can’t really explain it. Just… calm.

All that aside, I’ve decided to keep a journal. Mostly to steady the head. To keep me sane. To keep track of everyone in here. To help us navigate this place.

We are the crew assigned to the lighthouse of Dúrnach isle, a rock that looks black on the side, and green on top, on the northern coast of Northern Ireland. We keep the lighthouse running, we maintain it and we tend the house here. Well, the church too. But that is mostly up to father Gavin. The crew is me, Cormag the senior lighthouse keeper, father Gavin the priest, Emmet the mechanic, as well as Ingram, a new recruit.

October 5^th, 1973

Today was just like any other. Cormag barking orders, me carrying them out, while Emmet kept muttering under his breath. Stubborn as a goat, that one – always questioning, always pushing. I never understood why he asked to be assigned here, with how much he complained and questioned Cormag’s authority. But he did know his stuff, that was certain.

By the time the day’s work was done, the wind had picked up. The windows rattled in their frames. We gathered in the common room, the smell of lamp oil permeating the air. We have some old board games to help kill the time. We’d just sat down when Father Gavin started saying a prayer – quiet and soft, mostly to himself I assume.

Cormag rolled his eyes, and I joined in, told him this wasn’t the time for sermons. I probably said it harsher than I intended, because Gavin looked back at me – not angry, just sad – and quietly excused himself. That stayed with me. Still does. He is a nice man, after all. For a priest, that is.

After a few awkward moments, Ingram spoke up, perhaps to lighten the mood, maybe he just wanted to be heard. He got shut down just as quick. Green as moss, that one. Keeps mostly to himself. We haven’t decided about him yet – and out here, that means a lot.

October 6^th, 1973

Things just keep getting better.

As we were tending the lighthouse today, checking the oil, wiping down the glass, making sure everything ran smooth, Cormag decided we should all go up to the top in order to get a view of the ocean. It always fills me with such calm. There is something about the horizon – something steady and dependable. But not today.

Cormag pointed towards the sea. In the distance, a wall of angry, black clouds were massing, the kind that spews rain, hurls lightning and mighty wind follows. The air had that strange stillness before a storm, and it made my skin prickle. Cormag said we should brace for a storm.

We headed back down, and the work began. We started boarding up the windows and collecting whatever loose bits that were scattered around the yard. Father Gavin asked for assistance barricading the small church. I couldn’t help myself – I scoffed at the notion, making a remark about God not relying on plywood. He looked… wounded, rather than angry. And it made me feel even worse. As if i had broken something inside him. Ingram offered to help him, as did Emmet (that was a surprise). I felt terrible after that.

Why do I keep going after Father Gavin? He is nothing like my own father, who was a cruel and terrible bully. Blaming me for… well, no sense dredging that up, not now.

Once the last shutters were hammered in place and the last tools brought in, we gathered in the common room. The wind was already clawing at the walls, whistling through the smallest gaps. Father Gavin picked out one of the board games and suggested we play while waiting out the storm. For once, everyone agreed.

October 7^th, 1973

There was no sleep to be had last night. The storm blew across the island like a black tide, as if nature itself was trying to cleanse the island of any impurities. The whole place groaned and shuddered like an old ship desperately fighting against the waves. I could hear Father Gavin praying – not quietly, but with real desperation that carried through the room, like his words could shield us from the hungry winds. For once, I didn’t mind. Not too much, anyway.

We all sat in the common room, slumped in our chairs, faces pale with a lack of sleep. The lamplight flickered with each draft that found its way inside, casting long shadows against the walls. Cormag tried to speak up, but his voice came out thin, as if the shadows had stolen his voice and strength. He muttered something I couldn’t quite catch, then went silent.

After a few seconds of silence, Father Gavin suggested we tell the others something about ourselves – to connect, to strengthen our unity, as he put it. His voice was steady, but his eyes looked tired. He knew how tense all of us were.

Cormag rolled his eyes again at him with open disdain. Emmet gave a short, derisive laugh and muttered no thank you, while leaning back in his chair, too tired to care. Ingram looked as if he was in two minds – like he wanted to say something, yet lacked the courage to do so. Instead he lowered his gaze to the floor and stayed quiet.

I hesitated – part of me really wanted to help Father Gavin here, after the treatment I had been giving him. Just trying to make it right, little by little. Then something came over me, and before I could stop myself, I began to speak. I stammered out, softly at first, the story of the single worst day in my life. The day I lost my beloved brother. He had drowned. I can still see him out there in the water, as it swallows him. I told them how my old man said it was my fault – that I lacked faith. And right there, I broke down in front of them. In front of Cormag.

I cried tears – not of pain, but of relief, for relieving myself of this heavy burden. As if I had finally put the massive weight down. Father Gavin stood up and gave me a big hug. He just stood there and held me for a while. No words – just the embrace of a caring fellow man.

The others stayed quiet. No words of comfort, no nods of understanding, just the sound of the storm bashing against the house. Emmet stared down at the table, not knowing what to say or do. Just trying to hide from the scene. Ingram kept shifting in his chair, as if he wanted to speak up, but again, he lacked the courage. Eventually, Cormag broke the tension with a flat, dismissive line: “That’s enough drama for one day.”

No one disagreed. The silence did cut deeper than words ever could. I think I lost everyone’s respect today. And that is what hurts most.

October 8^th, 1973

So, a lot has happened.

The storm is still raging, hammering the house as if it wants to tear it down, plank by plank. Last night, while we were sitting in the common room, pretending to care about some stupid board game we were playing, Ingram suddenly stood up. His chair scraped against the floor. His face looked pale and confused, as if he had had some terrible revelation no one else did. He stumbled to one of the boarded windows, pressing his face close, and peered between the boards. He let out a scream not of terror, but of joyful surprise. Before any of us could react, he bolted for the door.

Cormag tried to stop him, but Ingram pushed him aside with surprising force. He tore the door open and ran out – no shoes, no jacket. Just his bare feet slapping against the wet stone. No hope for him either.

We looked as he ran for the cliffs. Everyone shouted for him to get back. No response. Only the wind and rain swallowing everything. As he got to the cliffs, he scrambled up the rocks like a man possessed. We could see in the distance, those massive, foggy cliffs, and Ingram, in his white t-shirt, scaling it.

Cormag sank into a chair, burying his head in his hands. His eyes were wide – wider than I had ever seen them. For the first time, he didn’t look like the immovable rock of this island, and more like a man desperate for answers. Finally he spoke in a soft, low voice. He said we couldn’t go after him. He couldn’t risk the whole crew for one man. That was simply not an option.

He asked Father Gavin to say a prayer for Mr. Ingram. Gavin obliged, voice breaking over the storm’s angry roars. The rest of us sat there in silence, rattled to our core.

After Father Gavin’s short prayer, I decided I needed some answers, so I stood up and I went to Ingram’s room. What I found there, I did not expect.

I showed it to Cormag. We were all lost for words. He had been trying to fit in all along – and we kept pushing him away. Again and again. The shame I feel now is unbearable. Why do I keep doing this, being so mean to people for no good reason?
October 9^th, 1973

Good news first. The storm has abated.

We were all gathered in the common room, sitting around the table, and even though we were in a small circle, it felt as if we were continents apart. Armed with glasses of whiskey, we tried reminiscing about Ingram, and drinking in his memory. It wasn’t a toast, not really – more like a silence we all shared, the amber liquid catching the lantern light as we stared into it. None of us really knew Ingram. As sad as that is. He had been one of the crew, yet treated as an outsider. Whatever pain he carried, it stayed hidden. Or maybe we just never cared enough to look. That realization almost got me to tears.

The silence stretched on, weighted with memory and guilt, until Cormag finally cleared his throat and asked Father Gavin for a short sermon. He obliged, of course. His voice was steady yet soft, almost drowned by the sound of wind still battering the house, trying to get in as if it had something to say about this. He spoke of compassion to your fellow man. Of the burden men carry quietly. Of how every man is fighting something you’ll never even see. He also spoke of the need to hold fast – to stand strong beside one another, come what may.

I didn’t look at anyone while he spoke. I just stared at the flame in the lantern. Let it burn the words into the silence.

The mood in the house is heavy – the accursed knowledge of Ingram’s letter weighing us down like an anchor. Everyone turned in early.
October 10^th, 1973

We got up, bright and early, and headed straight for the lighthouse. The first task was to inspect the tower for any leaks or damage left behind by the storm. We moved slowly from floor to floor, lanterns in hand, checking for cracks in the stone, loose mortar, or any spots where water had seeped through. Whenever we spotted something amiss, we informed Cormag, and he gave orders on how it should be addressed. It was steady, focused work. A good kind of silence, feeling more purposeful than heavy. Quite the relief after the last few days.

But as the morning went on, I started noticing Emmet. He wasn’t his usual self. Normally he mutters, curses under his breath at everything he perceives as a slight to him, be it a crack in the wall, a puddle on the floor or mortar that isn’t quite set, but today there was none of that. Just silence. He seemed… vacant, somehow. Like he was sleepwalking. Moving mechanically, in an oddly calm fashion. I caught him once, standing still, his hand resting on the railing. You would expect him to be looking into the horizon. But no. he was looking – or more like staring – at the cliffs. I called out his name and he blinked, and just kept on staring. As if he hadn’t heard me. I called for Cormag, who started shouting at him. No response. When eventually Cormag went right up to Emmet, his gaze went from the cliffs to Cormag. Emmet smiled, said something about the good keeper, and went back to work. Really, really strange behaviour, he usually cursed at Cormag when he was given orders. Did Ingram’s demise really affect his that much?

The day continued with us working, Cormag giving orders and Emmet not talking back, working hard and keeping up this calm demeanour, which felt really off. Had he given up? Or had he finally grown up, and decided that talking back isn’t going to help him?

After finishing our work, we went back to the house, and gathered in the common room. We sat around the table, looking at our glasses and each other. Not much was said, every one of us seemed to be contemplating the recent events. We all turned in early.

October 11^th, 1973

The commanding voice of Cormag woke us before dawn, just as the sun was starting to sneak up past the horizon. We got dressed and Cormag led us out toward the lighthouse. As we walked, Cormag told us about the plan for the day. There was more maintenance to be done, he said. We would start with the machinery: checking the clockwork, lubricating moving parts, topping up the oil reservoirs and tightening any loose bolts that had worked loose during the storm. After we had been working for a while, I started to notice Emmet’s continued strange behavior. There was none of his regular mutterings and curses. As he was tightening rusty bolts, he was just counting, for some unknown reason. It felt so unnatural to see him like this. I asked him if he was OK, he just looked up at me, smiled, and continued his work.

It must have been a little over noon, when I heard Cormag shouting Emmet’s name. I looked up from my work, and saw Emmet with his back turned to us. He was walking away. Toward the cliffs. He was already halfway there. I joined Cormag in shouting for him, telling him to get back here. We needed all the manpower to maintain the lighthouse. But Emmet just kept his steady, slow walk toward the cliffs until he reached them. Cormag cursed and shouted angrily, as Emmet started to climb up the cliffs. I felt despair grab hold of me. What was it with those cliffs? Where did they lead to? And did Ingram and Emmet survive out there?

I had so many questions right now. I looked at Cormag, who was seething with rage. His face was red, and his eyes burning with anger. He glared back at me and shouted: “Get back to work!”

Seeing him this angry is rare. I swiftly got back to it, not wanting to draw any more of his ire. But now a new realization dawned on me: there was only me and Cormag left to maintain the lighthouse. I took a deep breath and started working hard. Harder than I had worked before, because I knew if we didn’t finish, there would be more work tomorrow and eventually we would be swamped by it all.

After a few minutes of working, I had a thought. I called out to Cormag, and asked him when the boat would arrive with new men. Cormag thought about it, then shook his head. “I dunno,” he said in a quiet voice. “Let’s get this over with, and then we can assess the situation.”

By the time we finished up, the sun had almost set. We hurried back to the house, and went straight for bed. This had been a tough day, in many ways.

October 12^th, 1973

We woke up early, the house feeling colder than usual, and made our way down the stairs. About halfway down, I thought I saw something at the bottom – a shape slumped on the landing. My heart leapt to my throat, and I hurried the rest of the way and found Father Gavin lying there, twisted awkwardly, his face pale and beaded with sweat. It looked as if he’d taken a hard fall during the night.

Cormag was right behind me, and together we managed to get him to the couch, easing him down as gently as we could. Cormag knelt beside him, checking for broken bones and tended to his wounds. He ordered me to get some water and medical supplies, and I quickly got back to him with everything he had requested. My hands were trembling with nerves, with all these strange events taking place. It was taking a toll on me.

After a while, Father Gavin opened his eyes and looked at us. He apologized for any trouble he had caused. We both assured him that it wasn’t any trouble, that he should focus on resting, and getting his strength back.

Then Cormag asked how he had fallen. Father Gavin’s reply caused my heart to sink. He said that he was terminally ill, that he had been living with it for some time. He said he had come here for his last job. He knew the lighthouse and found solace in the solitude and beauty of the island. He said that he was happy that he could die here, at peace, with people that accepted him and loved him. As he said that last part, I couldn’t take it anymore. I started sobbing and let out a low moan. I asked for his forgiveness, for the way I had treated him, and the tears started flowing freely. He just looked into my eyes and said softly, ”Forgive you for what? You were just being yourself. And that is all god wants.”
I cried for quite a bit, hugging Father Gavin. Cormag went outside, muttering something about needing fresh air. But I knew he wasn’t really comfortable around feelings and such. He probably thought I was a weak little man. And in the end, I probably was. I turned in soon after that. The house was quieter than ever before.

October 13^th, 1973

So – I woke up early this morning. Went down to the common room and found that Father Gavin was… gone. Somehow, the man who couldn’t walk yesterday – and was terminally ill, mind you – was gone. Vanished. Not a single trace of him. I searched every room in the house, I even went out to the old church. But there was nothing.

Cormag muttered a curse under his breath, then sat down in his usual seat, looking at the empty space where Father Gavin used to sit. I walked slowly to the chair across from his and sat down. He looked me in the eyes and said, ”Now it’s just you and me, son.”

I felt something warm stir inside me – the feeling of being accepted. Finally. But I knew it wouldn’t last, not really. So I tried to act like a man. But that didn’t quite go as planned.

I slapped my knees as I stood up and said: ”Guess we have to get started with the work, then.”

Cormag’s eye-roll felt as if it would crush my very soul. I was such an idiot.

We did our shift – maintaining the lighthouse, lubricating the machinery, tightening loose bolts, checking every system. The usual. There was nothing special about it. Only two men who had run out of ideas of what to talk about. Although I did notice, the few times I looked up from my work, Cormag’s gaze seemed fixed upon the accursed cliffs. I dared not speak to him, remembering his anger when Emmet disappeared. I did not want to lose Cormag, but I also didn’t want him to beat me to death. Right before our shift ended, I gathered up the courage and let out a weak, “Are you good, Cormag?”

He blinked, looked at me and said, “Yeah, yeah, all good. Let’s finish this and…” he trailed off. Gaze back at the cliffs. A cold breeze caught me and I shuddered.

After our shift we went back inside. After a long and painful silence, we both agreed it was best to turn in.

October 14^th, 1973

Oh God, oh god…this is going so wrong, so fast. There is no one here but me.

I can’t find Cormag.

I have yelled my throat raw. I have searched every room in the house – the pantry, the cellar, the upstairs hall, the room of every member of the crew. I even climbed the full tower and checked the lantern deck.

No trace of him. Not a boot, not a coat, not a single damned thing.

I tried starting a shift of my own, just to stay busy, to cling to some sense of order – but it just feels so… overwhelming. I can’t do it on my own. The silence is too loud. The machines feel heavier. The light… colder, somehow.

I’m going to scour the house again – maybe I missed something. A note, a sound, anything. After that, I’ll try the small church for good measure. Maybe there’s something there. Some clue. Some reason. Just anything… anything at all.

October 15^th, 1973

I can’t go on. Maintaining the lighthouse on my own… it is too much. The silence is so loud it is deafening. Every step sounds like it belongs to someone else. But it’s just not that. Something is wrong here. Deeply, unnaturally wrong. I can feel it.

Like I can’t remember a single time we had a meal since I started the journal. 9 days ago. Not one meal, no cooking smells, no dishes to be done. And no hunger. How is that possible? And when I looked in the pantry? It was empty. I was too distraught from Cormag’s disappearance that I hardly noticed it. But the second time I went in there, I realized it.

And now that I’m thinking about it… how did I even get here? I simply cannot for the life of me remember how I got here. There should have been a boat trip. A crew. Papers. Supplies. I feel like I remember packing…I must have. But the trip itself? The arrival? Nothing. Just waking up, already here.

We haven’t seen a single boat yet. Not even on the horizon. There is something mysterious going on here. Something I cannot explain. And I intend to find out what.
October 16^th, 1973

I figured it out. It is all clear now. Whatever awaits me – I will start my ascent today. And I will be ready.