Why does the lighthouse beam follow patterns that don't match any navigation charts, and what happened to the keeper who stopped filing his daily reports three months ago? Which ships respond to signals that aren't in the official lighthouse code, and why do locals avoid the shoreline during certain tidal conditions? What's locked in that basement room beneath the lighthouse foundation?
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Lighthouses are not just stone, brick, metal, and glass. There’s a human story at every lighthouse; that’s the story I want to tell.
― Elinor DeWire
Welcome to Portland Head Light!
As lightkeeper for the past 30 years, I knew every nook and cranny of Portland Head Light. But lately, something felt wrong in the old lighthouse. Shadows shifted in my peripheral vision, and I swore I heard whispers on the wind.
One night, a fierce storm smashed against the rocks. Through driving rain, I saw strange lights dancing among the waves. At dawn, a huge form emerged from the surf and dragged itself onto the beaches below.
That night, screams rent the air. I scrambled down the stone steps, rain sheeting through my oilskins. A nightmare scene awaited—mangled corpses strewn across the pebbled shore.
And it saw me. A massive, shambling thing, glistening skin stretched taut over misshapen bones. Soulless eyes met mine, and its wide mouth split in a grinning challenge.
I fled back up the steps, barricading the tower door as pounding shook the ancient stones. Through cracks in the ancient granite, I saw glowing orbs peering in, promising unending torment if I emerged.
Days passed as my provisions dwindled. That thing prowled below, waiting for me to starve or slip from sanity’s grasp. What eldritch evil had come to claim my light? I would die here before letting the Portland Head Light succumb to darkness.
