lighthouse and screams of a different nature echoing around me. Ducat was leaning over the railings of the watch-room balcony – screaming in anger words that could only be heard by the storm.
I rushed up the spiral stairs of the tower and as I pushed open the balcony door of the watch-room, I realized Ducat was screaming the Lord’s Prayer into the menacing storm as if making a final stand against an unseen enemy. He was nearly halfway through the Lord’s Prayer when gargantuan tentacles descended from the darkness and snatched him up.
Immediately after his disappearance, the storm started dying down as if it had its fill of flesh.
13 DECEMBER 1900
McArthur didn’t return and I barricaded myself in the living quarters after the events of last night. It was too bizarre to be a dream and too surreal to be true. Storms and clouds don’t just simply swallow grown men. There is nothing in the history books that suggest that this is even a possibility and yet I witnessed something otherworldly happen last night.
With both Ducat and McArthur now missing, it is up to me to keep the lighthouse lit and the logbook up to date, but I couldn’t possibly log the events of last night when I hardly comprehend what I witnessed.
With the clock broken it’s hard to tell what time of day it is, but despite it still being dark outside I can’t help but feel that it’s already eleven in the morning. Something dark – something evil – has gotten a firm grip on this island and not even time seems to be able to get away. A voice at the back of my mind keeps telling me that nobody was coming to my rescue.
The sun eventually came up, but appeared to be drained of power; barely illuminating brighter than the moon and I set out once again to search for McArthur. There was no trace of him and even more bizarre was the lack of evidence that a storm of such magnitude had struck the island the night before. There was no debris, no unearthed trees… everything seemed peaceful and as it should.
The rocky shoreline to the north of the island seemed to surrender to nothing – the ocean was as black as night and appeared to be empty of all substance. Could it be that the storm was intense enough to displace the entire ocean or am I going crazy? The rocky shoreline to the south looked the same and when I dropped the lantern over the edge of the island landing, it kept falling into the abyss where the ocean once was until the light disappeared from sight.
McArthur was sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of soup when I returned to lighthouse. Dazed and confused, he apparently had no recollection of what happened the night before or where he went. His hair had turned grey overnight and his skin appeared almost transparent and fragile as he stared down at his soup without saying another word for the rest of the day.
After watching him in silence for a couple of hours, he finally got up and walked to the door; saying that the Ancient One was calling to him like a siren to a sailor. He gave me a vacant look before stepping out and though I ran out a few seconds after him, he was gone.
The twilit day surrendered to the darkness of a silent night – completely lacking the soothing sounds of a cricket choir that normally lulled me to sleep. I’ not sure of the exact time, but I guess it to have been about midnight when I was woken up by the mumblings of McArthur who sat in the kitchen; tearing out pages from the logbook and replacing my accurate accounts of the events thus far with logs of his own.
He kept mumbling, “the world can never know the truth.”
When I tried to take the logbook from him, he gave me a demented animalistic look of fury as he clutched the book against his chest and retreated to the corner; scribbling on as he mumbled the same sentence over and over again. Whatever was happening to the island had its claws wrenched deep inside McArthur’s mind – making him a dangerous person to be around.
I went into the sleeping quarters and locked the door, but I didn’t feel safe enough to fall asleep. Instead I spent the rest of the night sitting on my bed; staring at the door in dreaded anticipation for when a deranged McArthur might break it down.
Once again, sunrise never came.
14 (?) DECEMBER 1900
As I sit here writing this journal entry I fear that the sand in my hourglass is running out fast. I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep since it all began and the fatigue has started to take its toll on my mind, body and soul. It’s hard to tell exactly when the days start as I haven’t seen the sun in what feels like an eternity. From the small window of the room I’m unable to see the sun, clouds or any birdlife which makes me fear that I, along with the entire island, have fallen into the chasm that is the entrance to hell.
McArthur kept me alert most of the night with what can only be described as a huffing snarl and scratching at the door – sounds I’ve never encountered coming from a human before. At some point during the night it sounded like two animals were fighting inside the kitchen, followed by the door slamming shut… and then utter silence.
I’m alone.
It may be futile, but I think I should attempt an escape from the dark hell I am in. The keys to the boathouse was still hanging on its hook the last time I looked.
? DECEMBER 1900
I fear I may have lost my sanity in the continual darkness that has engulfed the island. My journal is the only thing keeping me sane and probably the only accurate account of whatever is happening. McArthur and the logbook is gone – and so are my log entries that he ripped out. I will keep my journal hidden away underneath my matrass as I fear it will be the only evidence should I too be jerked into the night like Ducat or loose my mind like McArthur.
DECEMBER 1900 / JANUARY 1901 (?)
I ran out of supplies a while ago and set out into the dark world outside the living quarters in search of a seagull to fill my belly. I heard the calls for help again – sounding as desperate as the first time I heard them, but I know now that it’s just the darkness trying to reel me in like an angler-fish reeling in prey.
There seems to be no life on this island anymore. Just darkness that looks more and more like dark silhouettes of people standing motionlessly. I think I saw Ducat and McArthur amongst the dark figures that simply watched me from the other side of the darkness; calling to me to join them and the Ancient Ones in a darkness that would eventually consume everything I know and everyone I loved.
The last bit of sanity I have left told me to run back inside and barricade myself. Black fog crawled in underneath the door by candlelight and looked like fingers clawing at the floor. I blocked the crack with the rug, but I know it will only be a matter of time before they would find a way in.
????
I’ve completely lost track of time. Is it day? Is it night? Has Christmas come and gone? Who can tell? I think I should start my own calendar for record keeping purposes. I’ve lit three candles since I barricaded myself in the living quarters so it should probably be about two days since. Two days of voices calling out to me like sirens. Two days of clawing at the door that seemed to grow weaker and weaker. Two days of praying to God.
They say prostitution is the oldest profession in the world, but you know what I think? I think religion is. They make money off people’s suffering and desperate people will pay anything for a glimmer of hope.
I’d give everything I have for a chance to get out of here alive. If there is a God I’d do anything for him to save me from this eternal darkness that has descended upon the island.
MONDAY
The hunger is getting the best of me and made me risk certain death by venturing outside when all was quiet. The rest of the island is gone. There is nothing out there. It is just me now – me and the lighthouse that is still erect on a small patch of island that is drifting through the black emptiness. I’m not sure how much longer I can go on like this.
This will probably be my last entry. When the voices call to me again, I might just as well give into the darkness.
CONCLUSION
Joseph Moore never revealed the diary or any of its contents to the police. Instead, he went back to Eilean Mor under
the cover of night to try and solve the mystery of the three missing lighthouse keepers. The radical contents of the journal never matched up with any of the physical evidence left at the lighthouse and Moore realized that their disappearance would remain a mystery forever.
He decided to send the journal to his cousin, Howard, in Providence, Rhode Island in the summer of 1905. Howard was an amateur science fiction writer whose writings were considered too bizarre to market and Moore hoped that Howard could either make sense of the journal or use it as inspiration for his next story.
Dearest Howard,
I’ve stumbled upon the most intriguing journal that chronicles a string of bizarre events that reminded me so much of the tales you used to tell when our family came to visit. The mystery surrounding the events of Eilean Mor shall forever remain a mystery, but the strange events leading up to the disappearances could perhaps help you with your latest short story.
If I may suggest something else, dear cousin… Your name might be considered too long by publishing houses. Instead of writing as Howard Phillip Lovecraft, why not simply bill yourself as H.P. Lovecraft?
Yours faithfully
Joseph.
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