Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - The Last Lighthouse

Episode Date: November 24, 2021

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Talk to nicely. A ship's crew came upon an abandoned lighthouse the day after Christmas in the year 1900. There was no sign of the three lighthouse keepers who should have been present, James Duccott, Thomas Marshall, and Donald MacArthur. The relief lighthouse keeper, Joseph Moore, found an eerie scene before him when he landed. All of the doors, windows, and gates in and around the property were closed, but the rooms were all well lived in. Beds were still unmade, and food was out on the table.

It was as if the keepers fled the lighthouse in a rush, or were taken. The building was severely damaged, walls scarred, and stones cracked. Something had put the lighthouse under siege, though no storms capable of such calamity were reported in the area of the flannel aisles, which was just off the northwestern coast of Scotland. The Atlanta can be devious in the winter, and it's possible that some irregular weather event was the cause of the disappearance. The prevailing theory is that the three men were working near the shore, when a sudden and massive wave reached up from the sea and dragged them away. That's almost the truth, but there is so much more to the story.

My name is Lucas Vant, amateur reporter and owner of the blog Horror in History. I am trying to spread the account of one of history's strangest mysteries. Through my contacts, I've come into possession of the log books of Thomas Marshall, one of the missing keepers. You may have seen excerpts of these journals floating around message boards over the last few years. However, this is the first time that I believe the full set detailing the events of the disappearance have been made available. This is a tale of three men in isolation. of a terrible storm, a hungry sea, and of a ship that has no earthly explanation. Part 1 read in the morning.

Journal of Light Station at Flannel Isles. A count signed by Thomas Marshall, Lighthousekeeper Occasional. Tuesday, December 11th. The Year of Our Lord, 1900. Mr. MacArthur had another fit today. This time, it was over breakfast. Apparently, Mr. DuCott overcooked the eggs and caused some bacon to burn. In response, Mr. McArthur shattered his plate and sent a chair flying into the wall.

I ran downstairs after hearing the commotion and found Mr. McArthur seething, while Mr. DuCott simply stared at the remains of the eggs. Both men have been acting peculiar this past week, prompting me to keep this second unoffiliated. logbook. I prefer to have events in writing should there be an inquiry. Neither man is a bad sort. I believe the months of isolation have taken a toll on all of us. My goal now is simply to keep us all alive and sane until our relief arrives in nine days. This is a task easier said than done. Mr. McArthur is a tall bull of a man, broad-shouldered with scarred knuckles. He has a reputation as a fearsome brawler, though he's been relatively calm up until last week. Mr. Duccott is much

his opposite, frail and older, going quite gray. Should the two come to blows over some trivial annoyance or another, I'm not sure I could restrain Mr. McArthur. Let's hope it doesn't come to that. To keep everyone calm, I've decided to reduce our tasks for the day. There are still provisions left on the landing stage to transport, but that can wait until morning. Instead, I think it would benefit us all to focus on the holiday spirit. Perhaps some Christmas songs might cool Mr. MacArthur's temper and raise Mr. DuCott's spirits. I'll assign light work to the pair and focus on decorations as well as the planning of some games and activities.

My task will be to prepare a large dinner with whatever available materials I can gather. This should remind the boys of home, of happier times, and family. I know that my mind turned so often to you, Rebecca. I suppose no man is truly immune to a measure of homesickness. There's a song that I think I'll share with the boys tonight. I heard it in Glasgow last year played by a young man on the street. I heard it only once, but I remember the lyrics well. They make me think of you, Becky.

I love a lassie. A bonnie, bonnie lassie, she's as pure as the lily in the dell. She's as sweet as the heather, the bonny purple heather, Mary muscoch blue bell. There seems to be a storm building out west. The sunrise was blood red, and the wind has an ill quality to it. Not quite an odor, not quite an edge. The gulls are circling, and colds. calling out to each other in an agitated manner.

They remind me a bit of Mr. MacArthur, truth be told. That's an unkind thing to write. Yet I can hear the man even now, stomping around upstairs, pacing while taking his watch with the light. We've not seen a ship for some days now, but will not slip in our schedule while I'm senior keeper. I can hear the wind, now rattling the windows. The air comes crashing off the Atlantic, and then roars up the cliffs.

Out here on the island, in our small tower of stones surrounded by the full wonder and terror of the sea, ah, Becky, it's a fine reminder that God is everywhere and fearsome in his love. I'll assign the boys their duties, then head to landing to grab a few supplies just in case this storm comes calling tonight. We are well-stocked already, but Atlantic weather is as unpredictable as it is primal. Should we end up stuck for several days, it would not do us well to be caught without sufficient bread, whiskey, or paraffin for the light. Lord knows that any lack in those categories could send Mr. MacArthur into a rage and Mr. Ducotte into, well, he'd probably just stand in the corner and count spider webs. Farewell, Becky. I promise that I will be home in time for Christmas,

and I'll be absolutely staggered with gifts for you and the children. Mr. Duquette spotted a ship just after sunset. It appears to be unmoving, perhaps anchored, half of a league offshore. The storm I feared this morning is moving towards us, and visibility is low. However, I was able to see the ship myself, even after dark, whenever our light rotated across that stretch of sea. It might be some trick of the water in the sky, but the vessel appears to almost have an internal glow.

there's a pale blue shine to the boards and sails of the ship. It's faint, but amplified whenever our lantern sweeps by. Strange. The wind is up now, and I can hear the rain beginning. I believe our holiday dinner went well, and the boys rather enjoyed that song I mentioned. For a few blessed hours, the tension that's been creeping into our lighthouse was suspended.

However, with the arrival of this ship, I can sense Mr. MacArthur once again becoming agitated, while Mr. Duccott has taken to whispering to himself when he thinks no one is paying attention. Nine more days. The relief ship arrives on the 20th. I don't believe we'll accomplish much tomorrow, so I will seek to occupy our minds with some game or contest while we wait out the storm. It is nearly my watch, and I find myself eager to again view the ship. We've attempted to see a signal them with our beacon but to no avail. Sleep well, Becky, and perhaps keep us in your prayers if you find the time. Part 2. Sailors take warning.

Journal of Light Station at Flannel Isles. Account signed by Thomas Marshall, Lighthouse Keeper Occasional. Wednesday, December 12th, the Year of Our Lord, 1900. Do you believe in phantoms, Becky? Of the two of us, I've always considered you to be more the fanciful, possessed of a keen imagination compared to my dull pragmatism. However, after last night, I'm beginning to wonder if ghosts might be real. The storm fell upon us in full sometime after midnight.

It hows even now. Violent winds, the likes of which I haven't seen in all of my two decades as a keeper. rain lashes the building, threatening the windows, and the temperature is falling fast. Should the trend continue, I believe we'll see snow by midday. When I relieved Mr. MacArthur from his post at the beacon this morning, I found him bundled up in two sweaters, a scarf and a peacoat. It's cold up in that tower with the light. The glass lets in the chill. The view, though, was astounding.

All around us, the sea raged. Dark clouds mimicked the waves below, thrashing and roiling. Waves taller than our house pounded the cliffs like a madman at a door. The rain seemed like it could drown the world and wash away anyone who had forgotten to build an arc. The light station on flannel aisles is thoroughly modern and safe. Our walls are solid. The tower is high. We even have a rail system to move provisions and equipment from the shore. But standing in the lantern room this morning, Rebecca, I felt a profound fear. What protection could our human designs offer us against such a violent display of nature? It shook me, I admit, though I did not show it. Mr. McArthur, on the other hand, was clearly distressed by the storm. He did not hear me as I opened the trap door leading from the

watchroom to the lantern room. I believe he was quiet, but something about the rhythm of his breathing was akin to soft sobbing. It cleared my throat to make my presence known. Mr. McArthur turned to me, wiping at his eyes. His face was wet. I was just on the catwalk observing the ship, he said. In this downpour, I asked. Are you suggesting I'm lying? There was more heat in his voice than in the room, so I let the matter drop. I took my position near the lantern and tasked Mr. MacArthur with preparing lunch. Take care not to look at the ship for too long. McArthur called back as he climbed down the ladder into the watchroom. It. There's something unnatural about it, Mr. Marshall. I shivered then, most likely from the chill, and thanked the man for his advice. Once the trapdoor

was closed. I took my first good look at the vessel since the night before. I felt my breath catch. The ship was closer. It still appeared to be anchored, bobbing on the white caps, but it was certainly several hundred yards closer to the shore than it had been previously. Any detail of the design was blurred by rain, foam, and the first drifts of snow. Still, I immediately understood Mr. McArthur's meaning. Watching the ship, put it in the ship, put it in the first drifts of snow. Still, I immediately understood Mr. MacArthur's meaning. watching the ship put a cramp in my stomach. My eyes ached, a pressure forming in an invisible line between them. The glow from the night before was muted during the day, yet occasionally visible.

It oscillated between a distilled green and a startling glue. I've heard tales of ships encountering bright stains in the deep ocean, illumination that would trail along in the wake. I've heard it was beautiful. The light around the ship moored in the sea. storm was not beautiful. I could not watch it for long. The vessel continued to ignore my periodic attempts to signal it with our beacon. I stood the morning watch, though I thought it freeze to death. As I expected, the rain turned to snow before noon, and the great glass

windows that surrounded the lantern room began to ice over. In response, I heavily increased the amount of paraffins supplied to the beacon and lit the two stoves to heat the space. I've never seen weather like I did today, Becky. When the snow was coming down the hardest, I saw lightning split from the clouds. The flashes connected the sky like winding purple-white fades. I've never seen lightning during a blizzard before. The waves came in like barbarians threatening the shore. Mr. DuCotte relieved me at the watch without a word exchanged.

I was too shaken from the hour spent, trying not to stare at the ship. He seemed distracted in his own right. Mr. Duquette was underdressed for the chill, wearing a sweater but no jacket or cap. I lent him my peacoat and instructed him to keep the stoves well fed with a ready supply of wood in the bin. I'm not sure he heard me. I'm not sure I care. I tried to busy myself that afternoon running a check on supplies.

We have an exceptional amount of material down at the beach in the storage sheds, but with the violence of the storm, they might as well be. in Russia. But my count, we have six days of food and twice that in fresh water. There's enough fuel for the lantern for a month, thank God. But only two days of kindling for the stoves will make do. The storm can't last forever. Lazzang sur-gely, puissance-molyne, for 15 minutes.

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responsible, the conditions apply. There's something in the lighthouse with us, or that's how it feels, Becky. I can sense a presence

whenever I pass what should be an empty room. As if I only just missed seeing some visitor standing in the corner, or perhaps hidden out of sight. I began feeling almost like I was being followed. The storm increased in intensity as night fell. The walls creak as if they were made of ratty timber instead of stone. Every window is iced over, every door

frozen shut. I spent the afternoon moving from room to room, pretending I did not feel chaste. Dinner was a silent affair. I'll take a night watch and pray that our conditions improve. I'm thinking of you and the girls, always. Part 3. Red Sky at Night Journal of Light Station at Flannel Isles, account signed by Thomas Marshall, Lighthousekeeper occasional.

Thursday, December 13th, the year of our Lord, 1900. I might be going mad, Becky, The storm continues to rage with snow drifts covering the better part of the first floor. The lightning is almost constant, and we've begun to hear thunder. It shames me to say that we've become lax in keeping watch in the lantern room. Mr. Duccott had given every indication of being terrified of the room with its glass walls and ready view of the ship. Mr. MacArthur becomes agitated whenever asked to take watch, and I have to admit I'm not eager to climb the ladder myself.

I've broken the routine into limited shifts with gaps where no one is at the lantern. That's against regulation, but a fog has rolled in off the Atlantic that makes me doubt any ship would risk the shore. Any wise captain will ride out the storm. That's what we're trying to do here, Rebecca. Ride out the storm. Only seven more days until relief. The three of us have spent most of the morning in the living room close to the largest stove. Neither Mr. McArthur nor Mr. Duccott seems to be shaving.

MacArthur has taken to mumbling, Duquette to praying. Myself, I started singing quietly whenever I encounter silence. I love a lassie, a bonnie, bonnie lassie, she's as pure as the lily in the dell. She's as sweet as the heather, the bunny football heather, Mary muscoch blue bell. I saw a ghost as I walked past the control room around midday. There was a sickly blue light under the door.

It reminded me of the ship out on the water. When I opened the door, the first sensation that hit me was the odor. Do you remember the whale that washed up on the shore that summer near Loch Maddie? Do you recall how it began to stink as it rotted in the sun? Guts all out over the sand. Birds tearing at it in the July sun. It was like I was there again. When I opened the door, I saw a man in the corner.

He wasn't entirely present, more of a flickering light in the shape of a person. The phantom looked my way and smiled. My first impression was that the spectre reminded me of my father, tall and well-dressed, well-groomed, almost smiling. Then the figure became distorted, his features rising and falling like a tide. One moment, he resembled my father, the next to my brother, then you. The experience only lasted a few breaths, and then the room was empty, but it left me trembling. I closed the door and decided to take an additional watch.

I'll add another entry here after my shift. I miss you, Rebecca, and the girls. I miss our home, our fireplace, your cooking. God, Lord, do I miss your cooking. I miss the sun. The wind continues. It will come as no surprise to you, Becky, that I found the ghost ship closer to our shore when I took my watch.

The vessel was less than a half mile from the cliffs, still bobbing madly on the towering waves. How the anchor chain did not snap, I could not tell you. I could make out details now with the ship so close, even through the snow and lightning. The sails were crisp and at full white canvas snapping in the wind. The timbers looked new with a fresh figurehead in the shape of an angel with open wings. There were figures on the deck despite the storm.

They didn't look distressed. Just the opposite. I think. I believe they may have been dancing and singing. It sounds mad. I know it. I know it. But that's not the full sum of it, Rebecca.

because one moment, that ship looked more inviting and lovely than a bare blanket in winter. Then the next moment, the sails were tattered rags, the timbers rotted, and the shapes on the deck weren't singing. They were screaming. There will be no night watch. No mortal ship would be out in this weather. Journal of Light Station at Flannel Isles, account signed by Thomas Marshall, lighthouse keeper occasional.

Friday, December 14th, the year of our Lord 1900. There's a shadow under the ship, a great beast, radiating hunger, and so large that the vessel looks like a sore on a cadaver. I saw the shape in the water, I'm sure of it. The shadow was revealed with a flash of lightning, so massive it might rival the island. At the very edge of it, the ship floated looking fine and welcoming again, creeping close. and closer to the shore. Then the lightning faded, and the shadow was gone.

I waited and watched as the sun rose, but I did not catch sight of the thing below the surface again. Becky, I worry that we will not make it in another six days. The storm roars and shrieks, waves cracking against the cliffs. If they grow any higher, I worry will be swept away. The boys and I spent the night in the living room trying to play car. Mr. MacArthur became irritated with each lost hand, however, and Mr. DuCott kept playing his cards backwards. We sat close to the stove and listened to the wind. I heard voices in the air. Your voices, the girls,

even our little boy we lost three winters back. Sometimes your voices are soft and singing. Then the wind will shift, and you'll be screeching and begging to die. I can tell by the expressions that run across the faces of Mr. MacArthur and Mr. Duccott, that they hear something in the howl, too. It was a bad night. There will be no watches today. No one should sit in that glass room and be forced to consider that ship. It is vicious in its appeal. I can't decide if I want to run from it or swim to it. I encountered another phantom this morning. It had no true form, Only a light, roughly my own size and silhouette. Instead of the sapphire shine, the light was now crimson.

The glow came from the storeroom. I felt an incredible urge to walk into the space. It was pitch black other than the sapphire shine. I stood just outside the room staring at the specter for nearly a minute. When it became clear I wasn't moving, the door slammed on its own. Mr. Duccott asked for a conversation sometime either late morning or early afternoon. I couldn't tell as the clocks had all stopped. He pulled me aside to a corner of the common room.

I sat in a chair near the stove while he paced. Mr. Duccott managed to look both much younger and much older than his years. His hair had gone completely gray, where a few days ago it was salt and pepper. His beard, if you were charitable, enough to describe it as such, was surprisingly red and wispy. He hunched his narrow shoulders and turned his watery blue eyes to me. Do you hear it? The wind? I asked. Ducaud finally sat down on his cot. Is that all you hear? It wasn't. All day, Rebecca. I've heard this song more and more. It's become raspy, as if the lyrics were choked out by a hanged choir. Air barely passed.

through ruined vocal cords. But I couldn't tell Mr. Ducod all of that, Becky. He'd think I was losing my mind. So I asked him what he meant. I hear his voice whispering, Duccott said. He says he is God, but he is lying. Mr. Duccott stood then, breathing hard and shaking.

I'd like to go home, Mr. Marshall. I've been seeing my sister lately here in the lighthouse. She died when I was 11. I'm, please, can I leave? I tried to smile. The relief boat will be here in a few days, sir. Just hold steady until then. This storm has us seeing things, hearing things, phantoms that aren't there.

I squeezed Mr. Ducott's shoulder. It felt very thin under his shirt. Steady on. I've always admired you, Mr. Marshall. He replied after a long silence. I'm sorry if I've been any disappointed. been to you or Elizabeth? No, no, you haven't been. Who was Elizabeth? Mr. Ducotte was already wandering off towards the stairs. He mumbled something about taking a shift with the lantern.

I let him go. The wind was up again, rattling the frosted windows, howling with that strangled song. I realized that I had not laid eyes on Mr. MacArthur in some time. I moved from room into room, calling his name. There was no sign of him until I reached the ground floor. The front passage was open, snow drifting in to cover the boards. I thought I saw a figure moving away in the fog. I took a step towards the door and stopped. Mr. McArthur's clothes were piled in a heap outside the doorway. Wait! I shouted, running towards the man. Have you lost your mind? Mr. McArthur, you'll freeze. You'll die. It was him. I recognized the beard, the wild hair and broad shoulders. He was moving fast,

and I kept losing him as I stumbled through the snow and the mist. The man was naked as the day he was born, Becky, and I swear he was laughing like an idiot. He quickly outpaced me, and I had no choice but to head back to the lighthouse before I became disoriented. This should not have been possible, even in the storm, but the beacon was out. Part 4. sailor's delight. I found Mr. Duccott up in the lantern room sitting next to a dead lantern. He doused the light in the pilot. The glass shook around us as I approached the man. There was a red haze in the snow outside, the bleeding glow like a punctured sunrise. It was late afternoon, but other than the shimmer, it was ink black outside.

Lightning darted through the clouds, also so red. In the flash, I saw the ship, and the shadow below it, and a field of water spouts connecting the sky to the sea. The ship was closer to shore. Of course it was closer, and now it was red. Everything red, red, red, red. I'm sorry, Mr. Marshall, Duccott whispered. He's looking for us. If it's dark, he might not see us.

Who, Mr. Ducat? The ship is his light, his lantern. Our beacon warns vessels to stay clear of the cliffs, but his is an invitation, Mr. Marshall. Duccott giggled in a lonesome way. Have you heard of the angler fish? I don't understand, sir, Dukot. Mr. Duccott. It was no use.

The young man was catatonic, Becky. He didn't even flinch at the crash. The sound came from the west, a great squealing of iron bending that I heard over the howling wind. The ground shook as a little. if a star fell to earth. As the lightning came again, I saw that the sea was broken in a terrible maelstrom, dozens of water spouts rising from the Atlantic like charmed snakes. Journal of Light Station at Flannel Isles. Account signed by Thomas Marshall. Lighthouse Keeper Occasional. Saturday, December 15th, the year of Our Lord, 1900. I thought of you, Becky,

before I blacked out. You and the girls. I thought of you. I heard you calling me from the shore, perhaps the ship. The storm is gone. Thank God and love him. The storm is gone. The sky is clear and calm and blue as ever. I woke alone in the lantern room with the beacon gone cold and dark. There was no sign of Mr. Ducotte. Judging by the position of the sun, it was nearly suppertime. I do not know what caused me to pass out or sleep so long, Becky, but I awake fresh and invigorated. Before I was tired, confused, but now I am well. The wind is gone, but the breeze remembers and regurgitates the song. I love a lassie, a bonnie, Bonnie lassie. The ship is now nearly at the shore. I can see now it is only a boat, barely

swollen with light at all. The timbers are red, and the sails are red, and the stain is red, and it is everywhere. There's a shadow under the ship, but perhaps that's my imagination playing tricks on me. It does not matter. Today is a fine day. The air is cold and sweet with salt. I see Mr. MacArthur, Mr. Ducotte on the shore. They're wading towards the ship, and what a fine craft it is. nearly a hundred feet in length and at least 26 at the beam. The dancers on the deck are waving for me, Becky. I think the ship will take me home, and then you and the girls can join me, and all will be well.

What a delight. What a delight. Lucas Vant here. This is where Thomas Marshall's journals end. December 15th. That was the last entry. Later that same day, a steamer's ship named the Archdor.

passed by the Flannel Isles Lighthouse and noticed that its beacon was out. The ship's captain never reported the situation because the arch tour ran aground. The relief boat that was supposed to arrive at the lighthouse on December 20th was delayed until the 26th. The crew expected to find a trio of irritated keepers sore about missing Christmas with their families. Instead, the relief found an abandoned island. The beds were unmade. The clocks unwound. Food was still on the table partially eaten, and the western landing was damaged beyond repair. Rails were twisted and a massive stone that served as an informal lookout

and fallen. No bodies were ever recovered, and the lighthouse was eventually repaired and restaffed. The world moved on, but Mr. Marshall, Mr. MacArthur, and Mr. DuCott were not forgotten. There have been a dozen or so sightings of the ghost ship in the last century. It was called the Phantom of the Seven Hunters, and it always arrived with a storm and peculiar light. Witnesses have sworn that the vessel has an unusual figurehead. Three naked men stitched together into a chimera. One was snarling, one was laughing, and one always looked toward the horizon, like it was searching for something.