The Lighthouse

Routine was the most important thing. He’d maintained the lighthouse for years upon years now, and had grown comfortable in his habits. It made things easier, simpler. The lighthouse was his life.
Mornings were simple. Before breakfast he would check the lighthouse, turn off the bulb as the morning sun grew brighter. From there it was simple bit of cleaning up, dusting the room and tidying.
They had a fancy set up in the engines below, a diesel set that powered the whole tower and had to be fed new oil everyday.
Breakfast was a simple affair. When he’d been a young man, just starting out working the lighthouse with a permanent sailing injury, he’d varied every day. He’d bought bacon, eggs, bread, had changed his meal — the wages were fairly decent, after all, and it wasn’t hard to afford little variety, so long as he made the trip into town.
These days, it was very different. He had settled into taking unsweetened porridge every morning. He never really thought on the taste: he just put it in the pot, heated it, and sat at his table with his bowl and spoon.
After that, it was the check of the grounds outside the lighthouse. Picking rubbish off the two beaches, ensuring nothing had broken, ensuring the paths were clear. That took a good three hours or so.
Lunch. Again, something simple.
Some days he would go off and into town — he couldn’t remember the last time he’d done that. Today was not one of those days. This day he would settle in his chair and listen to the radio.
His radio was old, but it worked fine. He’d listen to the news, listen to music. Sometimes there was a little static, but that never lasted too long.
From there, he would wait. When night came, he would pick up his radio and head upstairs to turn on the switches and then settle with the light. He would watch from the window and look for ships, for boats, even for little dinghies.
The lighthouse ran automatically for the most part, but he liked to be there. He liked to see. He’d done this for so many years now, after all.
Routine was important.
Sometimes he fell asleep, but he always woke in his bed on the next day. He must do it in some sleepy daze, he thought. Stagger half-awake to his bed and then forget about it by the time he woke.
It was part of the routine, the ever-important schedule. That’s how it worked.

---

He’d heard about the lighthouse, but it had been left to nothingness for many years now. It was just a monument to past days on the outcrop of cliff, and had been mostly forgotten about.
Someone had mentioned preserving it, perhaps making a museum of sorts. Someone else had agreed to take the ancient keys and check it out.
He swung the keys in his hand as he stepped onto its little island from the bridge, following the path. It was overgrown, plants spanning out onto the yellowed line of it. The beach he could see was strewn over with cans and seaweed and plastic: that would have to be fixed and cleaned up.
The door to the lighthouse was thick and made of oak. The key stuck a little in the door, but he managed to turn the key and open it. As he stepped into the lighthouse, into the kitchen, he saw a silver shadow of something in the old chair at the table.
The ghost disappeared, routine forgotten, and he barely even noticed it.
His thoughts went to the old antique radio on the sideboard, and wondered if it should stay in the museum or not.

Ao3-Style Tags

Rated T for Teen. Published August 25th 2020. Approximately 700 words.

Setting: England. 
Genre & Tone: Ghost Story. 
Themes: Slice-of-Life. Routine. Isolation. Loneliness.