Step into the shadowy realm of "Poe's Nightmares," a mesmerizing collection of short stories and poetry penned by the enigmatic Lady Eckland. This anthology is a tribute to the master of the macabre, Edgar Allan Poe, whose spectral whisper resonates...
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This story is based on Poe's unfinished work....
The cry of seagulls woke Elias from his slumber. He rose slowly, scrubbing the sleep from his eyes as the familiar scent of salt air crept in through the open window. When his bare feet met the cold stone floor, the remnants of his dreams faded - something about a woman's distant song calling to him from across tumultuous waters.
With a deep breath, Elias stretched his tired limbs and shuffled to the wide window of the bedroom in the uppermost level of the lighthouse. The skies were steely gray, heralding another overcast day on the remote peninsula jutting out amongst the roiling ocean swells. From his vantage point high atop the cliffs, Elias had a clear view down the craggy shoreline in either direction before it curved off into the distance. endlessly, it seemed, with no sign of another living soul. Just endless rocks and sea and sky, the only beacons being the lighthouse behind him and a crumbling orphanage far off to the north.
The cry of the gulls intensified as Elias's gaze fell upon the white-capped breakers crashing against the rocks below. He had lived here alone for twelve years now, ever since his father Artemis had passed, leaving Elias to carry the torch as his family had done for generations. He understood solitude, almost craved it at times, finding a quiet comfort in the steadfast daily tasks of keeping the great lantern lit. Most days he appreciated the stillness, filled only by the score of the sea and sky. But still, in the murmured lament of the gulls and the whispers of the wind, he heard traces of humanity's faint echo, like a half-remembered song, reminding him that the world of men still turned beyond his secluded realm of brine and granite.
Turning from the window with a shiver, Elias headed downstairs to begin his morning routines. After washing up and getting dressed, he swept and mopped the tower’s interior before extinguishing the lantern so he could clean the enormous glass Fresnel lens. As a boy he used to marvel at the precisely angled prism panels and the powerful shaft of light they would project out to sea when lit. His father had shown him how even the smallest smudges or defects in the glass could weaken or distort the beacon’s radiance and endanger passing ships. And so Elias had learned the vital skill of polishing each panel until it was crystal clear, just as all the lighthouse keepers in his family line had done before him.
By mid-morning, his tasks were complete. After winding the clockwork machinery and lighting the lamp once more, Elias headed out into the chill autumn air. The sun was trying to break through tattered shreds of clouds as he made his way down the steep cliffside stairs to the base of the tower. He spent the rest of the day foraging for shellfish and sea plants, collecting driftwood, and looking after the handful of goats, chickens, and gardens that sustained him.
As evening fell, Elias bundled up in his bunk near the quietly whirring lamp, a pot of chamomile tea warming his hands. He was tired but content, ready to sink into his familiar dreams. Outside, the winds were picking up as an offshore storm blew in. The panes of the lantern room rattled as Elias dozed off.
