The lighthouse stands at the edge of a tidal
plain, its beam a relic of a time when ships
relied on human eyes to navigate. The keeper, a
man known only as O’Riada, lives alone in a
cottage above the structure, his days measured
by the rhythm of tides and the hum of the
generator.
A storm rolls in, bringing with it a sudden
blackout. The power fails, and O’Riada is forced
to light the lamp manually, using a kerosene
canister and a match. As he climbs the spiral
stairs, the air grows colder, and the walls seem
to shift. When he reaches the lens, a figure
materializes—halfcorporeal, dressed in 1920s
military garb, holding a folded flag.
The ghost does not speak. It gestures toward the
sea, then points to O’Riada’s chest. He feels a
sharp pain, as if something has been torn from
him. Later, he finds a rusted locket in the sand,
its interior bearing a faded photograph of a
young woman with the same eyes as his mother.
The next night, the ghost returns, this time
with a group of figures in 1916 Risingera
uniforms. They stand in a circle, chanting in a
language that echoes in his skull. O’Riada tries
to flee, but the door locks behind him. The
ghost presses a hand to his forehead, and he
sees flashes: a funeral procession, a secret
meeting in a pub, a gunshot in a back alley.
He discovers a hidden room beneath the
lighthouse, sealed for decades. Inside, a
collection of letters reveals his
greatgrandfather was a spy for the IRA, tasked
with intercepting British communications. The
ghost is his ancestor, trapped between duty and
guilt.
O’Riada begins to hear voices in the wind,
fragments of conversations from the past. He
writes them down, fearing they are madness. But
the more he records, the more the ghost appears,
now clearer, no longer a shadow but a man with a
face.
A journalist from Dublin arrives, drawn by
rumors of the lighthouse. She asks about the
history of the area. O’Riada refuses to speak,
but she finds the locket and the letters. She
publishes an article, linking the site to the
War of Independence. The local council orders an
investigation.
The ghost becomes more aggressive. It blocks the
generator, forcing O’Riada to relight the lamp
each night. He starts to see the ghost in the
mirror, in the reflection of the lens, in the
flicker of the flame. One morning, he finds his
own name etched into the stone wall of the
lighthouse, alongside others.
The council arrives, demanding access. O’Riada
resists, but the ghost intervenes, causing a
power surge that damages the generator. The
lighthouse is declared unsafe. The council
orders its closure.
On the final night, the ghost appears one last
time. It hands O’Riada a key, then dissolves. He
uses it to open the sealed room, finding a
ledger of names—those who died in the conflict,
those who survived, and those who were forgotten.
The lighthouse is dismantled. O’Riada leaves,
carrying the ledger. The ghost is gone, but the
weight of the past remains. In the distance, the
sea still sings, and the wind carries the echo
of a flag unfurling.
