Hobbled Shades

When the door blew open, I came down from the light and was pushed— clattering down every one of 219 steps and cracking my head on a box of rope at the bottom of the lighthouse. This was no doubt the work of Pegleg Pete, as we called the shambling black shadow seen sulking around this craggy isle, or heard clopping up and down the long spiral stairwell.

I threw back the hood of my oilskin to assess the damages, feeling mostly disappointment. The old-timers feared Pete, who would step from behind the privy or shove you while on night-watch. But no harm was ever done and I even felt a strange rapport with the specter.

Now, I could see his cowled figure staring down from the landing, as I discover my fractured femur has punctured an artery. I was going to die alone on this rock.

Well, mostly alone.