By Cynthia Wilfert

“Ain’t afraid of heights, are ya?” Viv peered down from the top stair.

Whit shook his head, trying to catch his breath from the steep climb. The old woman wasn’t even winded.

He grabbed the handrail as Viv’s dog, Trooper, bounded past him. Ugh. His captain would double his training if he learned Whit was outstripped by a mid-sized mutt.

“I know some say this post is insignificant.” Viv patted Trooper. “But it’s more crucial than the gatehouses, since we man the light.”

“Mmhmm.” Whit doubted any enemy could scale this tower. It stood on a cliff that butted right up to the sea.

He finally reached the platform—a small space mostly occupied by the massive lantern on its pedestal. There were no walls, only a short lip of stones acting as a guardrail. Whit caught sight of the view. He stared, wide-eyed.

Viv grinned. “Worth the climb, eh?”

Brilliant oranges and pinks of the setting sun graced the sky and reflected in the waves. He felt like he was flying.

“You understand your duty?”

He tore his gaze away. “Yes, ma’am. Keep the lantern lit.”

She chuckled. “No need to ma’am me. No place for this old lightkeeper in the Guards.”

She was pretty far from the typical Guardsman. Whit was a recruit in the city’s military, accustomed to uniforms and order. Viv bore tattered clothes and the informal manner of the lower class. Even her dog was ragged with several scars and a bit missing from his ear.

Viv demonstrated the lantern’s mechanisms. “Just turn the crank a few times every hour; it’ll stay lit. This main one connects to the others spaced out along the walls. As long as it burns, the grims stay out of the city.”

“Right. Grims.” Whit was long past believing in fairy tale monsters, but Viv seemed serious. Curious how the elder generation persisted in superstition.

“They’re afraid of the light,” a newcomer announced. Whit turned to see a young man carrying an unlit torch.

“My grandson, Oren,” Viv said.

Whit nodded in greeting.

Oren eyed him, clearly sizing Whit up. “People count on you to keep that light burning.”

“Yes, sir,” Whit said.

Oren raised an eyebrow but moved on. At his sharp whistle, Trooper trotted over and followed him down the stairs.

“Oren and Trooper patrol every night. Just holler if you need anything.” Viv patted Whit’s shoulder. “See you at dawn.”

Whit strolled around the platform, enjoying the view as the sky darkened until he could no longer see the ocean. Then he gave the lantern a good crank, smiled as it flared to life, and settled in.

He’d been so excited for his first posting, he’d hardly slept the night before.

But he soon discovered that the actual work was much less stimulating. Alone with a monotonous task, Whit’s eyes soon drifted closed.

When he woke, it took a moment to realize where he was and what was wrong.

It was dark.

Whit shot up with a gasp. He could get drummed out of the Guards for falling asleep on watch!

Footsteps pounded up the staircase. He was in such trouble. He groped around for the crank.

His hand smacked something cold and slimy.

Whatever it was hissed.

Whit felt a sudden stabbing pain in his forearm. He cried out and flailed, cracking his back against the pedestal.

Light burst onto the platform.

Oren bearing his torch.

The pressure on Whit’s arm released. In the light of the flame, he glimpsed… a nightmare.

It was a cat-sized creature with a slick hide, blacker than the darkness. It seemed cobbled together out of ugly mismatched parts—one snake-like arm longer than the other, bulbous head too big for the lithe body. The torchlight gleamed off malevolent yellow eyes and a gaping maw. Sharp teeth dripped with blood. His blood.

Trooper bounded between Whit and the creature. It screeched and fled into the shadows.

Oren swung the torch in an arc. “Get the lantern!”

Whit scrambled to obey. As he spun, he glimpsed the edges of the platform. In every direction, the darkness writhed.

They were surrounded.

Whit finally found the crank, but his hand slipped off twice before he managed to turn it.

The lantern flared to life. Trooper bared his teeth, and the hissing mass of blackness crawled over itself, fragmenting into individual creatures darting over the low stones.

Whit felt ill. He shut his eyes and lost himself to the rhythm of the crank, turning it over and over.

He jumped at a touch to his shoulder.

“You can stop now.” Viv’s voice was soft.

Whit blinked. When had she arrived?

“I’ll man the light,” Oren said.

Viv nodded. “Come, lad. Let’s patch you up.”

The climb down was a blur. Soon Whit was seated at a table as Viv cleaned the ragged puncture wound.

She tutted. “This is sloppy. Grims prefer sleepin’ victims; mostly just leave pinprick marks.”

“Nothing there in the dark that’s not there in the light,” Whit muttered. To Viv’s raised eyebrow he added, “That’s what my dad said when I asked if grims were real.”

“Folk like to think evil critters are just legend.” Viv went to the counter. “We keep out what we can, but there’s always some inside the walls, lurking in the shadows.” She thrust a cup into his hands. “Drink. This’ll counter the venom.”

Whit downed it in one gulp, then gagged. “They’re venomous?”

“Dulls our senses, so they can feed. I’d wager most city-folk have been bitten and not even noticed; they just think they slept bad. But long-term exposure’s damaging.”

Whit gaped. “Shouldn’t we tell them?’

“Hard to open people’s eyes to what they don’t want to see,” Viv said.

Whit rubbed his arm. The wounds stung as his thoughts sharpened. One thing was for certain—his eyes were opened. How could he ever close them again?

Viv leaned closer and patted his knee. “Best we can do is keep the light shining.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Cynthia Wilfert is a believer in Jesus and seeks to honor her Savior through her writing. She has enjoyed a life-long love of stories with a particular fondness for mysteries and fantasy. She is also a graphic designer and enjoys photography, nature, and animals, especially her beloved dachshund, Pippin. She’s so thankful for the gift of storytelling and hopes to share her joy with others.

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