I feel it…that change in the atmosphere, subtle but strong, like the slight tremor of a gentle earthquake with its aftershocks. I know what it means.

I knew it would happen.

Was waiting.

Flinging off the covers of the old bed, I listen to the howl of the wind as it rushes from the west, driving inland, churning up the water. I don’t bother with clothes as I open the door from the old keeper’s quarters that lead into the lighthouse itself. Quickly I take the circular stairs, running up their rusted steps, ignoring the metal as it groans against my weight.

Faster! Faster!

My heart is pumping and all the restlessness I’ve tried to contain, the impulses I’ve kept at bay, are now set free.

The stairs curl more tightly as I ascend to the landing where the once-vibrant beacon lies dormant, its huge lens giving off no illumination, warning no sailors of the impending shoals.

I fling the door open and step onto the weathered grating. Rain spits from clouds roiling in the heavens, wind tears at my hair, and the night is dark and thick with winter. A hundred and thirty feet below the surf churns and boils in whitecapped fury around this small, craggy island that has been abandoned for half a century.

No one inhabits the island.

The lighthouse is off-limits to the public, guarded judiciously by the Coast Guard and a tired, twisted chain-link fence as well as the dangerous surf itself.

A few have dared to trespass.

And they have died in the treacherous currents that surround this sorry bit of rock.

Even in the darkness, I turn and view the mainland. I know they’re there. I’ve taken as many as I can. Their fortress can be breached, though I bear the scars of battle and I must be careful.