"Heh... huff... heh... huff... heh... huff..."
One low grunt followed another from inside the lighthouse on the island, a tiny deserted island where even the lighthouse built upon it had been abandoned long ago, its walls mottled, red iron doors rusting, a beacon that would never shine again.
As modern navigational technology continues to spread and develop, the significance of maritime lighthouses has dwindled, and perhaps in time, tales of old lighthouse keepers would only be found in children's fairytales and fables.
The grunting carried a rhythmic pattern, like the chant of boatmen, unceasing, and within seemed to be a prisoner being constantly tortured.
A seabird landed on the rusted iron door beneath the lighthouse. To the sounds emanating from within, it had seemingly grown accustomed; such noises had persisted over the past few months, almost without pause throughout the daylight hours.
