#haunted lighthouse

[hometoursandotherstuff]

[ipomoea-batatas]

I absolutely want to hear about the extremely cursed lighthouse 👀

YEAH BABEYYYYY CURSED LIGHTHOUSE HERE WE GOOO

Ok so this lighthouse is called Minot's Ledge Light. Here it is today.

You may notice that unlike most other lighthouses, it's in the MIDDLE OF THE OCEAN.

It's about a mile or so out from the shore, southeast of Boston Harbor (off the coast of what’s called the South Shore) and it's built into a rock ledge that's just under the water (Minot’s Ledge, after which it’s named. “Minot” was a merchant who lost a very valuable shipment there. Seems kinda fuckin rude to name the ledge after him but whatever).

This ledge, and other rocky ledges nearby, made the area SUPER dangerous before the lighthouse was built. FORTY ships were lost there in less than a decade in the 19th century.

Oh, and folks of an ~age~ might recognize this lighthouse from this famous photo from the blizzard of '78:

Just to give you an idea of what the weather conditions can be like in the area. (Is this foreshadowing? PROBABLY)

Anyway, building a lighthouse here was obviously high priority. There was a bit of an exposé on the negligence of the Lighthouse Establishment (the gov. dept that was in charge of lighthouses at the time), and the construction of Minot’s Ledge was part of a push to show that the department was taking things more seriously.

As the lighthouse needed to be built ON the ledge, some cutting-edge, never-before-seen lighthouse design was in order. (More foreshadowing?? MAYBE???)

Isn’t it cute??

(If you notice that it looks nothing like the modern-day lighthouse above...no you don’t. Don’t ruin the story for the rest of the class)

The problem is, Minot’s Ledge itself is only exposed for a few hours at low tide, which obviously presented some problems. No one died building it, but all the equipment was washed away once, and people ALMOST died when they were swept away by currents.

It took years to finish because of the tricky conditions. It was finally finished and lighted on New Year’s in 1850.

It was obvious right away that this design was...not it. The lighthouse would sway violently in rough conditions. (One of the keepers told Henry David Thoreau that bad winds would literally rock their plates off the table.)

The first keeper wrote to the government reporting unsafe conditions, but was ignored. He resigned in October of that year.

The new keeper and his two assistants also reported dangerous conditions. Storms kept weakening the braces, and the structure had to be repaired often. However, every time the authorities came out to inspect the lighthouse it was ALWAYS a calm day, and they were like “idk seems fine?” And continued to ignore safety concerns.

In April of 1851, a storm had kicked up. The keeper had gone to the mainland to restock, but he didn’t make it back before the storm started in earnest. The two assistant lighthouse keepers were left at the light.

This was a BAD storm—nearly a hurricane—that went on for a week. By the fifth day, it looked bleak enough that the assistant keepers released a message in a bottle with their last words.

On day six, the legs of the structure began to fail one at a time. When there were only three legs left, the keepers began to ring the alarm bell continuously for as long as the lighthouse still stood.

By morning, it was completely lost to the ocean.

The two lighthouse keepers’ bodies were later recovered—one had washed ashore nearby, and the other was found on a nearby island a few hundred feet from the mainland. The latter keeper HADN’T died of drowning—he survived and managed to swim to the island, thinking he’d made it to the mainland, only to die of exhaustion and exposure.

Their message in a bottle was found two days later on the North Shore of Boston Harbor. It read: “The beacon cannot last any longer. She is shaking a good three feet each way as I write. God bless you all.”

Here are the ghosty bits:

1) People still say you can hear the bell ringing during bad storms. Once the lighthouse was rebuilt (properly, out of stone this time, which took YEARS—they had to start over at least once when a ship crashed into the structure and took the whole thing out), apparently they had a hard time getting keepers to stay on. They reported hearing the fog bell ringing at odd times, and ghostly figures in the lantern room. Most didn’t make it a year.

2) The lighthouse was automated pretty much as soon as the technology was available, removing the need for lighthouse keepers to live there. But passing ships still reported seeing a man hanging off the side, calling out.

Most people reported that the figure couldn’t be understood, but one Portuguese sailor said that the man was yelling for help in Portuguese. Sure enough, one of the two assistant keepers who perished in the tragedy was Portuguese.

So that’s the story of the cute little “I Love You” lighthouse and the horrible shit that happened there. Sources: This article

This one too

And obviously, Wikipedia. What am I, the pope

[madcat-world]

Haunted Lighthouse - Zoe Badini

[ladyknight33]

"Doomed to die by the one you love." Such a curse lingered on the subjected soul. If only Jack Lloyd had known his solitary position as the ancient lighthouse keeper placed him in the center of a paranormal mystery. Jack suddenly found himself lost among ghosts, witches, and psychics after one strange summer night under the Hungry Ghost Moon. All Jack had wanted was to find out who Captain M. Sosa was and lay those bones to rest. He now had a curse to break.

[myhauntedsalem]

RACE ROCK LIGHTHOUSE

SOUTHOLD, NY

It seems that ghosts like to hang out in lighthouses. The violent deaths from these disasters could leave behind a spiritual residue or life force that lingers where it happened.

According to Native American lore, Race Rock Reef was once an island. Because of the swift currents running up to six knots in the Race and the sharp rocks that could tear out the bottom of their birch bark canoes the Indians avoided it. They believed the place was haunted and as sea levels have risen the island has disappeared beneath the waves.

Many members of the Coast Guard have claimed to hear disembodied whispers, laughing, voices and even yelling. Some have been touched, poked, or pushed by these phantoms and refuse to return to this property. Unexplainable footsteps and the sounds of running water have also been experienced. Many passing boats claimed they have witnessed a shadowy presence of a man in the tower as the light passed over them.

[creaturesfromelsewhere]

New Tales of Florida Gothic - Chapter 5

“Unfathomable to mere mortals is the lore of fiends.” — Nathaniel Hawthorne

Your early morning tour of the 'haunted' victorian mansion in Brooksville, Florida has been an absolute delight. Your guide, a young woman in period costume playing the part of a person from the late 1890's so convincingly, you half way believed her. As you leave, you pass another young woman who apoligizes for being so late and she'll begin your tour immediately. You point out that her colleague already took you on the tour to which she replies that she's the only one working that day. You look back at the house as ice runs down your spine.

You've now traveled 2,000 miles in a desperate attempt to escape your spectral torment, but it still isn't far enough. With the coming of twilight, you can still see the beam from the haunted lighthouse in Florida flashing across the horizon, searing itself into the depths of your eyes. Exhausted, you stumble back into your car and continue driving away.

As the storm surge from the hurricane fills your lungs, you are suddenly aware of all your past lives as your current one slips away. You are horrified to realize you have always died in hurricanes: in New Orleans, in Miami, in Galveston, in places so old they did not yet have names. And then you understand, no matter how many lives you live, you always will die in hurricanes.

As you drag the body into the back yard to bury it, you laugh as you see a sink hole has conviently formed there. With mirthless laughter, you roll the corpse into the sink and reach for your shovel. You freeze as the ground slowly closes of its accord until the hole is completely gone. Your shovel drops, forgotten, from your hand as you shuffle back into your house. The Florida soil demands to be feed.

As you lie sleeplessly in bed, your closet door slowly opens with a forboding creak. As you get out of bed and walk towards the closet door, you wonder for a moment what monster you'll become in someone else's closet. But the thought quickly passes as the hunger begins.

While renevating your bedroom, you discover an old diary hidden in the wall. As you read it, you learn it belonged to a young woman from the late 1890's, tormented by the gift of precognition - the ability to see the future. She writes of her anguish at seeing her family die despite all her attempts to prevent them from meeting the ends she had forseen. Gruesome sketches appear on some of the pages, showing the myriad ways her family and friends met their untimely fates. Then your blood runs cold as the young woman reveals that she can see a person in the distant future reading her journal, and that person is completely unaware that they too, are about to meet their end. As you turn the page, you see a sketch of youself, sitting at the same desk, reading the same journal, but the drawing reveals a hulking shadow from behind is falling across you. You turn to...

creaturesfromelsewhere 9-9-2023

[ionlycareabouthhn]

Holiday fun at The St. Augustine Lighthouse and possibly catching something weird on camera....I am so obsessed with this place and I KNOW it's haunted

[gluesenkampart]

Lighthouse illustration for a ttrpg book I'm working on.

[fanofspooky]

Horror movies of 2019

[ginger-by-the-sea]

Photo by Karl Ramsdell

[gerbits]

If you believe the stories, newlywed Ruth has been waiting for her husband to return from the sea for a few centuries after succumbing to her own death by freezing. A bit of an enigma even to the locals of Grimcoast Harbor, you'll be lucky if you catch a glimpse of her, let alone hear her tale. Though not an official resident of the coastal town, Ruth has her place here and the residents seem quite fond of her...even if some of them don't believe she actually exists.

[goryhorroor]

horror + grey

[myhauntedsalem]

Presque’s Mysterious Light

It is not recommended that one visit Michigan’s Old Presque Isle lighthouse after dark. A ghost has been known to scare visitors away.

This lighthouse sits on Lake Huron, 20 miles south of Rogers City, Michigan.

Built in 1840, the Old Presque Isle Light guided ships safely into Presque Isle Harbor for 31 years. In the 1870s, it was replaced by a new lighthouse bearing the same name, which remains the tallest on the Great Lakes.

Years after the old station was closed, it was sold to a private owner, Jim Stebbins. The Stebbins family restored the station and hired Lorraine and George Parris in 1977 to be caretakers for the historic monument.

The Parris’ relished their new role, enjoying their retirement years caring for the museum and greeting the many people who came to visit the old light.

One evening in May of 1992, Lorraine Parris was driving back from a family dinner—she wished George was with her—but this was not possible for he had passed away in 1991.

As she rounded a bend in the road she spotted something that amazed her. The light in the tower was on. It occurred to her that the old lighthouse looked as it must have once looked over a century before.

She blinked wondering if she was hallucinating—the light had not been on in years—the wiring had been permanently disconnected by her husband and the Coast Guard in 1979, after it had accidentally been turned on.

Lorraine was too embarrassed to mention what she had seen—people would think it was just her imagination. But the light continued to appear night after night—shining in the lantern room.

This light was not visible from the station grounds, it was only visible from across the harbor.

Within days Lorraine’s secret was out for everyone was seeing this mysterious light. As word spread spectators from all over were arriving to see this phenomenon.

The Coast Guard showed up to check it out but could not explain it. Sailors on passing boats and freighters saw it. National Guard pilots flying planes overhead saw it. They reported the light cast a yellowish glow.

The Coast Guard took out the ornamental light that was used to replace the original light—but the tower still shined brightly.

Some stated it must be passing cars but the light was seen even when there were no cars in the area.

Several witnesses reported seeing the figure of a man in the lantern room when no one was about.

One young female visitor who had never seen George Parris reported seeing a man with a beard and glasses at the top of the tower stairs as she explored on her own. When she was shown a picture of George she said it was the man she had seen but that he had appeared to her surrounded by a “bright white light.”

Other visitors reported feeling a hand brush their shoulders as they walked the tower steps. George was a prankster when he was alive.

This mysterious presence is often helpful.

Lorraine began to connect this light with her husband. While alive George had always made her bacon and eggs for breakfast. After the light began to appear Lorraine would wake to these familiar smells, but no one was in the Keepers Cottage with her.

Two female visitors to the old light locked their keys in their car. Later they found the car mysteriously unlocked. When they started the ignition the dome lights came on and the radio blasted a station they never listened to.

Another odd occurrence happened one day when Lorraine found she couldn’t open a door at the Keepers Cottage. Something was blocking the door. She felt a presence on the other side.

When she went around to another door and went outside she discovered no one was there. But oddly, there was a lawn chair propped against the door and another lawn chair was facing it as if two people had been sitting there, talking.

Within moments lightning struck near the lighthouse, right where Lorraine would had been if she had been able to open the door and exit the building without the chair interfering.

Back inside the cottage Lorraine found the door opened easily now—the chair slid across the cement without resistance. Had it been George, did he block the door to protect her from the storm?

The Old Presque Isle Light is still seen today coming on at dusk and turning off at dawn. Many feel it is George’s ghost that returns every evening to light the beacon.

Attempts to explain away this odd phenomenon have been inconclusive. The Coast Guard classifies it as “an unknown light.”

[words-and-pages]

We as a society need to start building lighthouses, castles, and remote stone cottages again

[flowercrowngods]

part 1 | ao3

shattered on the cliff’s edge, trapped by the tides

— a steddie ghost story —

part 2 / 7

Soaked through by the icy water and the howling winds, and weighted down by shock and fright, Steve’s legs may as well have been made of lead as he, slowly, with a racing heart, accepts his fate and enters the lighthouse. 

He flinches, hard, when the door falls shut behind him, as if pushed by an invisible force, and he flinches again when a wave crashes violently. It’s almost as if the lighthouse is shaking with the impact, but maybe that’s just him. 

“Okay,” he breathes, whispering because he doesn’t dare to speak any louder, lest the unending darkness might be disturbed — and something tells him that it wouldn’t take all that kindly to that. “Okay.” Once more, with feeling. 

Before he can move and find an oil lamp or even just a candle to bring some light into this place, something thumps from somewhere up the stairs he cannot see. 

He knows that, just like ancient manors, lighthouses have a life of their own, knows they’re prone to moving and moaning along with the tides, with the wind and the water — but that was not the settling of wood or metal. That was something else.

“Hello?” he calls with a trembling voice, closing his eyes at the echoes of his own voice travelling up and down the tower he is being made to call home for the foreseeable future. “Is— Is anyone there? I’m… Well, I’m Steve.” 

Images fill the space behind his eyes, horrible visions of the old keepers luring him here to murder him, out of sea madness or cannibalistic urges, or just to have a bit of entertainment out here, just for a while. Other images, then, of ghosts coming to haunt him, to drive him to the brink of madness, to the railing all the way up on the tower, and watch his descent into— 

Another thump. The sound of a door opening, the wood groaning, the hinges creaking, everything insists the lighthouse protesting its new inhabitant. 

And then, through the pitch black darkness, a whisper. Travelling down towards him, growing louder as it comes closer and closer and— 

Steve takes a step back, his breath coming in shallow rapidity as he reaches for the handle and finding it unmoving.

Run, the whisper says, sounding more like an inhale than anything else — and is the air getting thinner? Run. 

Another wave crashes into the lighthouse. 

Run. 

The whispering voice is in his head now, loud for all of its tonelessness. 

Run!

Steve stumbles backwards, his body too frozen with cold and fear to catch his fall. His body collides with the wall and he slides down, covering his ears with his hands to keep out the noise, to keep out the world as he tries in vain for the fear to subside. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, hiding behind his knees like a little boy, scared of his father’s raised hands and his brothers' gloating. “I’m sorry, I mean no harm, I’m just— I’m here to fix the light. I’m here to make sure it’s— everything’s, everything’s fine. I don’t mean to disturb, I’m sorry. I’m Steve. I’m sorry.” 

Everything stills then — or maybe it’s the cotton in his ears and the staccato of his heart that drown out everything else and remind him that he’s painfully, desperately alive. And mortal. 

But the whispering stops, and so does the groaning up ahead, and silence falls. An unnatural silence, not even broken by the ocean waves outside. 

It’s like the lighthouse has stilled to listen to him. 

It’s something Robin told him once (or rather, debated at him while he was letting her rant wash over him in a whiff of fondness for his best friend in the whole wide world): 

“Ghosts don’t know your intentions, right? So it’s only fair to communicate with them. It’s you breaking into their house, after all. Well, unless they’re haunting your house, but even then it’s fair to assume they have been there all along and you either deserve the haunting and had it coming, or you’re just the poor lad caught in the crossfires. Either way, worth a try, right? If even those still alive assume the worst, I would think an eternity spent in the aether is unlikely to be beneficial to your judgement of character.”

Steve had waved it off then — or, in his case, smile patiently and waited for her to answer his initial question from half an hour ago before she went on a tangent on aether and ghosts and the supernatural; she’d been spending too much time in the library. 

“You learn a thing or two about haunted houses, growing up in a family such as mine,” he’d said, and then, “Dinner?” 

A pang splits him down the middle, regret and uncertainty tearing at him concerning Robin’s wheareabouts and her safety. She must be safe. She must be! 

“They say you don’t like— you, uh, strangers. The locals said you don’t like when people come here, so I’m sorry, but… I’m sorry. I have to fix the light. I’m Steve.” 

It’s madness, it must be. Early onset, although his father would have a thing or two to say about that, would claim it had always lived in him, would claim the way he looks at men is proof of that and reason enough to have him hanging in the streets. 

It wasn’t madness back then, Steve knows, vehemently, desperately knows. But this? Talking to a lighthouse, speaking into the darkness like it’s sentient even just a minute after he first set foot into it? It must be. He’s never been superstitious, has never been prone to ghost stories or supernatural appearances like Robin. 

But something about this place, something about the way it has been haunting his dreams, something about Old John capsizing is enough to make even the calmest man lose his wits. 

Something tells Steve that talking with the darkness is the right thing to do, if only for his own comfort. 

He looks up, his head thumping against the brick wall behind him, as steps approach. They still, right in front of him, and he’s staring into nothingness, almost expecting to make out a shape. Expecting for the next breath to be his last. 

Expecting… something. 

But nothing happens, and the sound of the ocean returns. The darkness seems less impenetrable as a sliver of light falls in through a side light up above. 

“Thank you,” he says, as stupidly as it is soundless, his voice buried beneath fear and dread. 

Miraculously, the darkness seems to fade a little more. 

Enough, eventually, for Steve to get up and dust off his trousers in an attempt to look presentable, or to shake off the residue of his fright — if only it was merely residue. 

Now that the darkness has lightened, he keeps his eyes fixed to the spot where he feels like he can make out a shape in the dust. Maybe it’s just his mind playing tricks on him, though, maybe it’s just the expectation of finding a spectre that makes one appear. 

Madness, he reiterates. But something about it doesn’t feel right. He doesn’t feel mad. And the steps never receded. If they were not an illusion, something created to steal the grounds from beneath his feet, playing with his senses to warp his perception of reality and the truth, then something — someone, quite possibly — is still standing right in front of him. 

He looks on even long past the point of impolite staring, searching the dust for a shape that only appears in his periphery when he moves his eyes. 

It feels rather undeniable, though, that someone is watching him. 

“Hello,” he says at last, having regained some of his voice and footing. His hands clench by his sides, though, his body revolting against speaking with an apparent ghost. 

The darkness doesn’t answer, and neither does the dust. But with the memory of urgent whispers still on the forefront of his mind, Steve is almost grateful for it as he carefully reaches for his bags and stars to move so slowly that it might almost be a mockery of the situation if his legs weren’t so shaky. 

The weight of an invisible gaze rests on his shoulders and settles in the bones of his neck. It takes everything in him not to rub at it — he has no idea what the darkness would take offence to, and he already feels incredibly lucky to have made it this far with his life still intact and only his sanity and his pride having taken a crack along the way. 

He thinks of Old John again, thinks of Good luck, kid. He almost asks the darkness about him, but he bites his tongue just in time. The stairs are steep and if he fell, given an invisible push, chances are he wouldn’t remain as alive as he is right now. 

So he swallows and feels his way along the wall up the stairs. When he finds an oil lamp, he reaches for the matches in his bags — blessedly dry — and lights it.

It’s almost blinding, the shine of the flame that sets to illuminate the way, but Steve feels his gaze drawn to the foot of the stairs where the spectre is still framed by the door. Still appearing to look at Steve. 

Stalemate is one thing to call it, maybe, this tension in the air, the weight of their gazes accompanied by the stumbling of Steve’s heart and the trembling of his hands. 

Steve swallows and continues with his ascent of the winding stairs, never once losing the feeling in his neck. He finds more lamps along the wall and lights them until they lead him to a set of chambers that in any other lighthouse would have been down at the bottom or even in another building altogether, leaving room in a large house or a tiny hut for the keepers to reside in. But none of that is possible out here, in the middle of the sea, towering on top of cliffs that already make it nary impossible to get here. 

The lighthouse is prone to flooding if the wind shifts or the ocean remains ruthless in a storm, so everything needs to be located above the threat of sea level. 

He finds two bedchambers, the beds unmade, a richly stocked pantry that will last him several months if he keeps it locked away from wet air, and an almost inviting kitchen. A burnt smell wafts from the oven, grown stale over time but a certain bite has never quite managed to air out, and when he takes a look, he finds what was supposed to be bread still in there. A coat hangs on a rack, another is hung over the back of the chair, and another stool has been thrown over. 

It looks for all intents and purposes like someone was just here. Like someone is still here. 

What happened to the old keepers? — That does not concern you. 

A shiver runs through him and he tries not to succumb to the terror that seems to lurk inside these walls as he starts a fire in the hearth. He is exhausted, adrenaline rushing from his body and leaving behind only apathetic tiredness and a longing for rest. He doesn’t even remember the light, his head filled with fog and exhaustion.

Once the fire is going and he is sure there is enough coal for it to last all night and keep him from freezing to an early death, Steve falls into bed without dinner. He only has enough strength not to retreat into a dead man’s unmade bed, instead finding new bedding and linen to make it his own. 

He doesn’t sleep on that first night, but he falls into a haze thick enough to be unable to move as the whispers return, knocking and hammering along the walls almost rhythmically, as if waiting for a signal. 

There is no time, they say, though he cannot be sure the next morning if he dreamed that or if he really heard it echoing along the walls. 

Run. Leave. There is no time. 

Tick. 

Tick. 

Tick.

And the night remains dark.

tagging: @klausinamarink @steviesummer @auroraplume @dragonmama76

[hotgrrlbummer]

really been enjoying all the people recommending some of their favorite stuff on one of my more recent posts so im making one just so we can all do that for eachother, i’ll start:

movies

the lighthouse

everything everywhere all at once

the grand budapest hotel

books

house of leaves (my favorite of all time)

the secret history

killing commendatore

shows

succession (also my favorite of all time)

barry

any mike flannagan mini series they all slap (haunting of hill house, bly manor or midnight mass)