The Lighthouse Keeper By Richard Godwin
	No-one recognised the coral bones as being human.    Badly scarred, they lay scattered among the rocks that broke the waters' edge.    "John was the steadiest, most cheerful chap I ever met," The officer said.    He was inspecting the rocks and looking a little green.    His colleague, an old man with a weathered beard, sucked on his pipe, suppressing a sharp inhalation of breath at the stench.    "Aye, he 'ad his feet well and truly on the ground, that's for sure. Never meet another'n like 'im."    "What on earth has happened here?"    "'Tis the old legend again. My grandaddy told it afore, and I recall it well sitting on his knee."    "I'm not into legends, only solving crimes here. A man's missing. A good man at that, and the lighthouse is deserted. And, his colleague's nowhere to be seen. Young Tom was specifically appointed to keep John company and there's no sign of him. Did you check the office?"    "Aye. But, 'e'll no' be found. 'Tis not called locally The Dark House for nought. Look about ye - the spot's unearthly."    "I have an investigation to carry out here. What's that?"    He was refering to some sticky, luminous substance that shimmered at the rocks' edge. Night was setting-in rapidly, blackening the distant shoreline, and, shivering, they left the forsaken spot.    Their boat sped off towards the pub on the mainland where a few whiskies drowned away the experience.    But, as the darkness fell on the deserted lighthouse, and its single beam flashed across the waves, the waters broke a second time.    From a window at the top of the tower, alone and shaking, Tom watched as they rose from the sea again.    He had stood trembling in soiled trousers while they tore John limb from limb and watched mutely as they ripped the flesh from his bones, strips of red meat dangling from their claws, their eyes red and lunar.    Now, he pressed his face hard against the cold window pane, unable to speak or think from exhaustion and fear.    They don't have claws - none of the books say they have claws - what is they?    The music started again, the shrill, humming drone, high-pitched and soporific as heroin. Without thought, he found himself moving from the window and down the stairs.    They're no mermaids - mermaids don't exist - they're something else - some monster - I'll 'phone for help...    And, then, the cold air struck his face and they were upon him.    Only the light and his screams and the beautiful, ungodly faces - smiling as they ate him, starting at his legs and working up across his body in some strange erotic feast. The last thing he smelt was the salt air, the last thing he saw was the moon as he screamed with ecstasy and agony and bled across the rocks whose surface was washed clean by the breaking waters which carried them away.    The only thing left next morning when the boat returned were more scattered bones....                                                                           ENDS