A Spamtenna AU in which old-man Spamton is a lone Lighthouse keeper. He is forlorn upon this isle; tired and afraid, and there is something in the sea; calling, begging for him to come out there, or perhaps he can turn off the light, so He may come to him instead.
Please, he must turn off the light; then they may be together again.
Turn off the light, Spamton.
Chapter 1: A light in the dark reveals all things hidden
AO3 Tags: Eldritch Horror, Old Spamton, Lost Love, Obsession, Obsessive Behaviour, Yearning, Fear of the Dark, Spamton doesn't know what Tenna is anymore, Unreliable Narrator Spamton, Loneliness, Descent into Madness, Longing, Grief/Mourning, Spamton Needs a Hug, Delusional Spamton, Depressed Spamton, Body Horror, Body Worship, Blood and Gore, Biomechanical Body, Flashbacks, Reality Bending, Reality Breaking, Mind Manipulation, Sexually Frustrated Spamton, Accidental Death, Attempted Murder, Lovecraftian Erotica, Not Beta Read, I'm not saying it's true I'm just writing what he sees, Pipis, Spamton Lays Pipis, Pipis are Eggs, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat
Far out at sea, where the waves become walls and the skies vanish upon the horizon, there stands a lighthouse. Vertigo Isle, also more commonly known as The Wailing Isle, of which the lighthouse stands upon is neither too large, nor is it too small. It stretches out like a curling worm, its northern side nestling a small bundle of trees; a tiny forest, if you will. There is green, waving grass that goes out to the cliffside, the waves unable to reach the upper edge, unless they are particularly determined on a wild stormy day. The middle, and thinnest, part of the isle is where the land dips down, and here the grass disappears as beaches and rock take over, and often the sea shall swallow this place as climbing waves comes crashing in; eating whatever they can, but as one climbs south the land shall raise again, and here there are stone stairs and iron railings that climb up and up until they reach the Isleâs peak, and here stands the lighthouse; old and grey, built by rock; yet unchallenged by the sea.
Attached to the lighthouse is a small cottage, built by the same rock; old but sturdy, and though many of the windows are clouded by salty residue from the sea, one may still look out, and within, through them. Inside there are shelves and tables, and the floor dips down at one side, storing food and water. On the other side there is storage of oil, gasoline, electrical equipment and tools, and four massive lightbulbs.
There are always enough lightbulbs.
The rounded wooden door of the cottage opens, and seeking shelter from the cold, howling wind comes a strange, old man. Eyes rimmed red, intense and far too tired, there are dark bags as lack of sleep weights heavy upon him, but he cannot sleep. Night is approaching; the sun setting behind the grey clouds.
An old clock ticks heavily upon the wall as the old man enters the lighthouse. There stands a simple kitchen to his right, a rounded willow over the sink; rimmed with salt residue, same as all the windows. Softly, it howls, wind coming through from somewhere unknown. The old man ignores it, walking past it and towards the winding stairs leading up. He pauses only briefly to set aside his shoulder bag, placing it atop a table; set for two. Briefly, he glances towards the space beneath the stairs. There is a hatch, wooden, old, decorated with rusty iron hinges. The handle lays still; the hatch remains still; an old padlock, heavy as all hell, keeping it locked tight.
âNothing coming through that; not yet, at least,â he muttered, and ascending the stairs, walking past three narrow windows, he comes upon the second floor. Here, there are two beds; one small, messy; fit for him; one large, stupidly large, pushed up against the wall and beneath one of the four windows in the room. It is covered by a white sheet.
An old and worn carpet muffles the old manâs steps as he walks towards a desk, his tired eyes glancing across the paper sheets and pens strewn about. Nothing has been written nor composed for many weeks, no inspiration, nor any motivation. He sighs, oddly delicate fingertips stroking across an open letter. The handwriting was meticulous; lovely; not his own.
How silly it is to write a letter when we live together, eat together, laugh together, smile together, and walk together every day; never far from each other. And yet, I felt a compelling urge to write my heart out to you and remind you what is most important of all upon this little piece of blue heaven of ours:
I love you, my beloved Spamton, and I always will.
May we have many more years together, my love. And may I have time to write you many more letters. No, no, there is not enough of them, silly, I know what youâre thinking already. There simply must be more.
Yours forever and coming straight from YOUR lighthouse,
Spamton smiled, a small, sad little expression, his eyes stinging as they always did whenever he relived the past. And so, heart aching, throat hurting, Spamton could only flinch as a heavy thump came from above; something crashing into a window. He curses, expression hardening, and he ascends the stairs into the third floor.
A lone desk stands against a wall, empty save for an old radio station, the only way to communicate with the world beyond the Isle; and it was broken. It had been for months now, and yet Spamton could still hear static come from it every now and again. It should be impossible, heâd made it so, tried everything but throwing the damn thing into the black waves below, but still it attempted to call out; attempted to reach him.
Spamton ignored it and headed up the last set of stairs. These were made of steel and had railings on both sides, going steeply up and into the lantern room. There was still some remaining daylight upon the horizon, and Spamton looked around. The lightbulb and the rotating lens were intact, perfect condition. This was the room in which Spamton spent his daily hours scrubbing, fixing, and inspecting to ensure everything worked perfectly; he had to.
Soon, he finds the source of the sound. A grease splatter on one of the glass windows, and beneath it, laying on the railing outside, is a dead seagull.
Spamton breathes a sigh of relief.
Damned birds. A whole sea for themselves and they manage to hit the one looming building for several miles. He can but curse as he goes outside, shuddering from the cold wind. The light is fading, the clock is ticking, and Spamton has just taken hold of the bird to toss it over the edge as the light comes up; momentarily blinding him.
â[!â#€],â he curses, squinting and turning away even as the light has begun to turn; entering its rotating phase for the long hours of the night. Spamton tosses the bird over the edge of the railing, opening his eyes to see the white feathers disappear into the blackness below, knowing it will fall beyond the lighthouse, past the cliffside of which it balanced, and down into the raging waves below.
And there, Spamton continued to stand, his stature, although short, obstructing a little of the light as it rotated behind him. He watched the sea, seeing only beyond the darkness whenever the light returned to his side, and the waves were growing restless; consuming; grasping. The crossing would be flooded by now; he was sure of it.
Something moved beneath the waves as the light passed them again, and Spamtonâs shoulders raised, his expression hardening. The light turned, casting the view in black once again, and Spamton swallowed; sweat forming despite the chill of the night.
The light returned, and He was back for the night.
Spamton cannot let the lighthouse go dark; cannot let the rotating light cease its blinding splendour. The day is safe. The day isnât dark, and that is when he may rest; have but a few hours of sleep around noon. Itâs alright to sleep then, thereâs nothing to fear, but the night is long, and he must always stay awake; must always ensure the light doesnât go out.
There are enough lightbulbs, there are enough lenses, they never run out, no matter how many times he must replace them. He stopped questioning why thereâs always enough stock, and he stopped questioning the crates of food and water that appeared every week. He stopped questioning a lot of things, but the pull of his heart⊠the pull of the sea⊠Spamton dared not question it; would not bring it to life by either word or thought.
He dares not leave the lighthouse at night.
Something is out there, far into the sea. He hears it every night, singing so sweetly and calling his name; a lovely, masculine voice from faraway, and Spamton sees him too; Tenna. The rotating light will graze him as it flickers over the black ocean, and there Tenna is, far out into the waves; everything below his hips hidden by blackness; his upper body clad in that red tailcoat heâd taken with him all those years ago; a memory of a fond past as a theatre owner and performer; now gone by. He waves to Spamton, smiles that silly smile, and speaks and sings and begs so beautifully for him to come to him.
âCome to me, Spammy. Itâs so cold out here without you,â he says, voice distant and yet all too clear. It chills Spamton to the bones, but he cannot look away.
âCome to me, please,â he begs, face so terribly sad, it breaks Spamtonâs heart. âI love you, Spamton. I love you.â
âNever turn off the light,â said Tenna, setting his fork down onto the plate. He raised his head to look upon Spamton, expression serious. âIf anything ever happens to me, then see me as dead. It wonât be me anymore.â
âWhat do you mean, Tens? Donât try and scare me now,â said Spamton, smiling thought his brows furrowed in confusion and slight concern. Tenna had mentioned something like this before, after all, heâd been here the longest of the two of them, but Spamton had always chalked it up to residue loneliness making Tenna say things out of the blue. He had admitted to speaking to himself quite often before Spamton came here, but it was better now; it was better.
âPlease, Spammy. I love you, and I donât want you to be hurt,â said Tenna, frowning. âSo, promise me. Promise me youâll always keep the light on during the night.â
There was a sinking feeling in Spamtonâs belly, and he set down his fork; appetite lost.
âPromise me!â Tenna yelled, his voice booming and reverbing in the crystal wine glasses sat by the kitchen bowl; ready to be washed. They echoed far too loudly for Spamton, who could do nothing but stare at Tenna; shocked; dread building.
Tenna huffed, antennas relaxing as a small smile returned to his face. He reached out a hand, and Spamton reflexively reached out to take it; fingers curling against each other. Tenna was always so warm, so comfortable and soothing to the touch. Spamton loved touching him; being near him. He loved him.
âThank you,â said Tenna, and he stood up then, making Spamton jump before he leaned over the table to kiss him; glass lips smooth and tasting of cinnamon and static. âI love you, Spamton,â he said, speaking against Spamtonâs lips before sitting back down again. He didnât let go of his hand. âEven when Iâm gone, Iâll always love you, but⊠If I disappear, donât come looking for me. Donât listen to my voice. I will still love you, but it wonât be me anymore,â he said, smiling sadly. âDonât trust the sea at night, and donât trust me once Iâm gone.â
Spamtonâs heart is in his throat, and silently he gasps mouthfuls of air. Tennaâs fingers tighten their hold on his; comforting but laced with doom.
âDonât trust me when Iâm gone, Spamton. I love you, I always will, but donât trust me when Iâm in the sea.â
When heâs gone. When heâs gone. When heâs gone.
He knew; he knew heâd be gone.
âTurn off the light,â the figure that looks like Tenna says, voice travelling across the black waves, his face so beautiful. âLet me come to you instead, my love, but you need to turn off the light first.â He clasps his hands together; begging, tears welling on his screen; he is unaffected by the black waves; remaining still, as if standing, amongst the growing chaos of the nightly storm. âPlease, Spammy, my love; my treasure. I want to kiss you again. I miss holding you; I long for it. Please, turn off the light so I can hold you again; please.â
Spamton wants to do it, but he cannot.
He promised he wouldnât.
He promised Tenna; he promised.
He turns away as the light rotates, taking one last glance at the thing that looks like his beautiful Tenna, and he ignores the cries of distress; ignores the desperate pleas for him to stay; nothing will happen; he will be good; he just wants to look at him; donât go!
âSpamton, please! Donât go! I love you! I love you! I love you! I loveââ
The calls go silent as Spamton enters the lantern room and head downstairs into the second floor of the lighthouse. He sits down onto the white sheet that covers Tennaâs bed, and he weeps into his hands; broken sobs breaking his throat; he cannot do this anymore.
âTenna⊠My TennaâŠâ Spamton sobs, voice pitched and pleading.
But Tenna doesnât answer.
Music: Martin Stig Andersen â Vapour & Petri Alanko â Nihil Est Simplex
Border artwork: Ivan Aivazovsky - Among the waves, 1898
Cover Artwork: @angstyhikka
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