Keeping the Beacon

In the deep winter of Whitefish Point, the nights were long and dark. It was cold in the house, so cold the breath of the keeper hung in the air above his sleeping body. The room filled with smell of age and lamp oil. Wind pushed hard on the window, causing a coldness to enter. The man woke.
The keeper eyes opened and he stared, unmoving, for a moment at the ceiling. if someone would have walked in, in that moment, they might have thought him a corpse. At once he started taking breath again and used him arms to push himself into a sitting position. He looked around for someone, but he was alone. He straightened the night cap on his head, leaving a stray white lock peaking out and slid his rough feet into his worn slippers. The floor and his spine both cracked as he got to his feet.
As he first moved toward the door, he kicked something soft, but cool on the floor. He looked down and was a doll. It looked like one his daughter owned, but was much older. He hair was missing in patched and the eyes had fallen back into the artificial skull. He looked at it for a moment, trying to place it. Trying to place himself. He went from stern, thinking he would have to talk to his daughter in the morning, to remembering her wedding, to suddenly being very unsure where he was. His mind skipped and he did what he could. He moved on.
In the hall he made the turns he had made hundreds of time. He was taking the course between his room and the lighthouse tower. The short halls took longer than they used to. His slippers scraped on every shuffling step. It was the only sound he heard.
In front of the door he was headed to he knew immediately someone else had been here. The oil bucket was there, but not where he kept it. It was so close to the door, he would have to move before he could use his key on the lock. Then his barrel of refill fuel was completely gone. He tried to remember the service moving it, making him change, but the thought escaped his mental grasp. Last, there was what looked like a picture frame on the wall. It wasn't a picture, though, it was full of word.
He reminded himself, that he must tend to the lamps. He could worry about the changes in the morning. With drooped shoulders, he slouched to grab the handle of the can. He misjudged and completely missed. He grabbed air. Why would they move the can he thought, as he tried again. Again, he missed. There must be something with his eyes, or the perception of the hall or maybe it was a trick. He had no time for tricks, he would never make it back to sleep if he didn't get this done soon. He focused, watched and grab. He handle rattled, lifted and dropped back to the metal side of the bucket, with a hollow clang.
No refill and it was empty. The last thing we wanted was to trudge to the fog horn house for more oil. He leaned back against the wall in the haze of night and tried to clear his head.
He moved close to the printing in the picture frame, so he could make out the dim letters. "Automated by the Coast Guard in 1971, the Light Station no longer has a resident keeper...". No longer has a resident keeper. No keeper? He turned back to the room he came from, but he no longer recognized the house.
It was cold in the house, so cold the breath of the keeper hung in the air above his sleeping body.