The Lighthouse

A man watching a lighthouse alone on Execution Rock becomes the victim of a paranormal experience he will not soon forget.

The Lighthouse 

-ATR 

 I awoke today, just like every other day since taking the position of lighthouse watchman at Execution Rock Lighthouse. Today was another normal day; I made my regular breakfast of black coffee, plain oatmeal and half of a grapefruit, sat down and at my small table and started to eat. The food was bland, just how I like it. Living in solitude on an island in the middle of the Long Island Sound, completely devoid of all human contact has made me a rather dull person as of late. 

I made my rounds of the small island. Checked the light at the top of the tower, timed its intervals. Exactly ten seconds. Perfect, as always. This is something I've prided myself on since the day I took this post. Perfection. After climbing down the six-story tower back to ground level, I decided on another cup of coffee. This time I would enjoy it outside in the beautiful June weather. I grabbed my favorite book, George Orwell's '1984', which I had started for the umpteenth time just the night before, poured my coffee into my usual thermos and walked outside to a little rock outcrop I had organized just for times like these. I would have about three or four hours where it would just be Winston Smith and myself, cooperatively fighting IngSoc, before I needed to make my way to the top of the tower again, and I wanted to enjoy that time as best as I could. 

Now, before we get too involved in my day-to-day life of complete solitude and boredom, let me explain to you how I ended up at this post on a tiny outcrop of s****y rocks. I've always been interested in the paranormal. Growing up in Northern New Jersey there was no shortage of ghost stories dating back to the Revolutionary War and even earlier. These stories and adventures made for a very interesting young adulthood. However, as I grew older, I wanted more. I've traveled the country and seen some of the supposedly most haunted places in existence. I've traveled to Europe and beyond, visiting and researching ancient ruins, castles and murder sites. I have read about, researched and met serial killers. I've done it all. I still wanted more. There were times when I was convinced I had brought home ghosts and demons, poltergeists and spirits from my many weird expeditions. Maybe I did, maybe I didn't. No one can be certain at this point. That's when I learned of Execution Rock and its long history of Revolutionary War murders and serial killer slayings. I instantly knew I had to contact the National Historic Lighthouse Preservation Non-profit organization that currently controls the upkeep of the island and tower. 

At first, I started off slow; I requested an overnight stay, as that is an available option on the website for the Lighthouse. I gathered my things: EVP recorders, infrared cameras, Spirit Boxes (called SB-7's), dot-grid laser matrix arrays, everything I've collected over the fifteen or so years of researching, and set off to the little rock outcrop in the middle of the river. 

That first night went rather smoothly. I recorded some decent EVP tracks, but nothing that stood out as really significant. During my first investigation I continued to do research. I had printed out multiple website pages, purchased guide books, basically found and brought every shred of information on this little rock that I could find. Let me tell you, this was some interesting stuff. 

One of the first things that caught my attention was how the island was used during the Revolutionary War. Long before the lighthouse was constructed, this little island was used by British Redcoats to torture and murder Colonial Soldiers they had captured. It wasn't just the murder that struck me as odd, this was a bloody war after all is said and done. It was the manner in which these poor Colonials were killed. Redcoats tied and chained the Colonial rebels to rocks that make up the island at low tide, and after torturing and questioning them, allowed them to slowly and painfully drown as high tide rolled in. In all my years of paranormal investigation, I've come across some really horrific things, but this lands right up there among the top. 

That's not all, folks. Many years later, now in the 1920's, a well-known serial killer named Carl Panzram confessed to murdering sailors he lured away from bars, and used the island as his dumping ground. In addition to all the slaughtering happening on this little slice of stone in the middle of nowhere, Execution Rock Lighthouse is also the lighthouse featured in the American Classic novel 'The Great Gatsby', of course written by the great F. Scott Fitzgerald. If that isn't a whole lot of background, I can't help you any further. 

After my first overnight stay on the island, I inquired about taking the position of lighthouse keeper. The organization was against the idea at first, but after some pressing, and of course telling them I'll do it on a volunteer-basis, they finally relented and said I could have the month of June to continue my research as long as I performed the regular upkeep on the island. I agreed, and on the morning of June 1st, I was taken out to the lighthouse by a small boat and left there with all of my equipment, enough rations for most of the month, with the promise of having more provisions brought out to me at regular intervals throughout June. I immediately set up camp in the grounds-keeper's house and began to explore the island a little more. It's extremely small, yet very rugged terrain and I noted to myself that I would need to be careful not to twist an ankle or break a leg falling from these jagged rocks. 

So, now that I've explained how I got here and why, I'll get back to my normal day. I grabbed my beat-up copy of '1984' and walked out to the little rock outcrop, wondering how many soldiers were left chained to this spot to die a slow, horrible death. When I reached my favorite spot: a nice little rock coincidently shaped like a beach chair, I dropped my bag and thermos on the ground and proceeded to open my book. I intentionally left off at one of my favorite chapters last night, chapter eight, when Winston smells real coffee, not Victory Coffee for once, and remembers his childhood. At this point, I took a long swig of my own coffee, no Victory Coffee here either. This is the good stuff. French-pressed, extra strong Columbian roast. After reading for about an hour I dozed off in the sunlight. Awakening a little while later I realized it was almost time for my second rounds of the day. I made my way back up the short walk to the grounds-keeper's house and put my thermos in the sink, my book on the kitchen table and started the sixty-step climb up to the newly-installed automatic light. A few years ago, the original Fresnel Lens was replaced with an up-to-date automatic lens that requires much less maintenance, making a live-in employee redundant. Because of my interests, and the fact that I volunteered for this post, I was allowed to take the position for the first time since 1979, however short my post would be. 

I checked and re-checked the light, ten second intervals on the flashing white light as usual. At this point I decided it's a good time to make some lunch. Tuna salad on white bread, lettuce and a fresh-cut tomato. I had made some lemonade yesterday, so I enjoyed a few large glasses with my sandwich. Once I finished eating, I began to prepare for my afternoon ritual. 

Every afternoon, after I eat lunch, I take a nice long nap. This allows me to stay up for most of the night while performing my investigations on the lighthouse and surrounding rock island. During my sleep today, I dreamt of Carl Panzram. I can't explain exactly why, but he has been the main protagonist in my dreams since I arrived on Execution Rock. He talks to me, as if we're old friends. He walks me around the small island, showing me different places that he raped and murdered the unsuspecting sailors he lured here. Carl gives me details of his horrible crimes, details not known to the police or the public. It's as if he wants me, and only me, to know just how horrific his murders were. He's shown me different spots he had buried stolen guns, he even showed me the rock he hit when he ran a stolen yacht aground. It seems like he wants to be friends with me, and if not that, he wants to show off, or have his legacy live on through me. I have always been rather receptive to the dead, but this is by far the closest I've ever become with an entity like this. I don't believe Panzram wishes me harm, at least not yet. 

This particular dream he took me around to the backside of the grounds-keeper's home, near a little garden I had started to grow a few vegetables (even though the soil is basically all rock or gravel). He kept insisting I move some of the larger rocks near the garden. Insisting and insisting. In my dream I was telling him that I didn't want to move the rocks, but Panzram was not taking no for an answer. When I finally woke from my long sleep, I had an unbelievable urge to stay as far away from that back end of the house as I possibly could. 

After a quick dinner, just as the sun was setting, I began to gather my equipment for the night. As much as I wanted to stay away from the garden, I felt that I had no choice. So, I carried my cameras, my recorders and spirit boxes out back and set everything up just as I had been doing for the week or so I've been stranded on this rock. Once it was all in order, I sat down with my back to the house and picked up my book where I had left off before lunch. I was up to Part II of '1984', right as Julia slipped Winston the note saying “I love you”. It felt eerily similar to Carl Panzram leading me to the back of the house in my own dream. I am not exactly sure how, but it felt similar, as if Carl himself was giving me a love note. A note to let me know he has plans for me. Like Julia's plans for Winston. 

With the sun almost completely set now, it was time to start contacting whoever or whatever I could. I would be lying if I said I wanted to speak to Carl again, because I can assure you after my dream today, he was the last being I wanted to find out here. I turned on the SB-7 speaker, fired up my laser array and pointed my infrared camera at the grid of laser dots aimed at the garden. 

“Is anyone here with me?” I asked the air. Nothing. No response. “Is there anything in this spot I should look for?” Again, no answer. “Why was I brought here?” This time the SB-7 kicked alive and responded with a simple “Under.” 

I continued to press the subject, asking the spirit to repeat itself. “Please, I could barely hear that, say it more clearly if you can.” At this point the batteries in the SB-7 went completely dead. I know I just changed them the night before, so it was hard to fathom how they had been drained so quickly. Thinking I may have forgotten to turn the machine off last night, I quickly changed the four double-A batteries and went back to work. “What is your name?” No answer. “Who are you?” Nothing. “Why are we here?” This last question brought a similar response. “Under.” Clear as day. Under. 

Under what? I kept thinking to myself. I grabbed one of my flashlights and began searching around the ground near the house. I couldn't see anything obviously out of place, nor could I find any rocks that could be easily shifted. After I gave up on my quick search, I went back to the equipment. Focusing on the laser array and camera setup, this time I asked whatever-it-is to attempt to manifest itself for me in hopes it would point me in a more precise direction. With the SB-7 still on, I ordered it to show itself and help me find what it wanted. “Please, show me the location. Take me to 'Under'. I'll move whatever you want, but I need clearer directions.” No response. “Are you still here with me?” Silence. 

With daylight a few hours away, and a regular work-load for the morning already queued up, I decided to call it a night and pack up my tools. A few minutes later I was inside the house, drinking a mug of hot green tea and wondering what the hell “Under” means. 

Sleep did not come too easily for me, as that was the first time since I've been at the lighthouse that I've been contacted through the SB-7. In fact, it was the first time I was contacted at all aside from my regular afternoon dreams. Dreams with Panzram never happened at night, always during my afternoon nap. This made me feel like he was preparing me for my nightly investigations. It was exciting and unsettling all at the same time. 

When I finally woke in the early morning, I had my usual breakfast again, oatmeal, black coffee and the other half of yesterday's grapefruit. After eating, I made some fresh lemonade for later and climbed the lighthouse stairs to check the lens. Ten seconds. Always ten seconds. My job here was so easy I could skip climbing these stairs indefinitely and there still would not be an issue. Without that little break in my day, though, I would be resigned to sleeping, eating, reading and dreaming of Panzram. I needed these quick breaks to take my mind off of the horrors that occurred here on Execution Rock. 

Walking back out to my chair-shaped rock with book-in-tow, I kept thinking of “Under”. I sat down, opened up to the part of '1984' where Winston is in the upstairs room of Mr. Charington's shop, and drew some weird similarities to my situation again. I couldn't help but think the upstairs hide-a-way was my lighthouse, and I climb those stairs to escape from the reality that is the rocks below, just as Winston climbed his stairs to escape the constant surveillance of Big Brother. My Big Brother was Carl Panzram. 

Let me know if I should continue my story of Carl Panzram and my time on Execution Rock. He's fucked with my head and I want to get it out. 

I couldn't really get into the story this time, I kept thinking of last night in the garden. I decided to walk around the tiny island a little bit and stretch my legs. The whole while I was walking, I couldn't get Panzram out of my head. I walked around to the back of the house, where my sad little garden was and just stood there, staring at the ground. The sun was pretty high up in the sky at this point, it was close to 11AM by now. Something in me drew me closer and closer to the rocks until I had an overwhelming urge to start digging and moving rocks. With the word from the SB-7 clear in my head, “Under”, I just kept digging. I dug up the entire garden, from the edge of the little cliff face all the way to the foundation of the house. I found nothing. 

By now it was damn near 3 in the afternoon, I was filthy and exhausted. I made my way into the house and showered off the grime from the garden. I prepared another simple lunch and sat down to eat, but I lost my appetite almost completely. Today was the day I refused to take my afternoon nap. I didn't want to deal with Carl in my dreams again, at least not until I could figure out whatever it was he was trying to show me. I stayed awake, made my rounds of the lighthouse and grounds again, put some things in order and timed the flashing light again. Ten seconds. I chose to stay at the top of the lighthouse longer than usual this time, sitting down against the curved wall, just looking at the lens and its flashing light. Every ten seconds the light flashed, and with every flash I remembered my dream from the previous day. I don't know how it happened, but I drifted off to sleep up there by the light. I don't remember this particular dream too well, but I'm sure it was just as abnormal and weird as the others. When I finally woke and checked my watch it was almost 7, so I walked down the spiral staircase into the tiny kitchen and poured myself some of the lemonade I had made. Still uneasy about what has been happening, I added a little vodka to my drink and sat down at the kitchen table to try and eat some of the meager lunch I had prepared earlier. 

After I forced myself to eat half of my tuna salad sandwich, I felt it was time to get to work again. I set up my equipment in the same manner I did the previous night and used the last bit of daylight to look over some research papers I had brought outside with me. These papers were about the Revolutionary soldiers that were tortured on the island two hundred years ago, and for some reason I found the stories to be even more terrifying than the things Carl Panzram had done here. The thought of Revolutionary war soldiers being tied to the rocks during low tide, whipped and beaten into giving up whatever little information they may have held, and then left to slowly drown as the tide in the Long Island Sound rose inch by inch around them sent shivers down my spine. 

I was so finished with Carl after the spirit box episode that I actually welcomed what happened next. As the sun finally disappeared behind the horizon, my trusty SB-7 started picking up garbled words. I quickly turned on my recorder and began speaking to the box; “Hello?”; “Help us!”. 

Did I just hear “Help us!”? I did, loud and clear. I pressed the rewind button on my recorder, hit stop, then play and listened intently. “Help us!”. Okay, there was no mistaking that at all. Even clearer than “Under” from the night before, something, someone was asking for my help. My next question, being the only logical thing, was “Where are you?”. 

The response I got to that question still haunts me to this day, and I'll never be able to forget it. Clear as can be, the response to my question was “Dying.” Dying. Whoever was asking for help was begging me to save their life or lives. I didn't know what to do. By now I'm thinking that I may be overstaying my welcome, if I ever was welcome, on this little shithole rock. 

I continued asking questions, trying to get a better idea as to where these spirits were and how I could be of help, when I heard the last thing I wanted to hear. “Under!” This time louder, almost a yell. I replayed it on my recorder and there it was. Under, louder than it ever had been before. I immediately recognized the voice as the one I for some reason associate with Carl, and I knew he was back to taunt me some more tonight. This time I wasn't going to let it end with one word. I picked up the SB-7, grabbed my flashlight and recorder and began asking him to direct me where he wanted me to go. 

“Carl, if that's you, I'm going to walk towards the house. Is that what you want?” 

“Yes.” 

“Carl, I'm going to into the house. Is that what you want?” 

“Yes.” 

“Carl, I am going to climb the stairs to the lighthouse, ok?” 

“Under!” 

S**t, there it was again. Under. Under what? 

“Carl, what do you want me to go under?” 

“Under!” 

I put the recorder and SB-7 on the table in the house and began crawling around on my hands and knees. If he wanted me inside, and still says under, there has to be something under the floor. Seeing as the house is built on a literal rock slab, there is no real basement, so the first floor is the bottom floor. Knocking around on the floor with my knuckles, listening for differences in sound turned up no clues. This had been going on for almost four hours, and I was done playing games with someone who was hanged for murder over 80 years ago. I wished Carl a good night and turned off my equipment. 

The following morning, still confused, I made my normal black coffee and skipped breakfast. I walked up to the light, timed it at its usual ten seconds, and walked back down. I laid down on the floor that I was crawling around on the night before and sipped my coffee. Once I had finished my first cup, I went back for a second, this time I added a little whiskey hoping to clear some of the fogginess from my head. 

After finishing my second coffee in record time I promptly fell asleep right there on the floor. That's when I saw Carl again. This time he was trying to show me the tool closet adjacent to the small kitchen. He kept walking me there and pointing to the door. I followed him, not knowing what the big deal was; it's just a closet with some old tools used for minor repairs and such. Carl was very adamant about going into the tool closet. After following him around the house a little bit more, I woke up on the floor. I opened the door to the tool closet and looked around. Nothing looked out of the ordinary, so I closed the door and went back to the kitchen to fix myself a fresh drink. By now I knew I was in trouble if I didn't eat something, so I forced myself to make some scrambled eggs and toast. 

I cleaned up my lunch plates, took a walk back up to the light and checked everything for the second time that day. With every drink I had that day, I imagined Winston gulping down his oily Victory Gin to numb the pain of his living conditions. Winston and I are starting to have more in common than I ever imagined. A few more swigs of what I now began calling Victory Whiskey and I decided to take my afternoon nap, or my second afternoon nap for the day. 

Fully expecting Carl to come back and show me to the tool closet again, I drifted off to a slightly drunken sleep. I dreamt of the Revolutionary War soldiers tied to the rocks. I saw the British Redcoats laughing as the tide slowly rolled in, covering their enemies with each passing wave. Then I heard a familiar voice, it was Carl of course, but this time he was watching the soldiers drown while he laughed along with the British. I decided to walk over to where Carl was standing. It was like approaching an old friend I hadn't seen in some time. We laughed together at the dying Americans. Then he was gone again. 

I got up from the floor, still looking for some form of hidden trap door or latch in the wood planking, and made my way over to the shower. I let the warm water sober me up a bit so I could set up for yet another night of trying to find out just what the f**k “Under” means. 

I set everything up again, this time inside the house, then I had a brilliant (not so much) idea to grab the little vintage metal tool chest from the closet Carl brought me to. I opened it up and saw exactly what I expected; a few old screwdrivers, some nails and screws, an antique claw hammer, some wood chisels and an awl. Nothing out of the ordinary at all. To this day I still can't explain why I kept the tools out that night, but I chose not to put them back in the closet. Instead I grabbed the hammer and one of the chisels and put them right next to my recorder. 

A few nice big glugs of my vodka and I was ready for the night. I flipped on the SB-7 to find the batteries dead again. I know I turned it off last night because I just had to turn it on! I replaced the batteries for the second time in three days and was back in business. Sitting at the table, my SB-7 with fresh batteries, my recorder, camera and laser array, and of course the odd tool collection I decided to keep out for the night, I felt lost. I had no idea where to start tonight, or even what I wanted the outcome of this investigation to be. The only thing I could manage to say into the spirit box was “Hi.” to which I received laughter in return. Carl was laughing at me already. I kept thinking to myself that I'm being taunted by someone who's been dead and buried for nearly a century, and it infuriated me. 

Now, before I tell you what happened next, I'll be sure to let you know this is the point where I absolutely lost any sanity I may have had left. 

The laughter from the spirit box infuriated me to the point where I grabbed the hammer and chisel, fell to the floor and started tearing up the antique oak planks. I pulled up so many wooden panels that I was able to see the rock foundation and old concrete pylons under the house. As I worked my way from one end of the house to the other, swinging the hammer as I moved, I asked myself why I was doing this, but I didn't stop. I finally reached the end of the house that had the garden on the other side of the wall. When I pulled up that last board, I found a rolled up and moth-eaten blanket. I picked up the blanket and unrolled it. Inside was a broken mirror, about one foot across and three feet long. 

Well, that settled what “Under” meant. Carl wanted me to find this mirror under the house. For some reason this broken piece of s**t mirror was important to him, and I was going to find out why. I took the mirror back to the table, surveying the damage I did to this historic house and realizing how much trouble I'll be in when the National Historic Lighthouse Preservation worker comes back to pick me up. I remember thinking to myself that when I sober up I'll be able to fix the floor, but that wouldn't happen. 

I've been staring at the mirror for almost two hours now. There are no significant markings I can see, no manufacturer marks, no inscriptions, nothing to indicate any specific meaning to Carl. Even more confusing is that Carl hasn't popped up in my dreams since I found the mirror two days ago. Of course he doesn't come around when I need him to. All paranormal activity has stopped for the most part. I haven't heard from the Revolutionary soldiers, either. I have about three days or so before I get picked up by the foundation that cares for the historic lighthouse, and I still have yet to repair the floor I tore up. I'm way too preoccupied trying to decipher what the hell this mirror is supposed to symbolize, or what I'm supposed to use it for. 

Rectangular, one foot by three feet with 4 large cracks running lengthwise through the glass. If I'm not careful the glass will fall out in four long dagger-like shards. I know I need the glass intact, or as intact as possible, to figure out its use, so I'm trying my hardest to prevent any further damage. I've all but given up on checking the light daily, I've stopped eating anything but my new liquid diet and I have the spirit box running all day now, even when I'm sleeping off a drunk. 

At first I was thinking this mirror would allow me to see Carl or the soldiers, but that thought went out the window after staring into it for a few hours and seeing nothing but my own reflection. My next thought was that this may have belonged to one of Carl's many victims, but then there is no way to prove that. There's also no reason for me to have it if that was the case, at least no reason I can think of. With no help from Carl, I'm at a standstill. Time to get some more sleep. 

I must have been sleeping for nearly three hours when I suddenly awoke with the feeling that someone was staring at me. As I looked around, seeing nothing, I knew Carl was back. I ran over to the spirit box, still on, and picked up the recorder. I rewound the recording approximately fifteen minutes or so and hit the play button. Listening intently, I could hear myself lightly snoring in distance, but otherwise everything was silent. I listened for about ten minutes or so before I finally heard something that sounded eerily like heavy breathing. The breathing was much closer to the recorder than my snoring was, so I immediately thought someone was in the house with me. That's when the breathing turned into a low growl. The growl became so loud that my light snoring in the background actually faded away and I must have woken up at that time. I heard myself getting up and stirring around, then my own footsteps coming towards the table to check the recordings. 

Now after hearing the random growling on the recording I had no idea what to think. I now know I am not alone on this little island, but I don't know what it is that's here with me. Carl had never made any sounds like this, aside from his maniacal laughter. I decided to take a walk up to the light and check the timing on the light for the first time in days, and I had the unbelievable urge to bring the mirror up with me. I gathered up some of my equipment, SB-7, recorder and video camera and started up the spiral staircase. I walked up slowly, asking the spirit box questions every few steps but getting no responses. When I finally made it up to the top, I set down the tripod for my video camera, put the camera on and pointed it towards the flashing lens. Ten seconds, I guess I wasn't wrong for not coming up here everyday anymore. Wanting to sit now, I chose a spot opposite the staircase and placed the SB-7 next to me, after changing the batteries yet again. 

As I began asking questions into the thin cool air, I realized I didn't know what I really wanted to ask. 

After some deliberation I went with: 

“Carl, was that you growling earlier?”; no response. 

“Carl, are you still here with me?”; again no response. 

Frustrated, my questioning began to turn into begging. 

“Please Carl, answer me!” 

This was followed by a long, low growl coming from the direction of the staircase which happens to be the only entrance to and exit out of the top of this tower. I looked over to the opening and saw a figure standing there, motionless and staring directly at me. Around six feet tall, with long, thin arms, it just stared at me, growling. The lanky arms ended in sharp stubby claws, similar to the talons of a bird-of-prey. Its legs might have been the oddest and most terrifying part; long and thin, with knees that appeared to bend backwards, ending in hooves with similar stubby claws. This horrific figure stood there, looking at me with a blank, stoic stare. Bright blue eyes just staring at me. I have never felt more terrified in my life. 

While I was motionless, staring back at this monstrosity I heard a familiar cackling laugh. I looked up and saw Carl standing there next to the demon-like entity. Carl appeared, for the first time in my waking hours, in full apparition form, almost human-like in appearance. He looked at the mirror in my hand and smiled at me. I felt comforted, oddly enough, by this smile and I knew I would be safe with Carl here. I knew he would protect me from this thing, and if need be kill it. At the moment, he just stood there, staring at me and smiling wide, ear to ear. 

The sinister entity, whatever it is, also stood there, still motionless and growling a deep horrific sound, staring at me. Those piercing blue eyes seemingly looking through me to the wall or outside world at my back. After a short stare-off, I shifted to my left and the mirror fell off my lap, splitting into four large pieces of glass. Almost instinctively I picked up the largest piece and held it out in front of me like a small sword, ready to protect myself. Again, I shifted further left, working my way around the circular room, hoping to have Carl and the demon move away from the door so I can run out of the room, while also moving myself closer to Carl. I could feel the little light room grow colder and colder with every move I made toward Carl and the exit, as if the demon was getting angrier with my constant shifting. 

I stopped moving, sitting dead still, never taking my eyes off the demon, expecting it to jump across the room, through the light in the center, and straight onto me. This didn't happen, it just kept standing there, growling. I began moving again, quicker this time until I finally worked up the nerve to get to my knees and slowly to my feet, still never breaking eye contact with the demon. Throughout all of this shifting and movement, Carl never stopped cackling. I found it quite odd that he was not helping me yet, but I can't dwell on that, I had to keep working to the door and get off the island, even if I had to swim across the Long Island Sound. 

After what felt like an eternity I finally made it completely around the room and came up to stand within a foot of Carl, who began to laugh even more maniacally. He looked down at my hands, still holding the glass shard, and I immediately knew what needed to be done. 

As I jumped past Carl, straight at the demon, I raised the glass shard to about chest level, pointing upwards. I instantly realized that I had not thought this through, and I wasn't sure exactly what to do. I half fell, half staggered straight at the face of the entity and drove the glass shard up as hard as I could. Straight up, behind the chin and under the jaw. I kept pushing upwards until it felt as if I couldn't force it upward anymore, then I pushed even harder. I could feel the glass break in half, but not the half in my hand, that was still embedded deep into the flesh of this monster, but I knew I had applied enough pressure to break it off inside the skull of this horrific creature. 

The demon slumped to the ground, Carl still laughing, and I ran down the stairs to the main house as quickly as I could. When I reached the main house, I continued to run straight out the front door, out into the fresh air. With the full intention of jumping into the water and swimming across the Sound to safety on the other side, I noticed something I had not seen on the island since I was abandoned here weeks earlier; a small boat with an outboard motor. Without thinking (I have been doing a lot of that lately, I realize now), I jumped into the boat and pulled the ripcord to start the small outboard motor. 

The engine roared to life, and at this time I decided to abandon all of my personal belongings and get the hell off the prison-like rock outcrop called Execution Rock. I guided the boat across the water as quickly as I could, never looking back to see if the demon was following. Finally reaching shore about fifteen minutes later, I ran the boat straight up into the sand of the little beach and began running straight into civilization. I had no idea where I was running to, but I kept expecting someone or something to stop me. Nothing did. 

After a few blocks of sprinting as fast as I could, I saw a police car parked on the side of the road. I ran straight up to the car and banged on the window, panting and completely out of breath. Startled and alarmed, the police officer rolled down his window and yelled for me to back up and calm down. He opened his driver's side door quickly but cautiously, gun already drawn and leveled at my chest and ordered me to lay on the ground, face down, and put my hands behind my head. 

“Why are you covered in blood, and who's blood is that!?” the officer ordered me to answer. 

In my haste and scared-shitless state I hadn't realized what I looked like. I was covered from wrist to elbow in blood, with even more blood on my shirt and pants. There was blood and flesh in my hair, and I'm sure more covering my face. I looked like I had just left a slaughterhouse. 

I began to explain what happened over on Execution Rock, and as I told my story I didn't notice that I was being forcefully handcuffed. I asked why I was being handcuffed and the officer responded, “It's for your protection and mine, sir.” 

The officer, who at this point is still listening to me rant on about Carl, the soldiers, the mirror and the demon I killed, radioed into his dispatched to have his fellow officers check the island. I was told to sit in the backseat of his car, and he drove me to his police precinct where I was placed in a cell, “temporarily”, until the police could straighten everything out and make sure I would be safe upon my release. 

What seemed like hours passed, and I had fallen asleep on the hard, wooden bench, still covered in blood, when the original officer I ran to came over to my little cell and began to ask me questions that I could not answer. 

“When did the Lighthouse Conservation worker arrive on the island?” he began with. 

I had no response to this question, as I had been alone on the island. I told him as much. 

“What caused you to attack the lighthouse worker?” was his next question. 

Still having no idea what he was going on about, I began to retell my story. He let me rant for what felt like hours, though I would later find out by listening to the recordings of the interrogation that I had mumbled incoherently for about two or three minutes before being cut off and read my Miranda Rights. 

The rest of this story is very much jumbled in my head, as I was taken to a nearby psychiatric hospital and evaluated. I was given an injection of some medication and passed out. 

From what I've been told, I woke up about a full day later, confined to a small dark room in New Bridge Medical Center, a well-known psychiatric hospital in New Jersey where I'm being held on charges of murdering the Lighthouse Conservation worker. As the days in here drag on, more bits and pieces come back to me. I have multiple meetings daily with different psychiatrists and doctors, medical experts, police and detectives. I have spoken to and been tested by court-appointed doctors, who I have overheard saying in hushed voices that I'm “not competent”. I was even given a lawyer, and he strongly advised me not to speak of my horrific experience with anyone until the testing is complete. I've been here for thirty-seven days now and I just can't stay quiet any longer. Since my lawyer refuses to help me get my story out, I've relied on the staff here at the hospital to help, and they have been more than willing. I would like to take this moment to thank them, and as this disaster drags onward, I will try and keep my readers and the public apprised of the outcome, as I fear I may never be seen again. 

Thank you, faithful readers, spread my story to make sure people know what happened at Execution Rock and to stay as far away from that place, and Carl Panzram, as possible. 

--KW 

Author's Note

Please help with fleshing the story out further, grammar, detail, dialogue (though due the nature of the story there is minimal dialogue), details, and most importantly expansion as I'd like this to become more than just a short.