WRITING PROMPT • DYSTOPIA • HISTORICAL • SCI-FI

Lighthouse of Lost Memories

In a world where anybody can hear your thoughts.

1895

“Shhh,” John said as he dragged me by my hand.

“I’m scared, John,” I whispered, rain pelting me in the face.

The thunder drowned out the rest of my words.

“Let’s go back to our bikes. My mom is going to wonder where I am,” I shouted above the wind.

“Keep quiet, Anna. The wickie is going to hear us,” John said.

The beam of the old lighthouse rotated in the distance. The deafening roar of the waves crashing against the rocks made me quiver with fright. John held my hand tightly until we reached the lighthouse door.

“I don’t want to go in,” I said.

“Don’t be a baby,” John said.

He looked around and grabbed a brick.

“We’ll need this,” he said.

Before I could protest, he pushed the heavy door open and tugged me inside. The wind whistled through the lighthouse. The storm and the crash of the sea sounded even louder inside.

“Up here,” John said.

I could hear moaning.

“What’s that?” I whispered.

We crept along the cracked wall and looked inside a small room.

“Yes, yes, yes!” a girl wailed.

It was Mary, the shopkeeper’s daughter. She was bent over an old table. The old wickie was behind her, grunting and heaving.

“What a harlot,” John giggled.

I wanted to continue watching, but John pulled me away to the spiral staircase.

“Don’t make a noise,” he warned.

When we finally reached the top, I remained crouched in fright.

“I don’t like this,” I said, peering out the windows.

Lightning forked over the stormy sea. I yelped as thunder crashed, vibrating the lighthouse.

“What is this?” John said.

I watched as he dunked his hand into a bucket of silver-looking liquid.

“Look how it flows,” he said, cupping his hand.

The silvery liquid glistened in his hand.

“It feels so cold. Do you want to touch?” he said.

“No.”

“I’m going to take some home,” he said.

“Can we go now?” I asked, still cowering on the floor.

He took the brick and grinned.

“In no time we’ll have a shipwreck just like the one on Aunt Helen’s beach,” John said.

I covered my eyes as he hurled the brick at the lens. It shattered into a million pieces, and the floor was immediately draped in darkness. The lightning in the distance provided us with brief illumination.

“Come, let’s go!” John said, holding his small pouch of the silver liquid.

He dragged me down the stairs again. We burst out the door, ran to our bikes, and raced back home in the storm.

Thirty years passed since that night. John got his wish: that night, only hours later, a ship crashed onto the rocks the lighthouse was supposed to warn against. Unfortunately, he was never able to ‘enjoy’ the shipwreck. Not too long after that night, he started hallucinating. He turned more violent. It became so bad his parents sent him to the local sanatorium, where he died many years later.

The shipwreck wasn’t the only tragedy that night. The lighthouse keeper, thinking his indiscretions caused the wreck, threw himself onto the rocks.

The years following this incident weren’t any better. Nikola Tesla, in an attempt to create wireless power, built the Wardenclyffe Tower. During the first attempt, his transmission caused mass hysteria. It spread throughout the world at record speed. Some people went mad and committed suicide out of nowhere. His transmission succeeded, but not in the way he’d hoped. The rest of the world’s population, like me, had to get used to a new normal.

Being able to hear the thoughts of others.

Many didn’t handle it well. Hearing how your boss wanted to bend you over the nearest table wasn’t great. Realising how badly some family members wanted to kill you also shocked many for some reason.

But like anything, we adapted.

Clever scientists figured out a way to block people from reading your thoughts. And to prevent you from hearing the thoughts of others. Of course, this was only available to the super-rich. And nobody knew how it worked. On a few occasions, I’d encountered people in the city with “blank minds”. The lucky few who could afford it.

I’d heard rumours. Rumours that somebody in my childhood town was able to perform the same procedure, but at a much better price. The underground market was rife with these people, and it was always a significant risk. But if it worked, it was worth it.

“Anna, is that you?”

I looked at the old lady as she hobbled towards me from across the street.

“Sister Florence?” I said.

It was the priest’s wife. I couldn’t believe how old she looked.

“My child, it’s been so long,” she said, hugging me. “Of course, I’d be older, it’s been thirty years!”

I felt my face turning hot.

“Sorry, I haven’t seen anybody here in a while,” I said.

Maybe you should have come to visit instead of running off.

“I’m looking for somebody called Walter?” I said, ignoring her thoughts.

Sister Florence looked around.

“No, nothing good will come of that, dear,” she whispered.

“I need to see him,” I insisted.

I had to see if he could perform the procedure on me. My wandering mind made it impossible for me to keep a job. Impossible to maintain relationships. I had to risk it for my sanity.

“He lives at the old lighthouse. Please, child, don’t do it. People go there and their minds don’t come back. Walter hasn’t been the same since he came back from the sanatorium.”

“Why was he there?” I asked.

“He worked there as a young doctor,” she said. “Please, Anna, he’s dangerous.”

I didn’t care.

“We can’t lose more people. We haven’t had a birth in this town for almost ten years,” she continued, gripping my arm.

“Don’t worry about me, Sister,” I said.

“Anna, welcome back!” a man roared as he came over.

It was the old shopkeeper. How was he even still alive?

Wouldn’t you like to know.

“I hope you’re staying for a while?” he said.

She sure has grown. Look at those delicious plump tits.

“I have to go,” I said.

I’d trained myself to tune out of hearing other peoples’ thoughts. But sometimes if it was strong enough, it slipped through. If Walter were able to do the procedure, I’d opt for removing both. Projecting thoughts and hearing them.

“Pop in before you leave,” he called after me as I made my way to the lighthouse.

Memories came flooding back. The lighthouse loomed in the distance. I took a deep breath, trying not to cry. I had such precious memories here as a child. I traced my fingers over one of the trees. ANNA + JOHN was still carved into it.

My shoes crunched on the stones leading up to the weather-beaten door. I knocked.

“Walter?” I called.

The door creaked open.

“Yes?” a man said.

“Are you Walter?” I asked.

He looked much younger than I thought he would be. Walter nodded his head. I handed him the slip of paper somebody gave me in the city. He stared at it.

“Who told you about me?” he asked.

“A friend,” I said.

“You do know this is a dangerous procedure with no guarantees,” he said.

I was aware. And willing to risk it.

“In you come, then,” he said.

More memories came flooding back as he led me into the small room. I still remembered that night vividly. Something so raw and primal took place on the very table Walter now used to store bottles and metal instruments.

“Please, sit down,” he said.

“Why are there straps on the chair?” I asked.

“It’s too risky for patients to move while I perform the procedure,” he said. “I tie down your ankles, thighs, wrists, and arms. And your head.”

I watched as he connected wires to a contraption with dials, buttons, and switches.

“Sure, you want to go ahead?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, sitting down on the chair.

He tightened the straps. I winced as he tugged them tight.

“How long have you been living here?” I asked.

“Since my mother died. Mary was her name,” he said.

My blood turned cold.

“Mary? The shopkeeper’s daughter?” I asked.

He nodded his head.

“My dad committed suicide when a ship crashed into these rocks thirty years ago,” he said. “I never even met him.”

My mind was racing.

He held a syringe in the air and squeezed it until a bright green liquid squirted out the needle.

“I don’t want to do this anymore,” I said, tugging at the belts.

“I know what you did, Anna,” he said.

“Please, Walter let me out. I don’t want to do this anymore!” I shrieked.

“My mother saw you that night. You and John.”

“Let me out!” I shouted again, my skin burning against the leather.

“John is gone. For a while now,” Walter said.

He brought the needle to my face.

“I have something different in mind for you, Anna,” he said.

I cried out as the needle pierced my skin. Every became blurry until I blacked out.

I opened my eyes and looked around.

“Where am I?” I said.

A man appeared in front of me.

“Do you remember me?” he asked.

“No,” I croaked.

He nodded.

I looked around the room. Something felt familiar. But I couldn’t pinpoint it.

“You can try as hard as you like. Your memories are in here,” the man said, holding a jar in the air.

Something solid was submerged in a bright liquid.

“You can go now,” he said.

“Go where?” I said.

I felt tears rolling down my cheeks.

“I don’t even know where I am.”

He helped me up and lead me out the door.

“The town is that way,” he said, pointing.

“The town?” I asked.

The door shut behind me.

I stumbled along the path and rested against a large tree. It looked like some kids had carved their names into it. ANNA + JOHN. I felt tears rolling down my cheeks again. I turned back and stared at the lighthouse.

I could hear the sea crashing against the rocks as I made my way back towards it.

Written for this prompt by May More:

The story is part of this dystopian universe: