Life as a lighthouse keeper on a remote Scottish island isn't always the most exciting. Especially since she split with her husband, Malcolm. Yet, Heather loves her job, her friends, and her life on Bishop's Isle.
Until, one day, strange...things start to wash ashore. Dangerous things she has never seen before. Frightening things that nobody else on the island can explain.
Now, Heather and the rest of islanders must overcome a whirlwind of troubles and use her lighthouse to try and signal for help, and hope against hope that somebody sees her, and the island's, desperate plea in time...
Can they reach safety? Or will they be overtaken by the Undead...?
When Malcolm saw the body washed up on the beach, the first thing he thought of was his ex-wife.
He’d been cleaning the storm windows at the top of the lighthouse when he saw it. He was thinking about packing it all in, abandoning his self-imposed exile and returning to the city – just as he’d once thought about leaving the city for the sanctuary of some distant stony shore. He hated days like this, he’d never got used to them. The morning air was heavy with fine rain, covering every surface with a damp sheen. The February wind was cold and quick, biting even beneath his thick yellow coat.
He dropped the squeegee into the bucket of now-cold water and wrung his hands to try and coax some life back into them. He turned towards frothy greyness of the sea and sky, stamping his feet. The wind roared in his face, freezing against his sodden auburn beard. His winter coat, Heather had called it once. Fat load of use it was doing now. His eyes scanned out across the horizon, watching the wheeling of gulls and the slow crash of waves against the rocks.
And there, gently rocking out of the tumult, was the unmistakable shape of a body.
In his four years out on the remote Scottish island called Bishop’s Isle, on the North-Western edge of the Outer Hebrides, he’d seen some strange things delivered on the tide. He’d awoken one morning to find a whole army of plastic goods littered among the stones – from pink Barbie dolls to brightly-coloured dildos. He’d once found an actual message in a bottle – only to be disappointed when the paper inside read “Plz call 01785 554979 4 sex”. Then there’d been the incident with the seal…
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Portuguese
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Translation in progress.
Translated by André Weber
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Spanish
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Already translated.
Translated by Sara Pintado Paredes
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