I Came to This Cottage to Forget My Ex, But Now I'm Falling For a Ghost

The gravel crunched under the tires of my small car, a sound that was immediately swallowed by the roar of the ocean. This was it. The end of the road, both literally and, I hoped, metaphorically. The cottage stood exactly as the rental listing had promised: a salt-bleached stone structure perched precariously on the cliff's edge, looking like it had grown from the rock itself. It was the most isolated place I could find, a necessary hermitage after the spectacular implosion of my life with Mark. Solitude was the only cure I could think of, and this place promised it in abundance.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of old wood, beeswax, and the faint, clean smell of the sea that seeped through the window frames. It was perfect. The main room was dominated by a stone fireplace and shelves overflowing with books—the collection of local maritime records I was hired to digitize. My work. My distraction. A large, mullioned window faced the churning grey water, a living painting that shifted with the tide and the light. I could already imagine myself curled up in the worn armchair beside it, losing myself in centuries-old stories of the sea, forgetting my own.

I dropped my bags and walked towards the window, drawn by the dramatic view. The waves crashed against the rocks below, sending plumes of white spray into the air. A deep sense of peace began to settle over me, the first I’d felt in months. But as I drew closer to the glass, a strange chill crept over my skin. It wasn't just the draft from an old house; it was a distinct, localized pocket of cold. It was so intense that the fine hairs on my arms stood on end.

I took a step back, and the warmth of the room returned. I stepped forward again, into the invisible column of air, and the cold enveloped me once more. It was a space no larger than a person, standing sentinel before the window. I ran my hand along the window frame, searching for the source of the draft, but the seals were tight, the wood solid. There was no logical reason for it. I hugged my arms to my chest, a shiver tracing a path down my spine that had nothing to do with the temperature. The cottage was charming, the solitude was welcome, but this persistent, inexplicable cold was deeply unsettling. It felt like standing in a shadow when there was no sun.

I tried to push the cold spot from my mind, attributing it to the cottage’s age and proximity to the unforgiving sea. I had work to do, a mountain of it. I set up my laptop and scanner on the sturdy oak table, the books and ledgers piled high around me. As I began the tedious process of scanning brittle, yellowed pages, another scent joined the comforting smell of old paper and wood. It was the distinct, sharp aroma of pipe tobacco and the salty tang of brine, as if a fisherman had just walked in from the docks and shaken out his coat. I paused, sniffing the air. The scent was strong, then it vanished as quickly as it had appeared. I told myself it was just the house breathing, its century of memories exhaled on the drafts.

I was deeply focused on a ship’s manifest from 1898 when a loud thud made me jump. On the floor by the overflowing shelves lay a single book. It was a handsome volume, bound in dark, cracked leather with no title on the spine. Annoyed, I got up and retrieved it, noticing how the leather was stiffened in places, as if it had been repeatedly soaked and dried. I shoved it back onto the shelf, wedging it between a thick almanac and a collection of sea shanties. It must have been the draft from that cold spot by the window, I reasoned. The house was full of quirks.

An hour later, it happened again. The same thud, the same leather-bound journal lying on the floorboards. This time, a prickle of unease traced its way up my neck. I picked it up again, my fingers tracing the worn cover. It was just a book. An old, anonymous book. I placed it back on the shelf with more force than necessary, making sure it was secure. It was ridiculous to be spooked by a draft.

But the following morning, all my rationalizations crumbled into dust. I woke to the pale dawn light filtering through the window. The cottage was silent except for the distant cry of gulls. I stretched, rolling onto my side, and my breath caught in my throat. There, placed neatly on the empty pillow beside me, was the journal.

It hadn't fallen. It hadn't been blown by some phantom gust of wind. It had been moved. Deliberately. My heart began to hammer against my ribs, a frantic, trapped bird. The cold spot by the window seemed to pulse with a new intensity, a silent, expectant presence in the quiet room. There was no denying it now. I wasn't alone here. I stared at the book, its salt-stained cover a silent invitation, and knew with a chilling certainty that whatever shared this space with me wanted me to read it.

My hand trembled as I reached for it. The leather was cold from the night air, stiff and rough under my fingertips. A part of my mind, the rational part, was screaming at me to pack my bags and leave this place. But a stronger, more insistent curiosity held me fast. Whatever force was in this cottage with me, it wasn't malicious. Frightening, yes, but the placement of the journal felt less like a threat and more like a plea. An introduction.

I sat up, pulling the thick quilt around my shoulders, and rested the heavy book in my lap. Taking a slow, steadying breath, I opened it. The pages were thick and yellowed, warped by dampness, and the edges were stained a darker shade, as if water had once wicked its way through the entire volume. A faint scent of brine and something else, something uniquely masculine and old, rose from the paper. The first page was filled with elegant, slightly slanted cursive, written in ink that had faded from black to a soft brown.

October 12th, 1895.

The cottage is complete. Built with my own hands from stone hauled from the cove and timber that washed ashore after the winter gales. It stands firm against the wind. From this window, I can see the light, my light, sweeping its steady path across the black water. It is a lonely watch, but a necessary one. The sea is a demanding mistress. She gives life with one hand and takes it with the other, and she never apologizes for her moods. This journal will be my only confidant, the keeper of my thoughts while I keep the shore.

My name is Liam O’Connell, and I am the keeper of the Greywater Point Lighthouse.

I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. Liam. His name felt solid, real. I read on, my initial fear dissolving into a profound, aching sense of recognition. Page after page, he wrote not of daily events, but of his inner world. He described the changing colors of the water with the precision of a painter, the sound of the foghorn as a mournful song, the solitude as a physical weight that settled on his shoulders at dusk. He wrote of a profound loneliness, a constant companion that was as much a part of the landscape as the cliffs and the gulls.

His words were a mirror, reflecting my own bruised heart back at me. He wrote of the sea the way I felt about my life after Mark: vast, unpredictable, and utterly indifferent to his small existence on its edge. Yet, there was no self-pity in his prose. There was only acceptance, a deep love for the wild beauty around him, and a quiet dignity in his isolation. I felt the knot of my own sorrow loosen just a fraction. Here was a man who had lived a century ago, who understood the exact shape of the emptiness that had driven me to this cliffside cottage. As I read, the cold spot by the window seemed to lose its edge, the chill softening into a quiet, waiting stillness. I was no longer just reading a dead man's diary; I was listening to him speak. And I felt, for the first time in a very long time, that I was not entirely alone in my loneliness.