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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Shot_Bother9283 on 2024-09-28 15:30:42+00:00.
I always wanted an excuse to return home. As a child, my grandfather would tell me childhood tales of our long lost home, stories of skipping school and secret meetings at the old fort, of the long summer nights spent together under the midnight sun, of the sweeping beam of the lighthouse in the darkest of winter nights, and I couldn’t help but romanticise that old fishing village I’ve never set foot in. I spent days as a young boy, dreaming of one day returning to my old town, praying for an opportunity to visit those sprawling islets. And that lighthouse- It’s an understatement to say I was obsessed with that lighthouse. It featured prominently in all my drawings as a child, and would end up being the wallpaper of any device my family purchased until I was 10 years old.
Ah shit, I can see I’ve been rambling again. For a bit of context, I am a history student currently studying in the University of Helsinki. My family has lived in Finland for 70 years, but we consider our real home to be a small town called Vardø, a fishing settlement located at the very very edge of Norway’s borders, so extremely north that the sun shines long into the night during the summer. The town is further east than Saint Petersburg, Kyiv, and Istanbul, and I’ve heard my grandparents describe it as “the edge of the world”. My grandfather fled from norway as a child during the german invasion, and settled in Finland, eventually marrying a norwegian girl and starting a life anew.
The reason I bring this up is because a few weeks ago, as part of my final year thesis, I had the opportunity to visit Vardø, wanting to do my thesis on my family’s history, and, living in some kind of detective fantasy, I began tracing my family’s history there from before the war. I visited my grandfather’s last remaining childhood friends, many of them bound to wheelchairs or stuck with walking canes. I spent long hours at the town hall, combing through every letter or correspondence with my family’s surname attached to it, and gradually began putting a family tree together.
I realise as I’m writing this that you probably don't care about most of what I’ve just said, after all you probably are looking for the supernatural or occult, not some guy’s rants on how he filled in his family tree, but looking back I wish this was just another one of those boring “inspiring” stories you hear every other middle school student tell during their class project presentation about their family. For I’m afraid I came across something which I can't really write a credible thesis about, so I’ve decided to ask you all what to make of it.
I wouldn’t want to waste your time any longer, so I’ll be brief: during my time in Vardø, I came across an unsent letter written by one of my distant ancestors in 1807, during the waning years of the Denmark-Norway political union. The information given in this account has not been supported by any other secondary or primary source, because of which I can’t exactly publish this as a university paper. So, after some translating and tidying up, here it is.
The following is the (mostly) unaltered account written by Abraham Greseth in the year 1807 A.D, translated to English by ****** Greseth.
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November 25th, 1807
As I write this today, I am still unsure who to address this letter to. It was the suggestion of our town priest, Father Isberg, who instructed me to make a record of these recent incidents after I told him so in confession. I hope this letter shall one day find its way to one of the officials of the court, or to an officer of the Royal armed forces or national guard, so as to finally launch an investigation into the events which transpired in our town.
Some introduction may be necessary for the reader. My name is Abraham Greseth, and I have lived in Vardø for my entire life. Our town is far to the north, and at the edge of the world, most of the world’s events do not bother us. The war in Europe and the attack on Copenhagen at most got tongues wagging, but neither affected us in any serious way. I myself, during the summer months ply my trade as a fisherman, combing the seas of the north. During the winter months however, I am the keeper of the Vardø lighthouse.
In his sermons, Father Isberg repeatedly has said that our town is at the edge of the world. As one of the northernmost towns of Europe, and perhaps even the world, he has said beyond our islets, beyond the frigid seas of the north, lies a dimension barren of god and goodness. My own father, the previous keeper of the lighthouse, told me when I was but a boy that during the dark winter nights, in the absence of the midnight sun, it is our light that keeps those horrors at bay, and it is the duty of the keeper to ensure no such demon should creep its way into the land of man. I view the role of keeper with a sacred disposition, and for long I have kept watch over these frigid waters in the darkest of nights.
It was one of those nights of pitch darkness, that he showed up at my doorstep. I was manning the lighthouse as usual, cranking the clockwork that kept the mirrorset turning, at around some hours past midnight, when I heard a loud thumping noise at the door. Assuming it to be some curious animal, I looked down from above and was surprised to see the faint shape of a man knocking vigorously at the door. I grabbed my coat and made my way down to the door to open it and let him in, for my first thought was this fellow must have walked a long distance to get here, having crossed the high piles of snow that separated the lighthouse from the town itself, and he must be thoroughly exhausted from doing so. I opened the door to be greeted by a man dressed in a grey greatcoat. I could see traces of a red uniform underneath the coat, and he wore a tall shako that was covered in snow. A thick scarf remained wrapped around his neck, covering his face up to the top of his nose.
He seemed to be a soldier, for we have quite a few soldiers in Vardø, mostly stationed in the star fortress they call Vardohus fortress. I myself have been to the fortress several times, going at least twice a month for a quick chess match with its commanding officer, Captain Stahle. We knew most of the soldiers there by face, but I could not recognize this fellow due to the scarf. It was however a time of war, and soldiers were frequently being rotated into and out of the fortress, so I did not think much of it.
He seemed as though he was about to collapse on the doorframe itself, so I ushered him into my quarters, which is a walking distance from the lighthouse. As I lay him on the bed, he closed his eyes and fell unconscious. I inspected his body to be sure of no physical injuries, and I found to my horror that his thumb, forefinger, and ring finger of his right hand had been torn off, with blood still clinging to the stumps. As I bandaged his hand, I tried to remove his headgear to check for any head injuries, only to find it wouldn’t budge. I sat dumbfounded, as I tried to find the buckle for the chinstrap, only to realise it had none. The chinstrap had been fused to the man’s chin, as if it was part of his body. Dumbfounded, I tried to remove his scarf, only to find that it too could not be moved. Not knowing what to do, I decided to leave the man there, and return to my duties in the lighthouse. Locking the door as I left my quarters, I couldn’t help but think about what had just shown up at my doorstep. What was it this man had gone through?
That morning, I returned to find the man had woken up, and removed his scarf and headpiece. At the moment I was confused, and wondered how he could so easily remove his headpiece when I had tried to do so the previous night, but I chalked it up to late night hallucinations. I could now see this soldier was a young boy, barely into his twenties. Locks of brown hair fell across his face. The man did not speak, but merely looked in my direction as I hung up my coat.
“You sure do bring up a lot of questions my lad, but you may rest here until you are healthy enough to return to your post.”, I said as I sat in front of the dressing table. I could see him staring at me through the mirror, his beady black eyes focussed on my face. Looking in the mirror, I could see my own hair was messy and dishevelled, much like his was, so I combed it, all the while keeping an eye on him through the mirror.
He seemed too weak to move, and blankly stared at me through the mirror as I combed my hair. It was as though his gaze was noting down every detail of my face. I checked my teeth, before getting up to prepare breakfast, all the while my guest lay frozen in my bed. While cooking, I thought how strange it was, that despite having walked all that distance from the fort, through piles of dense snow while wind whipped in his face, the soldier was not even shivering, not even showing the faintest sign of being affected by the cold.
Upon returning from my routine fishing trip, I prepared a bowl of soup, and poured some for the man and myself. For some time, we sipped in silence, until at last, he spoke up.
“It crossed from hell itself.”
It was my turn to stare blankly at my guest, as his opening words left me dumbfounded. He stared blankly into the soup, spinning his spoon inside without taking a single si...
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