Season 01 Episode 08: When the Light Fades (Rerun)

telegram was received by the Northern Lighthouse Board. It was sent by a member of a rescue crew dispatched to the Flannan Isles, the site of the UK's most remote lighthouse, located way out in the Atlantic, beyond any sign of civilization. They were sent to investigate why the light was no longer shining. The telegram read, A dreadful accident has happened at the Flannins. The keepers have disappeared from the island. This is Unexplained, Season one, episode eight, when the Light fades.

When I'm considering what stories to feature on the show, there are really only a few criteria that must be met. Firstly, it has to be more than just an event. There must be a story, a set of events with which to thread and weave our way through. Secondly, that there be something ultimately very human in the tales. And last, but by no means least that the peculiarity of the

story has yet to be satisfactorily explained. Of all the unexplained mysteries I have come across so far, there is one that for me has left the most indelible impression. As far as mysteries go, you couldn't invent a better story. A story that has over time led to some of the most extraordinary of speculations, and has since evolved a folklore all of its own. This is that story you're

listening to, unexplained, and I'm Richard McLean Smith. The Flannan Isles, also known as the Seven Hunters, are located at the farthest reaches of the Scottish Outer Hebrides, a collection of seven rocky islands, they form a small but majestic archipelago of startling isolation. To the east, approximately seventy miles away,

lies the Isle of Lewis. To the south, by forty miles the deserted Isle of Saint Kilda, and if you were to venture west, you would need to travel more than two thousand miles of uninterrupted ocean before hitting the coastline of North America. The Flannan Isles are named after an Irish priest known as Saint Flannan, who is believed to have made his home on the islands as far

back as the seventh century. The remains the chapel in which Saint Flannan is thought to have lived can still be found on eilean Moore, the groups Its largest island, translated from Gallic to mean simply big island Islean Moore rears out of the sea, a vast hulk of gray black rock, topped by a rugged grassy plateau, its sheer cliffs measuring well over one hundred feet, with its highest

point reaching almost three hundred feet. Although uninhabited, many crofters from nearby Lewis would regularly visit the islands in the summer months to graze their sheep. Others would arrived to pill for eggs and feathers from the island's bountiful population of sea birds. Over time, due in no small part to the association with Saint Flannan, the island developed a strange mystique all of its own, becoming a place of

inherent sanctity to many of those who visited. To view the island in its isolation, it is easy to understand the ore with which it would have filled those early visitors. There were many who believed, and some still do, that the Isles were a place of great otherworldly magic, home to a host of fairies and nature spirits, and not all of them good, an attitude borne out in the customs and superstitions of any person daring to set foot

on one of the Seven Hunters. If, when approaching the islands on an easterly wind, the gust were to suddenly switch, you wouldn't think twice before turning the boat around and heading straight back home. For any that arrived successfully, it was customary to immediately uncover the head before performing a

complete turn clockwise while thanking God for your safety. So you can imagine the sense of trepidation many would have felt when it was announced that a lighthouse would be erected on the especially sacred Eileen More, a sense of trepidation that was somewhat justified when barely more than a year after opening, the lighthouse was to become the tragic scene of one of the UK's most enduring of mysteries.

What exactly happened on the island some time in December in the year nineteen hundred has never been fully accounted. For it is quite simply a mystery that remains to this day unexplained. In seventeen eighty two, a series of ferocious storms batted the Scottish coast, resulting in the deaths of many seamen, including those of two herring boats that were smashed on the rocks of the Kintyre Peninsula on

the West coast. As a result, the Northern Lighthouse Board was established to oversee the construction of a number of lighthouses to be stationed on the most treacherous of Scottish coastlands. Although, as ever initially motivated by trade, the ensuing feat of engineering was driven by a genuine desire characteristic of the Scottish Enlightenment, to work not for individual prestige, but for

the greater good of mankind. Leading the team of engineers was Thomas Smith, the great grandfather of none other than famed Scottish author Robert Louis Stephenson. Although the family profession would prove ultimately unfitting for Robert, it was nonetheless his uncle David who oversaw the construction of the lighthouse on Island Moor. However, it would be some time before such

a plan would come to fruition. Maybe it was concern over the exposure of such a location to the harshest of the Atlantic's uncompromising weather, or perhaps it was a reluctance to build on such mystical ground. But finally, after forty years of pleading, the Lighthouse Board agreed to the construction. The build began in eighteen ninety four and was due to take two years, but was beset by the tumultuous

weather and even rougher seas characteristic of the area. The lighthouse was to be built on the south side of the island, where the rock reaches its highest point, surrounded on both sides by sheer cliffs, none of which were less than one hundred fifty feet in height, meaning that all supplies had to be hauled by hand up the cliff side. A perilous set of steps were carved into

the rock leading to the building. At the top for support, there was only a modest iron railing to remind you of the rocky peril that lay in weight for anyone foolish enough to deviate from the path. Such was the steep incline of the steps. A small service railway was installed, where a cable supported railcar could be used to transport

heavy goods to and from the landing platform. Shortly before the build was completed, the foreman, Mister D's died suddenly, an event that in hindsight could be considered a disturbing portent of what was to come. It certainly wouldn't have been lost on many of the construction workers, well accustomed

with the superstitions related to the island. Nevertheless, a full two years after construction was due to complete, on the first of December eighteen ninety nine, the one hundred forty thousand candle power lamp, perched atop a majestic white tower two hundred seventy five feet above sea level, was lit for the first time as the rotation device kicked into life. Out of the darkness shone a beam of light, illuminating

the black North Atlantic waters for miles around. Though were fore keepers required to operate the newly opened lighthouse as a psychological necessity, there would only be three men on the island at any given time, while the fourth took a fortnight's leave. The first man to be stationed on the island was forty three year old principal keeper and married father of four, James Duckett, a seasoned lighthouse practitioner with over twenty years of experience. James hailed from ar

Broth on the east coast of Scotland. He would later be joined by first assistant keeper William Ross and twenty eight year old second assistant keeper Thomas Marshall. As the first Christmas of the New century approached, Ross was forced off the island due to ill health, with regular light keeper Joseph Moore not due for a further two weeks. Ross was replaced by forty year old occasional keeper and

ex soldier Donald MacArthur. Donald, who was also married with children, hailed from the nearby town of Breiscleet on the Isle of Lewis. I often wonder how it might have felt for the men returning to the lighthouse after their regulatory breaks at that moment, having stepped off the delivery boat, watching the last contact with civilization disappear from view. Perhaps there was some relief at returning to the quiet sanctuary

away from the daily hassles of life. Or perhaps it was more with great sadness that they found themselves again alone on a distant rock, far away from their wives and children. With the switch over completed on eleventh of December, MacArthur promptly banished all thoughts of home and quickly settled into his role. As the night approached, the men set about doing what they did best, duly noting the day's

observations in the lighthouse log book. At the end of the day, with the familiar sounds of a North Atlantic storm rattling around the island, the men settled in for the night as a waning moon appeared in the sky above. Down below the island, moor light shone far and wide, as it had done for every other night of its

year long life. The first sign of trouble came at midday on Tuesday, December fifteenth, Roughly one hundred and twenty miles to the northwest of the Seven Hunters, a cargo ship named S s Arch Tour was making steady progress on her route toward the port of Leith in Edinburgh. The steamship, captained by Thomas John Holman, had left the American city of Philadelphia on the twenty eighth of November carrying over four and a half thousand tons of cargo.

Although most of the voyage had been beset by stormy weather by late afternoon on the fifteenth, the storm had abated somewhat, leaving fine, clear skies above a few hours later, and the ship was fast approaching the Flannan Isles. On

deck stood a greatly perturbed Captain Holman. By his estimation, they should have been no more than five miles from Eileen Moore, But as he stood under the vast expansive sky, surrounded by only the darkest of seas, he could not make out any sign of the lighthouse, or, more precisely, its light, the beam of which on a night such as this, would have been visible for over twenty miles. Assuming a miscalculation on his part, Captain Holman continued to

steer the vessel on its course towards Edinburgh. The following day, however, the ship appeared clearly to be plotting a correct course. The captain resolved to uncover the discrepancy of the night before, but was almost surprised to find nothing wrong with his calculations. The ship had indeed passed by the lighthouse, so where then was the light disturbed by the apparent blackout of the lighthouse, Captain Holman planned to report the matter to

the relevant authorities on arrival to Leith. Unfortunately, that message never arrived. Two days later, Captain Holman and the SS arch Tour ran aground on the approach to Leith Port. Perhaps it was the shock of the event that had dislodged the Flanninisles from Captain Holman's mind, or perhaps with his navigation skills now under heavy scrutiny, he was reluctant to bring up the possible miscalculation from the two nights before.

With no news to the contrary, the lighthouse board would have no reason to think anything strange had taken place on Eileen Moore. But with the next rotation of keepers due a few days later, all that was about to change. On the twenty sixth of December nineteen hundred, the lighthouse tender boat, a long steamer named the Hespiras, made its way towards the largest of the Flannan Isles. The ship had been due to arrive the previous day, but severe

storms in the area had delayed its departure. On board was regular keeper Joseph Moore, who was scheduled to start his latest shift that day, But as Captain James Harvey brought the ship closer to land, it was clear that something wasn't right. It was common practice for the keepers to raise a flag in preparation for the next rotation, but as Captain Harvey scoured the island, he could see

no sign of the flag. His concern turned to alarm when several blasts from the ship's horn brought no response from the three light keepers. The subsequent firing of a distress rocket again failed to yield any response. Greatly unnerved, the captain ordered the rowboat into the water and sent

Joseph Moore to investigate. It is difficult to imagine just what was going through Moore's mind as the small boat pulled up below those towering cliffs, the gray, murky waters, seeming unusually calm for the bitterly cold December day, Moore stepped off the boat and cautiously made his way up the steep stone steps. As he approached the summit, the top of the light house came into view. Passing the

ruins of the ancient chapel. He called out to the men, but again there was no reply, no familiar faces to greet him. Something was deeply wrong. A short time later, Moore arrived outside the lighthouse and slowly opened the front door. What he discovered has formed the basis for one of the greatest maritime mysteries of modern times. After entering the lighthouse, he found the inside door also closed, but curiously, the kitchen door was wide open. The fireplace was cold, indicating

it had not been lit for some days. One of the chairs appeared to have been pushed away from the table, perhaps in a hurry. The rest of the room was spotlessly clean. When he entered the bedrooms, he found them empty, left as they would have been since the morning. In fact, everything was in perfect order. The lamp for the light was clean, the foundation was full, and the blinds on the windows correctly orientated. The only thing that was missing

was the men. They had simply vanished from the face of the earth. As if to add a further twist, Moore also noticed that every clock in the building had stopped. The thoroughly spooke Moore returned to the row boat and requested the help of second mate McCormack, who, along with another seaman, followed Moore back to the lighthouse to renew the search of the area. Unable to find any clues as to what had happened, the three men promptly returned

to the boat and made their way back to the Herspiris. Ever, the professional Captain Harvey's first instinct was to make sure that the light would be up and running again. That night. Moore was ordered to return to the island along with three volunteers, the boy Master Alan MacDonald and two seamen, Messrs Campbell and Lamont. Having dropped the men off again,

Captain Harvey set off immediately for Braiscleet in Lewis. Later that day, Harvey sent his now infamous telegram to the Secretary of the Northern Lighthouse Board in Edinburgh, the immortal first line, reading, A dreadful accident has happened at Flannet's, but the mystery had only just begun that first night. Taking over from the missing lighthouse keepers would not have been easy for the four volunteers, having no doubt been

upset by the turn of events. It would have taken some strength to stop their minds from wondering as to what exactly had taken place. It would have been a very somber night. Indeed, the following day, Moore and his companions renewed their search of the island, but found no clues to help with their investigation. That was until they

came across the western landing point. Approaching the landing, the men found that a number of iron railings of the tramway had been ripped from their foundations and mangled out of shape. A box containing mooring ropes had vanished despite having been firmly wedged into a crevice and then anchored. Despite some of the more fanciful thoughts that may have sprung to mind, the first assumptions of the replacement crew centered on some kind of freak storm that may have

blown the men from the island. However, when Moore submitted his report at the events two days later, it contained one startling detail. All men stationed at Eilean Moor had a set of wet weather were to cope with the extreme conditions. In the case of Ducket and Marshal, this took the form of weather proof boots and oil skin coats. MacArthur, however, only being an occasional keeper, was not so well equipped and had only what he called his wearing coat at

his disposal. When Moore searched the lighthouse, he discovered Duckett and Marshall's gear was missing, but MacArthur's coat was still on its peg, which could only mean that whatever had happened, MacArthur had left the lighthouse in his shirt sleeves, a strange fact if you consider just how severe the weather must have been to blow the men from the island. What could possibly have happened that would send MacArthur running

out into a severe storm without his jacket. A few days later, the Northern Lighthouse Board sent Superintendent Robert Muirhead to investigate further. Muwhead confirmed More's initial findings and pointed to a particularly heavy storm front that was believed to have hit the island during the time of the men's disappearance as the most likely culprit. A boy that had been fastened to the railings one hundred and ten feet

up had vanished as well. A large block of stone weighing upwards of a ton had been clearly dislodged by something before falling onto the path below. In conclusion, it was his belief that a freak wave had hit the island and somehow whisked the men clean from the rock. The report was published a few weeks later, and the

case was officially closed. There have been many falsehoods surrounding the Flannenile's mystery, most often to do with reports of strange recordings apparently found written in the log book shortly before the men disappeared. They speak of something dark brewing and the fracturing of the men's mental states. One log had supposedly noted that all had been calm, suggesting initial reports of bad weather to have been mistaken in truth.

Thanks to an exhaustive study on the subject by writer Mike Dash, it appears this part of the story and some other questionable elements, were in fact fabricated some years after the event. What is known is that the last recorded log entry seems to have been made on Tuesday, the fifteenth of December. Needless to say, in the absence of a satisfactory explanation for the event, many are only too keen to fill in the vacuum, with theories ranging

from the workings of malicious spirits to straight out alien abduction. Certainly, at the time of Muwhead's original report, there weren't many willing to believe the conclusion that a mere wave could be responsible. After all, such a thing was widely held to be nothing but a myth itself, or at least

it was. On the first of January nineteen ninety five measuring equipment located on the Dropner oil rig in the North Sea, just off the coast of Norway, recorded what is now considered the first official evidence of a freak wave, crashing into the platform at a staggering sixty one feet at peak height. And yet, in twenty thirteen, author and historian Keith McCloskey conducted his own research into the incident.

Enlisting the help of Eddie Graham, a meteorologist from the University of Highlands and Islands in Invernesse, McCluskey reanalyzed the weather patterns for the flann And Isles around the time of the fifteenth of December nineteen hundred. What he discovered was startling. Although the weather appears to have indeed been rough, it certainly wouldn't have been anything that the three seasoned

light keepers hadn't experienced before. What's more, with windspeed estimated to have peaked at roughly sixty miles per hour, any waves generated by such a storm would barely have made it above thirty feet, a fact all the more incredible when you consider that McCluskey's own findings and Superintendent Murehead's earlier report suggests that the men would have been at well over one hundred feet when they were supposedly taken.

The largest freak wave ever accorded was ninety five feet high, so if it was a freak wave, it would have to have been the largest wave ever known. And what of the strange case of MacArthur's jacket. A senior keeper of the Northern Lighthouse Board, Alistair Henderson, is insistent that under any normal circumstances, the lighthouse would never have been left unattended. It is a fairly standard rule followed by all lighthouse keepers, let alone one so experienced as Duckett,

Marshall and MacArthur. Perhaps more disturbingly, referring to the Muwhead report, it is Henderson's belief that the true events were in fact covered up. After all, Murehead's was the only official report to emerge from the incident. There was no fatal accident report that would have been standard for such an event. Even more alarmingly, key documentation that contained evidence of everything that happened on the island disappeared mysteriously after Muhead left

the island. If MacArthur never left the lighthouse, where exactly did he go, or if he did indeed leave the building. What possible reason could he have had for breaking such a fundamental convention. Might ultimately MacArthur hold the key to

the mystery. In an age well before social media and smartphones, working on the rock in the year nineteen hundred would have meant a complete and utter cutoff from all communication with the world, a state of affairs comparable to astronauts traveling through the isolation of space, who even then are able to communicate with others on the ground to alleviate

the psychological confinement. Furthermore, it is a condition that astronauts today will spend months preparing for under constant psychological analysis, as scientists seek to determine their capability to endure such

a situation. Is it possible that MacArthur, who it is reported, had worked almost consistently without a break for two and a half months leading up to December the fifteenth, had simply snapped, having been cooped up on what must have at times felt like the very edge of the world, miles from civilisation, with gale force winds battering the coast all around. The circumstances were certainly ripe. Perhaps with the other two men having left the building to undertake some

routine operations. MacArthur had simply lost his mind and wandered coatless into the storm, bludgeoning his companions to death before throwing himself into the waters below. It wouldn't be the first time that such conditions had driven somebody to madness. On Thursday, eighteenth of August nineteen sixty, eighteen year old David Colin and his father had decided to take a day trip to visit Ross Island, off the southwest coast

of Scotland. On the island stood a lighthouse that had been built in eighteen forty three by Alan Stephenson, another uncle of Robert Louis Stephenson. David and his father set off from the local sailing club and arrived at the island shortly before lunch. As a courtesy, David thought it right that they should inform the lighthouse keepers that they were there. After knocking on the door, David received no response, except from a rather over enthusiastic dog that he assumed

must have belonged to one of the keepers. Unperturbed, David and his father returned to their walk, but as the day wore on, the keepers had still not returned. The only sign of life being the ominous ringing of an unanswered telephone coming from inside the lighthouse. Eventually, David's father plucked up the courage to enter the building. Inside, he found lighthouse keeper Hugh Clark dead, with fellow keeper Robert

Dixon nowhere to be seen. After an extensive manhunt, the twenty four year old Dixon was eventually apprehended and brought to trial for the murder of Hugh Clark. The trial was no less dramatic, as David himself recounts. As Lord Cameron donned the hideous black cap and prepared to pronounce a sentence of death by hanging, the court room grew darker and darker until coinciding with the judge's awful words, the court room was shaken by an enormous flash of

lightning and a colossal peal of thunder. Dixon's execution was set for the twenty first of December nineteen sixty. However, five days prior to the fateful day, Dixon was reprieved on account of what was judged to be his unstable mental condition at the time of the crime. Robert Dixon's apparent moment of psychopathy was thought to have been stimulated in no small part by the stress of working in such close proximity with others in a state of such

intense isolation. Was it a similar fate that befell the island more keepers? Or was it something even more sinister at play? In nineteen o four, four years after the disappearance of the men, newly installed lighthouse keeper John McLachlan was cleaning the glass casing of the light when he slipped and fell to his death. Counting the foreman who died shortly before the lighthouse opened, five people had died on the island in less than five years since the

lighthouse was constructed. No other lighthouse in the UK has been beset by such tragedy. Was the island simply cursed by what locals sometimes refer to as the phantom of the hunters taking its revenge for the careless invasion of its unearthly realm. In the memoirs written by relief keeper Joseph Moore many years later, it is clear that the

event had affected him profoundly. Thinking back on that chilly December day in nineteen hundred that he first came upon the empty lighthouse, he writes of a mysterious event from the night before. That night, he hadn't been sleeping well, and for some reason had been drawn to the window looking out. He thought that he saw the boat house on fire, but when he investigated further, he found it

to be just a figment of his imagination. He knew instantly that it was a portent for something awful, detailing again the event, which he described as very strange. Indeed, he believed as all to be cast in some way. In truth, we will never know exactly what happened on that cold December day in nineteen hundred. On September twenty eighth, nineteen seventy one, the eileen More Lighthouse became fully automated and continues to guide ships through the dark North Atlantic nights.

Perhaps what appeals most about this story is the sheer improbability of the most rational explanation. But might there be something else, something that strikes at the very heart of all of us? For aren't we all, in a way keepers of the light, isolated on a rock forever on the verge of being swept from existence by a giant mythical wave. And for what it's worth, my own view as intriguing the notion is that the men were the

unfortunate victims of some other worldly event. I believe what occurred was a little more prosaic, but no less extraordinary. For is there anything more incredible than the notion that MacArthur, having watched his colleagues become endangered by some unfathomable storm, had rushed from the safety of the lighthouse to help them, and in so doing had lost his own life in

the process. That ultimately it was in trying to protect the lives of each other and the many others passing by on the stormy seas that these ordinary folk, doing a job that was far from ordinary, lost their lives. When I think about this story, i'm reminded of Cormack McCarthy's incredible post apocalyptic novel The Road, And forgive me for those who haven't read it, as this will contain

a spoiler. The Road details a terminal, obleaqu journey of survival as one man and his son try to reach the south coast of America in the aftermath of a catastrophic event. As they grow increasingly weak and the journey becomes more and more dangerous, the father fights desperately to g keep his son from harm. He tells him they must survive because they are the good guys who are

carrying the fire. The phrase seems glib, but it's enough to keep the boy going, even though he doesn't quite get it, and nor do we really, that is until the novel's fateful end, when both we and the boy finally understand the fire was him.

heard on the show. Perhaps you have an explanation of your own you'd like to share. You can find out more at Unexplained podcast dot com and reach us online through Twitter at Unexplained Pod and Facebook at Facebook dot com, Forward Slash Unexplained Podcast