Just the Facts, Man - 1. Chapter 1

Introduction

Key Findings and Anomalies

The Discovery: Relief keeper Joseph Moore arrived on December 26, 1900, after a passing steamer reported the light out on December 15. He found the main door secured, but the interior in disarray, with unmade beds, a cold fireplace, and a meal left uneaten.

Log Book Details: The final entries, made by Thomas Marshall on Dec. 15, described a severe storm, saying "a storm such as I have never seen before", and noted that "Ducat was very quiet" and "MacArthur was crying". However, local records show no significant storms in the area at that time.

The Scene on the Island: On the western landing, investigators found evidence of massive storm damage, including iron railings bent and a large rock displaced at high altitude, suggesting a severe storm had passed, contrasting with mainland records.

The Missing Gear: Two sets of oilskins were missing, suggesting two men went out, but one set remained, implying one man left in a hurry without protective gear.

Leading Theories

Rogue Wave: The most widely accepted theory is that a sudden, powerful wave hit the western side, sweeping one or more keepers away while they were attempting to secure equipment, with the remaining men lost trying to help.

Accident/Storm Incident: The men were likely caught by extreme weather, possibly while trying to manage the landing platform or dealing with the damaged railings.

Mental Breakdown/Conflict: Less supported theories suggest the intense isolation led to a fight, where one man killed the others and took his own life, or a sudden, shared madness.

Supernatural/Other: Due to the eerie, "untouched" feeling of the scene, tales of paranormal activity, sea monsters, or mysterious creatures were common, though unsupported by evidence. (1)

The mystery was a major inspiration for literature, music, and film, including the 2018 movie The Vanishing. (2)

1. Taken from https://allthatsinteresting.com/flannan-isle-mystery by Google’s AI response.

2. Taken from https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Flannan_Isles_Lighthouse by Google’s AI response.

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Chapter 1 - The Confession

Hi. My name is… well, perhaps I’d better not say. I probably shouldn’t even be writing this down. I don’t think knowing this is dangerous, but you never quite know, do you?

Still, sometimes you’ve just got to get something off your chest, haven’t you? Even if the way you came by it was… less than legal.

I’m a bit of a mystery buff. One of mankind’s greatest unsolved cases is the Flannan Isles lighthouse affair. I set out to solve it a year ago today.

The twenty-third of July, 2025, was a grey, misty day off the Scottish coast. Though, let’s be honest—when isn’t it? I packed a metal detector, night-vision goggles, a small shovel, and a black wetsuit into my little boat. I’d swapped the outboard motor for an electric one—you’ll see why in a moment. The boat itself was painted black, with a matching black cover I could pull over the top.

You see, I didn’t fancy being spotted. Metal detecting on the Flannan Isles is prohibited. Not that being told “you can’t” has ever done much to stop me.

I had a kip that afternoon, knowing it’d be a long night. It’s over a six-hour round trip between Aird Uig and the Flannan Isles. My boat only does about eight miles an hour at best, and it’s twenty-one miles out to the lighthouse on Eilean Mòr in the Outer Hebrides. No chance of keeping top speed the whole way.

I waited until eight in the evening before casting off from Aird Uig. By eleven, maybe half eleven, I’d be arriving at Eilean Mòr under full darkness, with a new moon due early the next morning.

My thinking was simple: if anything remained from what happened in December 1900, it’d be buried somewhere on the island. Hence the metal detector. After 125 years, nothing survives unless it’s protected—likely by metal.

The terrain’s rough as anything, so I moored as close to the lighthouse as I could, finding a flat enough spot to come ashore. I kept well away from the seaward side, and from the sweep of the light across the Atlantic. As expected, it was nearly half eleven.

I reckoned anything buried would be on the darker side of the lighthouse. Who’d bury something with a great beam of light passing overhead? Only a dunce, that’s who. I’m no dunce.

I began sweeping the ground. Luck was with me—barely seventy-five yards out, I got my first signal. After a minute or so of digging, I uncovered a tobacco tin—Frae Scots tae Scots.

I couldn’t believe it—after all that time, there was still the faintest smell of tobacco. That didn’t interest me much, but the folded bit of paper inside certainly did. I opened it and found a handwritten note, signed “Thomas Hansell.”

That’s when I knew I’d found it. Hansell made the final log entry on the fifteenth of December, 1900.

I slipped the tin under my wetsuit—I’d kept it on, the black helping me stay unseen—and made my way back to the boat.

It was still dark when I got back to Aird Uig. I changed out of the wetsuit, hauled the boat onto its trailer, and drove back to my flat.

I hesitated before reading the note. I mean, it was a private message, wasn’t it? If Hansell had wanted it found, he’d have left it somewhere in plain sight, right? Perhaps something between him and God. I’d caught a glimpse of the word “Lord” when I first had a quick look back on the island.

Still, curiosity got the better of me. After sitting there for nearly an hour, weighing up whether I ought to be poking into a dead man’s business, I finally unfolded it.

That’s when I realised the mystery had been solved. It read:

“I’m afeard the Lord’ll no forgive me, yet I could bide nae langer wi’ Dupree an’ MacMillan and their endless dickering ower Catch the Ten. It was near a week efter my last entry in the log afore I settled the final bit o’ Dupree and put the matter tae rest. I daursay nae soul will miss the scrap I set aside tae weigh doon my victims parts. I mean tae take myself tae the Atlantic shore and swim as far as I’m able, sparin’ the kingdom any further bother on my account. I am, in truth, right sorry.”

Thomas Hansell

Closing statement

Jake Wilbur, the author of the above confession, was tried and found guilty of trespassing and Violation of heritage protection laws, was fined £100,000, and was sentenced to three years in a Scottish prison.

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The story you have just seen is true. The names have been changed to protect the innocent, (and fictionally guilty.)

Dum-da-dum-dum.

The End

P.S. Apologies to the late Jack Webb and the rest of the folks involved with the Dragnet TV series.