Mara stepped off the creaking ferry, her boots sinking into the damp gravel of the harbor. The salt air stung her nose, sharp and familiar, like the scent of her father’s old coat. She hadn’t set foot in Ironclad Bay in sixteen years, but the town had not changed. The same rusted crab traps lined the dock, the same gray clouds clung to the cliffs, and the same low hum of waves against stone echoed in her skull. She adjusted her scarf, pulling it tighter against the chill, and turned toward the road that wound up the hill. The lighthouse stood at its crest, a jagged silhouette against the sky, its light blinking like a heartbeat. She remembered the last time she’d seen it—nighttime, the storm raging, her father’s voice cutting through the wind. “Don’t go near it,” he’d said. “Some things aren’t meant to be found.” But here she was, chasing a truth that had buried itself in the bones of this place.
The town square was quieter than she expected. A few locals lingered near the general store, their faces half-hidden beneath wide-brimmed hats. Mara kept her head down, her fingers brushing the worn leather of her satchel. Inside was the letter she’d found in her father’s desk—a single page, ink smudged, words scrawled in a frantic hand: “They’re watching. The shore is hollow.” She didn’t know what it meant, but she knew one thing: the answers lay in the lighthouse.
The path to the tower was overgrown, weeds twisting around the stones like veins. Mara pushed through them, her boots crunching against gravel. The air thickened as she climbed, the scent of brine and damp earth mingling with something older, something metallic. She paused at the base of the structure, her breath shallow. The lighthouse had always felt alive to her, its windows like eyes peering through the fog. Now it loomed over her, a sentinel of secrets.
A voice cut through the silence. “You shouldn’t be here.” Mara turned. A man stood at the edge of the path, his posture tense, hands in his pockets. His face was lined with age, but his eyes were sharp—too sharp. “This place is closed,” he said. “You’ll find nothing but trouble if you keep going.” She met his gaze, unflinching. “I’m not here for trouble. I’m here for answers.” The man’s expression didn’t change, but something in his stance shifted, like a door closing. He turned and walked away without another word.
The tower’s door creaked open under her touch. Inside, the air was colder, tinged with the scent of oil and decay. A spiral staircase led upward, its steps worn smooth by years of use. Mara climbed, her pulse quickening with each step. The walls were lined with rusted gears and dusty lenses, remnants of a time when the lighthouse had served a purpose. At the top, a heavy door stood ajar. She pushed it open and stepped into a small chamber, its walls covered in maps and faded photographs. In the center sat a desk, its surface cluttered with papers and a single, flickering lamp.
She moved to the desk, her fingers tracing the edges of a worn ledger. The entries were meticulous, dates and coordinates scrawled in precise hand. But it wasn’t the records that caught her attention—it was the photograph. It showed a group of men standing at the base of the lighthouse, their faces blurred by time. One figure stood apart, his back to the camera. Mara’s breath hitched. She’d seen that posture before, in old family portraits. Her father’s posture.
A sound behind her. She spun around, heart pounding. The door had closed. A shadow shifted in the corner of the room. “You shouldn’t have come here,” a voice said, low and steady. Mara backed toward the desk, her hand finding the edge of a paperweight—a heavy brass object, cold against her palm. “Who are you?” she demanded. The figure stepped into the light. It was the man from the path, his face now visible. His eyes were dark, unreadable. “You don’t understand what you’re dealing with,” he said. “This town has its own rules. You break them, and you disappear.” She tightened her grip on the paperweight. “I’m not afraid of you.” He tilted his head, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Good. Because you’ll need that courage.” He turned and walked toward the door, pausing only to say, “The truth isn’t always worth finding.” Then he was gone, leaving Mara alone in the silence of the lighthouse.
She didn’t wait for him to return. She grabbed the ledger and the photograph, stuffing them into her satchel. The descent was faster, her boots slapping against the stairs. Outside, the wind had picked up, howling through the trees like a warning. She didn’t stop until she reached the edge of town, where the road split into two directions. One led back to the ferry, the other to the old mining tunnels that ran beneath the cliffs. Her father’s letter had mentioned something about “the shore being hollow.” She didn’t know what that meant, but she knew one thing: the answers were waiting in the dark.
The tunnel entrance was hidden behind a tangle of brush, its mouth yawning like a predator’s mouth. Mara hesitated, then stepped inside. The air was colder here, damp and heavy with the scent of earth and rust. Her flashlight beam cut through the darkness, revealing tunnels lined with old machinery and broken pipes. She followed the path, her breath steady, until she reached a large chamber. In the center stood a metal door, its surface etched with symbols that pulsed faintly in the light. She pressed her hand against it, feeling a vibration beneath her palm. The door creaked open, revealing a vast underground room filled with rows of shelves, each one stacked with files and documents.
Mara moved through the space, her fingers brushing the edges of the files. They were all about the town—its history, its people, its secrets. One folder caught her eye: “Project Hollow Shore.” She opened it, her eyes scanning the pages. The documents detailed a series of disappearances over the years, all linked to the lighthouse. There were reports of strange lights, unexplained noises, and a pattern of individuals who had vanished without a trace. The final page was a map, marked with locations that corresponded to the coordinates in the ledger. At the center was a symbol—a spiral, like the lighthouse’s beacon.
A noise behind her. She turned, flashlight shaking in her hand. A figure stood at the far end of the room, their face obscured by a hood. “You shouldn’t have come here,” they said, their voice echoing in the chamber. Mara tightened her grip on the flashlight. “Who are you?” The figure stepped closer, revealing a face she recognized—her mother’s, but older, worn by time. “You don’t understand what you’re uncovering,” her mother said. “This town isn’t what it seems. The lighthouse… it’s a gateway. And you’ve opened the door.” Mara’s breath caught. “What do you mean?” Her mother’s eyes filled with sorrow. “Your father tried to stop it. He found the truth and paid the price. Now it’s your turn.” The figure stepped back, disappearing into the shadows as the lights in the chamber flickered. Mara stood frozen, the weight of the revelation pressing down on her. The truth was more dangerous than she’d imagined, and now, there was no turning back.
