The first time Lila heard the voice, she was knee-deep in the tide, her toes curling against the cold grip of the ocean. The water clawed at her legs, a relentless rhythm that matched the pulse in her ears. She’d come to the shore to escape the noise of the town—its clattering dishes, the hushed arguments behind closed doors, the way her mother’s laughter always felt like a performance. But the sea had its own language, and that day, it whispered her name.
Lila froze. The wind had died, leaving only the hiss of waves and the distant cry of gulls. She turned, expecting to see someone behind her, but the beach was empty. The voice hadn’t been loud—more a vibration in her bones than sound. It lingered, then vanished, leaving her breathless.
That night, she dreamed of the lighthouse. Not the one that stood rusting on the cliffs, its beam long extinguished, but a newer version, sleek and white, its windows glowing like eyes. In the dream, she stood at the edge of the water, watching as figures emerged from the fog—people she didn’t recognize, their faces blurred. They called her name, too, but their voices were drowned out by the crash of waves. When she woke, her sheets were damp with sweat.
The next morning, Lila found a key beneath her bedroom mat. It was cold to the touch, its teeth jagged and uneven, as if it had been carved from a piece of metal too stubborn to break. She didn’t remember leaving it there. Her mother was already downstairs, humming as she stirred a pot of oatmeal. Lila hesitated, then slipped the key into her pocket.
The lighthouse stood at the edge of town, its stone walls weathered to a pale gray. Lila had avoided it for years, ever since the accident—her father’s car skidding off the cliff, the engine sputtering like a dying animal. The townspeople said it was a warning, that the road was too narrow, too steep. But Lila had always wondered if there was more to it. Now, with the key in her hand, she felt the pull again, stronger than before.
The door creaked open under her touch, releasing a cloud of dust and the scent of salt and rot. Inside, the air was thick with silence. A spiral staircase climbed into darkness, each step groaning as if protesting her presence. At the top, she found a room frozen in time: a desk covered in yellowed papers, a map pinned to the wall with red strings crisscrossing like veins. A single chair sat in the center, its wooden arms worn smooth by years of use.
Lila’s fingers brushed the desk, and a drawer slid open on its own. Inside was a journal, its pages brittle but legible. The entries were written in a shaky hand, dates spanning decades. “The tide is shifting,” one read. “They’re coming for the bones.” Another mentioned a secret society, the Hollow Keepers, who had once protected the town from something buried beneath it. Lila’s breath quickened. She flipped to the last entry, dated just weeks before her father’s death. “They know. I’ll meet them at the shore. If I don’t return, tell Lila…”
The sentence ended abruptly, as if the writer had been interrupted. Lila’s hands trembled. She didn’t know who the writer was, but the words felt personal, like a message meant for her. A noise echoed from below—something heavy, metallic. She froze, heart pounding. The key slipped from her grip, clattering against the floor.
Footsteps. Slow, deliberate. Lila ducked behind the desk, her pulse a wild drumbeat. The door creaked again, and a voice—low, rasping—cut through the silence. “You shouldn’t have come here.” She recognized it immediately. Mr. Voss, the town’s reclusive historian, his face a mask of hollow eyes and sunken cheeks. He stepped into the room, his gaze sweeping over the space before landing on her. “That journal doesn’t belong to you,” he said, his voice tinged with something between warning and sorrow.
Lila didn’t move. She could feel the weight of the key in her pocket, the secrets it held. “Who are you?” she asked, her voice steadier than she felt. Voss’s lips curled into a bitter smile. “Someone who’s seen what happens when people dig too deep. The Hollow Keepers aren’t just a story, girl. They’re real. And they don’t forgive trespassers.” He reached for the journal, but Lila stepped back, her mind racing. She didn’t understand any of it, but one thing was clear: this wasn’t over.
As Voss advanced, Lila made a choice. She turned and sprinted down the stairs, the key clutched in her fist. The door slammed behind her, and she didn’t look back. The wind had returned, howling through the cliffs as she ran. Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolled—a sound that sent a shiver down her spine. She didn’t know where she was going, only that she couldn’t stop. The tide was rising, and the voice in her bones was screaming for her to listen.
