Mara stepped off the rusted ferry, her boots crunching on gravel as the salt-kissed wind tugged at her coat. The town of Black Hollow stretched before her, a cluster of weathered cottages clinging to the cliffs like barnacles. Ten years had not softened its edges. She inhaled the brine and decay, the scent of seaweed and something older, something buried. The lighthouse loomed in the distance, its beam slicing through the fog like a blade. She hadn’t returned since the day her mother vanished, leaving only a note scrawled in her looping handwriting: *I have to go. Forgive me.*
The dockmaster, a gnarled man with a face like cracked leather, nodded as she approached. “You’re the girl from the city,” he said, his voice a rasp. “They said you’d come back.” His eyes lingered on the duffel bag at her side, the one she’d packed with nothing but a flashlight, a notebook, and the photo of her mother’s hands, still clutching the edge of a kitchen table.
“I’m here to find her,” Mara said. The words felt heavy, as if spoken aloud they might unravel.
He snorted. “You think this place gives up its secrets?” He gestured to the sea, where waves gnawed at the rocks. “Your mom’s not the first to disappear. Not the last, either.”
The wind howled, and Mara tightened her grip on the bag. She’d heard the stories—how the town’s children whispered about the Hollow, a place beneath the lighthouse where the water turned black and the air tasted of iron. Her mother had dismissed them as myths, but Mara had seen the fear in her eyes when she’d last visited, a decade ago. Now, that fear felt like a thread she needed to follow.
She walked past the general store, its windows fogged with salt, and turned toward the lighthouse. The path was overgrown, weeds clawing at her ankles. The air grew colder as she climbed, the scent of seaweed giving way to something metallic, like blood. At the base of the tower, she found a rusted gate, its hinges frozen. With a shove, it groaned open, revealing a staircase spiraling into darkness.
The flashlight flickered as she descended, casting jagged shadows on the stone walls. The air was damp, alive with the drip of water. Then she heard it—a low hum, like a heartbeat. It grew louder, resonating in her bones. At the bottom, a door stood ajar, its frame stained with something dark. She stepped inside.
The room was empty, save for a single chair and a table littered with papers. Her mother’s handwriting covered the walls, scrawled in frantic loops: *They’re coming. The water is alive. I can’t let them take her.* Mara’s breath caught. Who were *they*? And who was *her*? The papers hinted at a project, a research station beneath the lighthouse, but the details were smudged, as if someone had tried to erase them. A photograph fell from the table—a group of scientists in lab coats, her mother at the center, her face tense. Behind them, a sign read *Project Aegis.*
A sound above—footsteps. Mara froze. The hum grew louder, vibrating in her skull. She ducked behind the table as the door creaked open. A figure stood in the threshold, their face obscured by shadows. “You shouldn’t be here,” they said, their voice a low growl. “This place doesn’t forgive trespassers.”
Mara’s pulse thrummed. “Who are you?”
The figure stepped closer, and the flashlight flickered, casting their face into view—a boy no older than herself, his eyes hollow, his skin pale as bone. “You don’t remember me,” he said. “But I remember you.”
The hum crescendoed, and the walls trembled. Mara tightened her grip on the flashlight, her mind racing. The lighthouse wasn’t just a tower; it was a prison. And her mother had been its last guard.
The boy’s gaze locked onto hers. “You’re too late,” he whispered. “She’s already gone.”
The flashlight died.
And the water began to rise.
