The salt-kissed air tasted of brine and possibility as Mara traced the chipped edge of the map with her thumb. The paper had survived decades in her grandmother’s attic, its ink faded to sepia, but the lighthouse symbol still burned in her memory—a jagged line of black on yellow. She’d found it tucked inside a rusted tin box, alongside a Polaroid of a boy with a crooked smile and a handkerchief tied around his wrist. The photo had no date, no name, just the scribbled words *Follow the tide* in smudged pencil.
The creek behind her house was quiet that morning, its surface a sheet of glass reflecting the bruised sky. Mara’s boots sank into the mud as she crouched near the water’s edge, her fingers brushing against the cold stones. She’d told her mom she was going to the library, but the truth was, she needed answers. The dreams had started last week—visions of waves crashing against a cliff, of a man in a blue coat shouting something she couldn’t hear. Her grandmother’s death two months ago had left too many questions, and this map felt like a thread pulling her toward them.
A gull cried overhead, sharp and sudden. Mara stood, tucking the map into her backpack. The town of Solstice Creek was small enough that everyone knew your business, but she’d never seen the lighthouse on any of the old postcards or tourist maps. It wasn’t marked on her phone’s GPS either, which only made it more real. She thought of the boy in the photo, his handkerchief a flash of red against the gray. What had he been running from? What had he left behind?
The path to the lighthouse was overgrown, the trail choked with thorny vines and the stink of damp earth. Mara’s shirt clung to her back as she pushed through, her hands scraping against rough bark and mossy stones. She paused at a clearing where the trees opened to a ridge, the creek winding below like a silver ribbon. The air was thick with the scent of pine and something else—something metallic, like rust. Her pulse quickened. This was it. The place from her dreams.
A sudden crash in the bushes made her freeze. She spun around, heart hammering, but the only movement was the swaying of branches in the breeze. “Hello?” she called, her voice swallowed by the silence. Nothing. Just the distant caw of a crow and the rasp of her own breathing. She pressed forward, her fingers brushing the map’s edge again. The lighthouse was close now, its silhouette visible through the trees—a jagged tower rising from the cliff’s edge.
The door was ajar, its hinges groaning as she pushed it open. Inside, the air was colder, heavy with the smell of salt and decay. A spiral staircase led upward, its steps worn smooth by time. Mara’s flashlight beam caught on a rusted bell, its surface etched with strange symbols. She stepped over a pile of broken glass, her boots crunching on shards. The walls were covered in faded photographs, most of them blurred or torn. One caught her eye—a black-and-white shot of the same boy from the Polaroid, standing at the base of the lighthouse with a group of children. His handkerchief was still red.
A noise above her. Footsteps. Mara froze, her breath shallow. The flashlight trembled in her hand as she climbed the stairs, each step creaking under her weight. The beam flickered, casting jagged shadows on the walls. At the top, a narrow door led to the tower’s observation deck. She pushed it open, and the wind hit her full force, carrying the scent of seaweed and something sharper—blood?
The view was breathtaking: the endless expanse of the ocean, the cliffs below carved by time and tide. But something was wrong. The horizon was wrong. The sun hung too low, casting long shadows that didn’t belong. Mara’s stomach twisted. This wasn’t real. Not really. She’d read somewhere that lighthouses were meant to guide ships, but this one… it was a trap. A warning.
A voice behind her. “You shouldn’t be here.”
She turned, flashlight shaking. A man stood in the doorway, his face half-hidden in shadow. His coat was the same blue as the boy’s in the photo. “Who are you?” she demanded, stepping back.
“I’m the keeper,” he said. “And you’re in danger.”
The wind howled, tearing at her clothes. Mara’s mind raced. The dreams, the map, the boy in the photo… it all connected. “What happened here?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
The man hesitated. “This place was never meant to be found. The lighthouse… it’s a gateway. And you’ve opened the door.”
Mara’s heart pounded. “What does that mean?”
He stepped closer, his eyes dark and knowing. “It means the tide is coming. And when it does, nothing will be the same again.”
The flashlight flickered, then died. In the sudden darkness, Mara heard the sound of waves crashing against the rocks below—too loud, too close. The lighthouse groaned, as if it, too, was afraid.
She didn’t wait to hear more. She turned and ran, her boots slapping against the stairs as the wind screamed in her ears. The door slammed behind her, and she stumbled into the clearing, the moon now visible through the trees. The creek below was still, its surface reflecting the pale light. But something had changed. The air felt heavier, charged with a tension that made her skin prickle.
Mara ran home, her breath ragged, the map clutched to her chest. She didn’t look back. The lighthouse was behind her, but the truth was still ahead—and it was waiting.
