The salt air stank of diesel and decay when Maren stepped off the rusted ferry, her boots crunching over gravel as the tide gnawed at the dock’s splintered planks. The lighthouse loomed behind her, its white paint peeling like dead skin, and she wondered if the storm had finally finished what the war had started. Her father’s voice echoed in her head—*This place eats people, kid.* But the letter had been clear: *Return to Blackfin. Your presence is required.*
The town was a skeleton of itself, its buildings sagging under the weight of decades. Maren’s backpack felt heavier with each step, though it was mostly books and a single photo of her father standing in front of the lighthouse, his smile sharp enough to cut. She hadn’t seen him in three years, not since the fire that swallowed the harbor and left him as ash in a jar. The townsfolk had called it an accident. Maren called it a lie.
The lighthouse keeper’s cottage creaked when she pushed open the door. Dust swirled in the slanting light, illuminating a desk cluttered with maps and faded photographs. A note lay open on the surface, its ink smudged: *The lens is broken. The beacon won’t start. They’re coming.* Maren’s fingers trembled as she traced the words. *They.* Who?
A knock shattered the silence. She froze, then moved to the window. A boy stood on the porch, his jacket soaked through, his hair plastered to his skull. He held up a lantern, its glow weak against the gathering dark. “You’re not supposed to be here,” he said, his voice flat, like a blade dragged over gravel.
“I was invited,” Maren shot back, though she hadn’t been. The letter had been unsigned, the address scrawled in a hand that wasn’t her father’s.
The boy stepped closer, his eyes narrowing. “You don’t belong here. This place doesn’t forgive strangers.”
“Then why are you still here?” she asked, daring him.
He didn’t answer. Instead, he turned and vanished into the storm, his lantern flickering like a dying heartbeat.
Maren spent the night in the cottage, sleeping in shifts. The wind howled through the cracks, and the lighthouse groaned as if it were alive. At dawn, she found the journal—her father’s, its pages yellowed and brittle. Entries filled the margins: *The light is a promise. Break it, and the dark wakes.* She flipped to the last entry, her breath catching. *They’re inside. The walls are thin. I can hear them.*
The lighthouse had no walls. It was a hollow cylinder of steel and concrete, its spiral staircase spiraling upward like a serpent’s spine. Maren climbed, her hands scraping against the rusted railing. At the top, the beacon room was empty except for the massive lens, its glass cracked like spider silk. She ran her fingers over the damage, feeling the jagged edges. This wasn’t an accident.
A sound behind her—footsteps. She spun, heart hammering. The boy stood in the doorway, his face pale under the dim light. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said again, but this time there was a tremor in his voice.
“Who are they?” she demanded. “What’s in the walls?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he stepped forward, his eyes locked on the lens. “You don’t understand,” he whispered. “The light doesn’t just shine. It *calls.*”
Maren’s phone buzzed in her pocket. A message from an unknown number: *Run. Before they find you.*
The boy’s hand shot out, grabbing her wrist. His grip was iron. “You have to help me,” he said, his voice urgent. “The light’s failing. If it goes out, they’ll come for you next.”
“Who?”
“The ones who stayed behind.” He pulled her toward the staircase. “We don’t have time to talk. They’re already here.”
They descended in silence, the storm raging outside as if the sky itself were screaming. At the base of the lighthouse, Maren found a door she hadn’t noticed before, its hinges rusted but intact. The boy shoved it open, revealing a narrow corridor lit by flickering bulbs. The air was thick with the smell of oil and something older—rotten wood, maybe, or blood.
“This is where they kept the generators,” he said, leading her deeper. “But it’s not just power down here. It’s *memory.*”
They reached a chamber filled with machines, their gears frozen in time. In the center stood a console, its dials spinning wildly. Maren approached, her pulse pounding. “What is this?”
“The heart of the lighthouse,” the boy said. “And it’s dying.”
A crash echoed from the corridor. They turned to see shadows shifting against the walls, elongated and jagged. The boy grabbed her hand. “We have to start it again. Before they reach us.”
Maren stared at the console, its dials screaming with energy. She didn’t know how to fix it, but she knew one thing: the light had to stay on. “How do I start it?”
The boy hesitated, then pointed to a lever. “Pull it. But be ready for what comes next.”
She yanked the lever. The machines roared to life, their gears grinding as power surged through the chamber. The shadows shrieked, their forms dissolving into smoke. The boy stumbled back, his face pale. “It’s working,” he breathed.
But the light wasn’t shining yet. Maren turned to the lens, its cracks still visible. “What’s next?”
The boy’s eyes were full of sorrow. “You have to fix it. The light can’t shine without the lens.”
She climbed back up, the staircase creaking under her weight. At the top, she stared at the damaged glass, her mind racing. How do you mend something that’s been broken for decades? Then she saw it—a hidden panel behind the lens, its hinges rusted but intact. She pried it open, revealing a set of tools and a note: *For when the light fails again.*
The work was grueling, the tools heavy in her hands. She patched the cracks with whatever she could find—metal scraps, glue, even pieces of her jacket. The storm howled outside, but she didn’t stop. When she finally stepped back, the lens was whole again, its glass gleaming in the dim light.
She descended, the boy waiting at the base. “It’s done,” she said, though her voice shook.
He nodded, his expression unreadable. “Then let’s see if it works.” They climbed to the beacon room, where the lens awaited. Maren pulled the lever again, and this time, the light flared to life, slicing through the storm like a blade. The darkness outside recoiled, its shadows shrinking as the beam swept across the sea.
The boy exhaled, his shoulders slumping. “It’s working.” He turned to her, his eyes filled with something like hope. “You did it.”
Maren didn’t answer. She stared at the light, its beam stretching into the horizon. For the first time in years, she felt something close to peace. The storm had passed, but the lighthouse still stood, its light burning bright. And maybe, she thought, that was enough.
The next morning, Maren stood on the cliff, watching the sun rise over the sea. The town was quiet, its streets empty except for the boy, who waited by the lighthouse. He didn’t speak, but she knew what he was thinking. This place wasn’t done with them yet.
She turned to him, her voice steady. “I’ll stay.” It wasn’t a promise, but a declaration. The light had to keep burning, and so would she.
As the sun climbed higher, the lighthouse cast its beam across the water, a beacon of hope in a world that had forgotten how to shine.
