Mara stepped off the creaking ferry, her boots sinking into the damp gravel of Hollow’s End. The air reeked of salt and decay, a sharp contrast to the sterile hospital corridors she’d left behind. Her mother’s voice echoed in her mind—*”It’s just a town, Mara. A place to start over.”* But the lighthouse loomed ahead, its stone walls weathered to gray, its beam flickering like a dying heartbeat. She tightened her grip on the duffel bag, its straps digging into her shoulder.
The cottage was smaller than she’d expected, its windows fogged with years of neglect. Inside, the scent of mildew clung to the air, mingling with something metallic—rust, maybe, or blood. Mara’s fingers brushed the wall as she moved through the entryway, her reflection distorted in a cracked mirror. She didn’t recognize the girl staring back: hollow-eyed, her hair a wild tangle of dark curls. Her mother’s voice again, softer this time—*”You’ll be safe here.”*
That night, the storm arrived without warning. Wind howled through the eaves, and rain lashed the windows in rhythmic bursts. Mara sat at the kitchen table, her hands wrapped around a chipped mug of tea that had gone cold. A flicker of movement in the window made her jump. Outside, the lighthouse beam swept across the cliffs, its light cutting through the darkness like a blade. She hadn’t turned it on.
The next morning, she found the journal.
It was hidden beneath a loose floorboard in the attic, its leather cover cracked and brittle. The pages smelled of ink and old paper, the script jagged and urgent. *”They think I’m mad,”* the writer had scrawled, *”but the light isn’t just a beacon. It’s a key. The sea remembers.”* Mara’s pulse quickened. The entries detailed a series of disappearances—fishermen, sailors, even a lighthouse keeper named Elias Vorne, who’d vanished in 1932. The last entry was dated two weeks before her mother’s death: *”The light is waking. I can hear it in the stones. Don’t let them find you.”*
She didn’t sleep that night. The cottage creaked like a living thing, and the lighthouse beam seemed closer, its glow seeping through the cracks in the walls. When she finally drifted off, she dreamed of waves crashing against stone, of a voice whispering her name. She woke to the sound of footsteps in the hallway.
The door to her room was ajar.
Mara crept to the threshold, her breath shallow. The hallway was empty, but the air felt heavier, charged with something unseen. A shadow flickered at the edge of her vision—too tall, too still. She bolted back into her room, slamming the door shut. Her hands trembled as she locked it, the key cold in her palm.
The next morning, she found a note taped to the door: *”You shouldn’t have come here.”* The handwriting was neat, deliberate. She turned to the window, expecting to see someone watching, but the cliffs were empty. Just the lighthouse, its beam steady and unyielding.
She didn’t stay in the cottage after that. Every hour felt like a countdown, the weight of the journal pressing against her chest. She wandered the coastline, tracing the jagged rocks that jutted into the sea. The tide was high, swallowing the shore in a slow, relentless pull. She found a cave at low tide, its entrance hidden behind a curtain of seaweed. Inside, the air was damp and cool, the walls slick with moisture. And there, carved into the stone, were symbols—same as in the journal.
The moment her fingers brushed the markings, the ground trembled. A deep, resonant hum filled the cave, vibrating in her bones. The tide surged higher, waves crashing against the entrance. Mara stumbled back, her heart pounding. The symbols glowed faintly, then faded. She ran, the cave collapsing behind her with a thunderous roar.
That night, she met Jace.
He was waiting by the lighthouse, his jacket soaked through, a cigarette dangling from his lips. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said, his voice low. “This place isn’t safe.” His eyes were the color of storm clouds, sharp and unyielding. Mara hesitated, then held up the journal. “I need answers.” He exhaled a plume of smoke, studying her. “You don’t know what you’re messing with,” he muttered. “But if you’re stubborn enough to stay, I might as well warn you: the light doesn’t just guide ships. It traps them.”
The following days were a blur of secrets and silence. Jace showed her the town’s hidden corners—the abandoned docks, the crumbling chapel, the sealed-off section of the lighthouse. Each place held a piece of the puzzle, a memory etched into the stones. The journal’s warnings grew darker, its pages filled with frantic scrawls. *”The sea doesn’t forgive. The light doesn’t sleep.”* Mara began to see patterns, connections she couldn’t ignore. The disappearances, the symbols, the way the lighthouse seemed to pulse with a life of its own.
Then came the night of the storm.
The sky split open, lightning carving jagged paths across the horizon. The lighthouse beam was blinding, its light cutting through the chaos. Mara stood at the cliff’s edge, watching as waves crashed against the rocks below. Jace was beside her, his face lit by the eerie glow. “It’s happening,” he said, his voice barely audible over the wind. “The light is choosing.”
A surge of energy rippled through the air, and the ground beneath them shuddered. Mara felt it in her bones—a pull, a call. The journal slipped from her hands, its pages fluttering in the wind. She reached for it, but the light enveloped her, blinding and hot. When she opened her eyes, she was inside the lighthouse, the beam swirling around her like a living thing.
The walls were different now, covered in symbols that pulsed with light. A figure stood at the center, their back to her. “You found the key,” the voice said, smooth and cold. “But you don’t understand its cost.” Mara stepped forward, her breath shallow. “Who are you?” The figure turned, and she froze. It was her mother, younger, her eyes hollow. “I tried to stop it,” her mother whispered. “But the light… it feeds on memories. On loss.”
The world tilted. Mara saw flashes—her mother’s hands on the journal, the lighthouse beam burning through the night, the sea swallowing ships whole. The light wasn’t a guide. It was a trap, a prison for those who couldn’t let go. And now, it had found her.
She ran, the light chasing her, its warmth searing her skin. Jace’s voice echoed in her mind: *”The light doesn’t sleep.”* She reached the cliff’s edge, the sea roaring below. The journal was in her hands, its pages fluttering like wings. She had to choose—stay and be consumed, or let go and break the cycle.
With a scream, she hurled the journal into the waves. The light flared, then died. The sea calmed. The lighthouse stood silent, its beam extinguished. Mara collapsed on the rocks, her body trembling.
The next morning, the town was different. The lighthouse was empty, its doors rusted shut. Jace found her sitting by the shore, her hands still shaking. “It’s over,” he said, but she wasn’t sure if he believed it.
Mara never returned to Hollow’s End. But sometimes, in her dreams, she heard the sea. And she wondered if the light was truly gone—or if it was just waiting for the next keeper.
