Mara’s boots crunched over gravel as she approached the lighthouse, its white tower looming like a sentinel against the storm-churned sky. The wind howled through the cracks in the stone wall, carrying the briny tang of salt and something older—something metallic, like rusted iron. She tightened her coat, fingers brushing the cold metal of the key around her neck. Her father’s key. The one he’d left behind.
The door creaked open, revealing a narrow stairwell spiraling upward. Mara climbed, each step echoing in the confined space. At the top, she pushed open the heavy door to the lantern room. The glass lens was fogged, but she could see the faint glow of the beacon flickering through the haze. It had been months since anyone had tended to it, yet it still worked.
A gust of wind slammed the door shut behind her. Mara turned, her breath shallow. The room was empty, but the air felt heavier, as if something was pressing against her ribs. She stepped closer to the lens, squinting at the beam slicing through the darkness. Then she saw it—a shape in the fog, moving too fast to be a ship. It vanished as suddenly as it appeared.
That night, Mara lay awake in the small room above the tower, listening to the waves crash against the rocks below. The lighthouse had always been her father’s world, a place of routine and quiet solitude. But now it felt different, charged with an energy that made her skin prickle. She reached for the journal on the shelf, its leather cover worn smooth by years of handling. Inside, her father’s handwriting was jagged, almost desperate.
‘The light must never go out,’ he’d written. ‘It’s not just a beacon—it’s a boundary. If it fails, they’ll come.’
Mara closed the journal, her pulse quickening. Who were ‘they’? And why had her father left without a word? The wind howled again, and for a moment, she thought she heard a voice—low, rasping, like wind through dead leaves.
The next morning, Mara ventured into the village, the key clinking at her hip. The shops were shuttered, the streets eerily quiet. A fisherman paused as she passed, his face lined with age and something else—fear. He didn’t meet her eyes. ‘You shouldn’t be here,’ he muttered before turning away.
That night, Mara returned to the lighthouse, determined to find answers. She traced the cracks in the tower’s foundation, her fingers brushing against a hidden panel. Behind it was a narrow passage, descending into darkness. The air grew colder as she climbed down, the beam of her flashlight cutting through the gloom. At the end of the corridor, a door stood ajar, its surface etched with symbols that pulsed faintly in the dim light.
Inside, Mara found a room filled with old equipment—machines she didn’t recognize, their gears rusted but still functional. A map on the wall showed the coastline, marked with red Xs. Her father’s notes scrawled across the floor: ‘They’re waiting. The light is the only thing holding them back.’
A sound echoed from the corridor—footsteps. Mara froze, her heart hammering. The door creaked open, and a figure stepped inside, their face obscured by shadow. ‘You shouldn’t have come,’ the voice said, low and hollow.
Mara backed toward the door, but the figure advanced. ‘Who are you?’ she demanded. ‘What are you?’
The figure tilted their head, as if considering her. Then they reached out, and the room plunged into darkness.
When Mara awoke, she was in the lantern room, the beacon still burning. The figure was gone, but the symbols on the door now glowed brighter, their meaning clear: a warning. She ran to the journal, flipping through pages until she found a sketch of the symbols. Her father had been trying to protect something—someone—by keeping the light alive.
The next night, Mara stood at the base of the lighthouse, staring out at the sea. The wind howled, and the waves crashed against the rocks with a rhythm that felt almost… deliberate. She raised the key, its metal cold against her palm. If the light was a boundary, then maybe it was also a door. And she had to decide whether to open it.
As she turned the key in the lock, the beacon flared, casting a brilliant beam across the water. The fog parted, revealing shapes moving in the distance—figures, their forms shifting like smoke. Mara held her breath, heart pounding. The light was more than a signal; it was a shield. And she would not let it fail.
The wind died, and for a moment, the world was still. Then the beacon dimmed, its glow fading into the night. Mara stood alone, the weight of her father’s legacy pressing down on her. The light was gone, but the knowledge remained. And somewhere in the darkness, the figures watched, waiting.
The next morning, Mara returned to the village, her coat soaked from the rain. The shops were open now, the streets bustling with life. The fisherman nodded as she passed, his eyes no longer filled with fear. She didn’t ask questions. Some answers were meant to stay hidden.
Back at the lighthouse, Mara climbed the stairs, her boots echoing in the silence. The beacon was dark, but the symbols on the door still pulsed faintly. She closed the door behind her, sealing the room once more. The light was gone, but the story would continue. And she would be there to tell it.
