The salt air tasted like iron as Mara climbed the lighthouse stairs, her boots echoing against the rusted metal. The storm had passed, but the wind still clawed at the tower, rattling the windows of the small cottage below. She paused on the third landing, clutching the cold railing, and stared at the photo in her hand—a faded black-and-white of her father standing atop these steps, his smile sharp as a knife. It had been six months since the accident, six months since the town whispered that he’d fallen, six months since she’d stopped believing in luck.
The light flickered above, casting jagged shadows across the wall. Mara’s breath fogged in the cold air as she climbed higher, each step a reminder of the weight she carried. The lighthouse was her inheritance, a crumbling relic of a bygone era, but it was also a prison. The townspeople avoided the place, muttering about bad luck and ghosts. Even her mother had left, taking the car and the last of her silence when Mara turned sixteen.
At the top, Mara pushed open the heavy door and stepped into the beam of light. It cut through the darkness like a blade, sweeping across the room in a slow, deliberate arc. She’d never seen it work this way before—steady, unbroken. The old generator groaned as if protesting, but the light held. For a moment, she let herself believe it was normal.
Then she heard the voice.
“You’re late.”
Mara spun around, her heart hammering. The room was empty. The beam swept past her, illuminating the dusty control panel, the rusted gears, the cracked window that looked out over the jagged rocks below. “Who’s there?” she called, her voice tight.
No answer. Just the hum of the generator and the distant crash of waves. She stepped closer to the window, her fingers brushing the cold glass. The sea was calm now, but the air felt charged, like before a thunderstorm. She thought of her father’s journal, buried in the cottage’s attic, its pages filled with notes about “the signal” and “the ones who wait.” She’d never believed it—until now.
Downstairs, the door creaked. Mara froze. The wind? No. The cottage had been empty since her mother left. She crept back down the stairs, her hand on the railing, her breath shallow. The front door stood ajar, the sea air swirling in with a scent she couldn’t place—something sweet and metallic, like blood and salt.
“Hello?” she called again, her voice trembling.
A shadow moved in the corner of the room. Mara’s eyes darted to it, but there was nothing there. The light from the tower spilled through the window, casting long shapes on the floor. She stepped closer, her boots crunching on broken glass. The floorboards groaned beneath her. Something was wrong. The cottage felt different, as if it had been touched by a hand she couldn’t see.
Then she saw it—a faint glow beneath the floorboards, pulsing like a heartbeat. Mara knelt, her fingers brushing the wood. It was warm. Alive. She pulled at the edge, and the board gave way with a soft groan, revealing a narrow staircase leading down into darkness. The air that rose from it was thick with the scent of damp earth and something else—something ancient.
She hesitated. The lighthouse had always been a place of secrets, but this… this felt different. Like a door she wasn’t meant to open. But the voice still echoed in her mind, sharp and clear: “You’re late.”
Mara reached for the flashlight on her belt, its beam cutting through the gloom as she descended. The stairs spiraled downward, the walls closing in around her. The glow from below pulsed faster now, matching the rhythm of her own heartbeat. She didn’t know what she’d find at the bottom, but she knew one thing—this was only the beginning.
