The letter arrived on a Tuesday, its edges yellowed with age. Elara Voss nearly tossed it into the pile of unopened bills, but the wax seal—a crest of a tower wrapped in thorns—gave her pause.
"To Miss Elara Voss, sole surviving heir of Alistair Voss. You are hereby notified of your inheritance: Blackthorn Lighthouse, located on the Isle of Mourne. Immediate occupancy required."
Elara frowned. She’d never met her grandfather. Her mother had refused to speak of him, muttering only about "cursed blood" before changing the subject. But with her lease ending and her freelance history work barely paying the rent, the timing felt like fate.
Three days later, she stood on the rocky shore of Mourne, the lighthouse looming above her like a skeletal hand grasping at the sky. The island was smaller than she’d imagined—just the tower, a cottage, and a graveyard of shipwreck debris. The air smelled of salt and something darker, like damp earth after a storm.
The cottage key turned with a groan. Inside, dust swirled in the thin light from grime-coated windows. A desk sat in the corner, stacked with leather-bound journals. Elara flipped open the first one.
"June 12th, 1978: The fog is singing again. It knows my name."
Her grandfather’s handwriting grew increasingly erratic over the entries, detailing strange sounds in the night, figures in the mist, and a "hunger" beneath the waves. The last entry sent a chill down her spine:
"They’re coming up the stairs. God help the next lightkeeper."
That night, Elara awoke to the sound of the lighthouse beacon grinding to life—though she’d never turned it on. The beam cut through the fog, illuminating the cove below. And there, just beneath the surface of the black water, something moved. Something far too large to be a fish.
The next morning, she found footprints in the damp soil outside her door. Not human—three-toed, webbed, leading back to the sea.
A storm rolled in by dusk, trapping her on the island. The radio spat static, and the power flickered. As the wind howled, a new sound joined it: a low, guttural crooning from the rocks below.
Elara clutched her grandfather’s journal. She finally understood why he’d written in its margins:
"The light doesn’t warn ships. It keeps them away."
By midnight, the thing on the stairs was scratching at her door.