The Lighthouse Keeper

The sea had nearly swallowed her whole.

Belinda staggered up the jagged cliffs, her body weak, salt crusting her lips. The wind howled, tearing at her soaked dress as she stumbled forward, her bare feet scraping against the rock. The storm had come without mercy, turning the sea into a monstrous force that devoured her ship, its crew, everything she knew. Now, she was alone, the only survivor, cast onto the cruel shores of Cornwall.

Lightning flickered in the distance, illuminating the silhouette of a towering structure ahead—a lighthouse, its beacon flickering weakly through the stormy night. A solitary sentinel against the dark.

Desperate, she pressed onward, half-climbing, half-crawling toward the lighthouse's heavy wooden door. She raised a trembling fist and knocked.

Silence.

She knocked again, louder this time, until the weight of her exhaustion pulled her to her knees. Just as she was about to collapse, the door creaked open.

A man stood in the doorway, lantern in hand. He was tall, his features gaunt, his hair a wild mess of silver streaked with black. His eyes, sharp and watchful, flicked over her as if measuring her presence against some unseen standard.

"You should not be here," he said at last, his voice low and edged with something unreadable.

Belinda shivered. "Please. I—I was in the storm. My ship—" Her throat closed around the words.

The man exhaled through his nose, as if considering. Then, wordlessly, he stepped aside, allowing her entrance.

The lighthouse interior was dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of seawater, oil, and old parchment. The walls were lined with bookshelves, their spines worn and faded, their titles long forgotten. A single wooden staircase spiraled up toward the beacon above, its lantern swaying slightly with the wind's force.

"You're lucky," the man muttered, setting the lantern down on a nearby table. "Most never make it to shore."

Belinda swallowed. "Are you the keeper?"

He nodded once. "Fabian Desmond."

She hesitated. "I—I'm Belinda."

Fabian studied her for a long moment before nodding again. "Sit. You need warmth."

She did as she was told, collapsing into an old chair near the fire. Heat seeped into her bones, easing the chill that had settled deep within her. Fabian moved around the small kitchen space, retrieving a blanket and a cup of something strong and bitter. She sipped at it carefully, watching him over the rim of the cup.

"There's no village nearby?" she asked.

"Not for miles," he said. "Storms like this tend to keep people away."

Something in his tone made her pause. "And yet, you stay?"

Fabian gave her a small, humorless smile. "A lighthouse keeper's duty is to stay."

Silence stretched between them, save for the wind battering the glass panes. The flames in the hearth flickered, casting strange shadows along the walls. The longer she sat there, the more she noticed—small things. The way Fabian's gaze would flicker toward the staircase as if expecting something. The way certain books seemed untouched, their pages stiff with age, while others lay open as if recently read.

Then, the strangest thing of all—a second chair, near the fire, set as if waiting for another occupant.

Belinda's fingers tightened around her cup. "Do you live here alone?"

Fabian's jaw tensed. He looked at the empty chair before slowly nodding. "Yes."

But it was a lie. She could feel it.

A floorboard creaked above them. A slow, deliberate sound.

Belinda's breath hitched. She looked at Fabian, but he remained still, his expression unreadable.

"Fabian…" she whispered, her voice barely above the wind's howl. "Who else is here?"

For a long time, he said nothing. Then, without looking at her, he said softly, "You should rest."

But Belinda knew, with a certainty that chilled her to the bone, that she was not alone in the lighthouse.

And whatever else was here… was waiting.