The Lighthouse

The lighthouse door groaned open, dust motes swirling in the gray light. Quilts hung like cobwebs, their patterns warped by mildew. Evelyn ran a finger over one—a stormy sea stitched in black thread, a woman's face drowning in the waves.

"You always hated the water," her sister had teased when they'd sewn this together. "But you'll miss the sea when you're gone."

Beneath a floorboard near the hearth, she found the journal. Its pages were brittle, filled with sketches of hooded women circling a bonfire, their hands clasped around a quilt dripping with… blood? Evelyn squinted. No—red thread. The final entry was a single sentence:

"They stitch the silence."

A floorboard creaked upstairs.

Evelyn froze. Rats, she told herself. But the sound came again—deliberate, rhythmic. Footsteps.

She fled, the journal clutched to her chest. Outside, the fog had swallowed the cliffs. As she hurried to her car, she glimpsed a shadow in the lighthouse window. A man's silhouette, holding something that glinted—scissors?

The lighthouse lens, cracked and clouded, reflected the storm in Evelyn's hazel eyes.