Beneath a sky painted with streaks of pink and gold, the ocean waves lapped gently against the shore. Seagulls soared overhead, their calls echoing above the rhythmic hum of the water. On the sandy beach, a few vacationers lingered, gathering the last rays of sunlight before the evening cooled. Among them was Leo, sitting cross-legged near the water, sketchbook in hand. His pencil moved swiftly across the page as he tried to capture the fleeting beauty of the horizon before the colors faded into twilight.
Art was his way of slowing down time. Every curve of a wave, every flutter of a bird’s wing became a subject to be immortalized. Tonight, however, Leo felt restless. He kept glancing down the beach toward the old lighthouse, which stood like a sentinel on the cliffs. There had always been stories about it—tales of sailors, lost ships, and an old keeper who vanished mysteriously decades ago. Some said the lighthouse was haunted, others claimed it simply held secrets. Leo wasn’t sure what he believed, but something about the place fascinated him.
Further down the beach, a group of friends gathered around a bonfire, roasting marshmallows and exchanging ghost stories. Laughter mixed with the crackling fire as they tried to outdo each other with spooky tales. “And then,” one of them whispered dramatically, “the light at the top of the lighthouse flickered… and he was never seen again!” A burst of giggles followed, though some glanced nervously toward the distant cliffs.
Just beyond the cliffs, Clara sat on the weathered steps of her small cabin, strumming her guitar. She had moved here for the peace and solitude, away from the noise of the city. But the lighthouse had always piqued her curiosity. Though abandoned, it still emitted a soft glow some nights, as if the past refused to let go. Clara often wondered if she should go inside and explore, but something held her back—a sense that the place preferred to remain undisturbed.
As the first stars appeared in the darkening sky, Leo made a decision. Closing his sketchbook, he stood up, brushing sand from his clothes. The lighthouse had been in the back of his mind for too long, and tonight felt like the right time to explore it. He slung his backpack over his shoulder and started toward the cliffs, his heart pounding with both excitement and unease.
When he reached the base of the cliffs, the wind picked up, whistling through the cracks in the old stone walls. The lighthouse loomed above, its spiral staircase visible through the broken windows. Leo hesitated only briefly before stepping inside. The air was thick with dust and the scent of saltwater. As he climbed the stairs, each step creaked under his weight, as if warning him to turn back.
At the top, he found a lantern resting on a small wooden table, surprisingly well-kept despite the lighthouse’s abandonment. As if on instinct, Leo reached for it. Just as his hand touched the cool metal, the lantern flickered to life, casting a pale glow across the room. And somewhere, deep within the structure, a distant sound echoed—a soft, deliberate click, like the closing of a door. Leo’s breath caught in his throat.
The wind howled outside, and the light from the lantern swayed. Leo stood frozen, a strange mix of fear and wonder rushing through him. The stories about the lighthouse had warned him of strange happenings—but standing there, with the glow of the lantern reflecting in his wide eyes, Leo knew he was no longer just hearing a tale. He was in the middle of one.