The light above me sputtered once and went out. The entire lighthouse sank into a quiet so deep it felt alive. I could hear the sea crashing below, angry and endless, and my own breath, sharp and ragged, bouncing off the stone walls.
For a moment I didn't move. The dark pressed close, thick and heavy, until the only thing I could feel was the damp chill creeping up my arms. Then, faintly, came the sound—footsteps.
Not just one pair. Slow, deliberate steps on the metal staircase, the rhythm steady, like whoever was coming up didn't care if I heard.
My chest tightened. I took a single step back, my shoes scraping the floor. The sound below stopped. Silence stretched, stretching until my heart was a drum inside my chest. Then the footsteps started again—faster this time.
I didn't think. I reached for the first thing near me—a metal lamp sitting on the table by the wall. My fingers shook so badly I almost dropped it.
