The familiar alarm sound woke me up at 11.45 a.m. 6 hours of sleep was not enough, but I didn't want to miss any report then getting fired, especially a leisure job like this. I forced myself to stand up straight, put on the jacket then headed to the door. Today's weather was heavily foggy, I could barely see anything out of the calm sea, just some blurred vision of random shapes, shifting figures that danced just beyond the veil of visibility.
My mind played tricks on me, conjuring horrors from the mist: grotesque illusions, elongated limbs, hollow eyes staring back at me. I shook my head, trying to dispel the unease. It was just the fog, I told myself. Just the fog. I hurried through my tasks, checking the instruments with trembling hands. The cold bit at my skin, gnawing through my coat, and I couldn't wait to get back inside.
The warmth of the cabin was not so good, but it was still better than the creeping dread outside. I grabbed the microphone, my voice steady as I reported the weather conditions, while thinking about what I would cook for lunch.
Then, an idea struck me. Why not talk to the coast guard? I didn't have anything to do, and there was no rush for lunch. The thought of human connection, even through a crackling radio, was oddly comforting, for the first time ever.
After finishing the report, I took a deep breath then asked the coast guard: "Hey man, how's it going?"
The response was immediate, but it wasn't the friendly chat I expected. The voice that crackled through the speaker was low, guttural, and wrong. "Who's speaking? What do you want?"
I froze, my hand tightening around the microphone. Did he not realize I had just relayed the weather conditions? Or was it worse—was he unaware that I had doubted the coast guard's presence, that I'd convinced myself their responses were automated, that no one was truly out there watching, listening?
His questions cut through the static like a blade, sharp and unnerving. Was he simply cold, indifferent, unwilling to exchange even the barest semblance of human connection? Or was there something else lurking behind his words, something darker, more sinister? Or it was just simple that he was not a nice guy, not friendly, not willing to chat with anyone else.
For a heartbeat—or an eternity—I sat frozen, the radio silent, the weight of the unknown pressing down on me. I waited, my breath shallow, for the coast guard to acknowledge me, to confirm that I wasn't alone in this desolate place.
Then, his voice crackled through the speaker, broken and harsh. "Oh sorry! I almost forgot." The words were casual, almost flippant, but they carried an edge that made my skin crawl. "Today is Monday, so after midnight, it'll be Tuesdays. Keep that in mind! I have to go now!"
Before I could respond, the line went dead, leaving only the hollow hum of static. No emotion, no explanation, just… silence. The small talk I had expected for, evaporated into the void, leaving behind an unsettling emptiness. Tuesday. The word echoed in my mind, a strange emphasis that felt more like a warning than a reminder.
Suddenly, the rules written in the yellowed piece of paper that the old man handed me, had something about Tuesday. I rushed to the bed, flipped the pillow to find it.
"Rule three: At precisely 3:33 a.m. on Tuesdays, there will be a knock on the front door. Not the kind you'd expect from a visitor. It's slow, deliberate, like something testing the wood. Do not answer. Do not even look through the peephole. Just sit in the dark and pretend you're not there."
I didn't know whether to feel relief or dread at the thought of this unexpected visitor. My instincts screamed at me to prepare for the worst. I set an extra alarm for 3:30 a.m., a grim reminder that no matter what horrors awaited, I would not open the door—not a crack, not a whisper. Remember, curiosity kills the cat! The clock ticked slowly, midnight was still hours away, and the thought of what lurked beyond the door tonight made my skin crawl.
I forced myself to move, to prepare for the unknown entity that would come tonight. The kitchen was cold, the air heavy with the metallic fear. I cooked a hot meal of canned beans and chicken breast, the food tasting as lifeless and salty as the air itself. Every bite felt like ash in my mouth, but I ate anyway, knowing I'd need the strength.
As I washed the dishes, a chilling realization struck me: There was nothing in this shelter I could use to defend myself. No weapons, no tools—just a can opener, a blunt steak knife that couldn't even cut through the chicken, a rusted fork, and a steel spoon. Desperation clawed at me as I considered my options.
The fork might serve as a weapon to stab in close quarters, and the knife… Well, if I struck hard enough, it might do some damage. But it was a flimsy hope, and the thought of facing whatever was coming with these pitiful tools made my stomach churn. Still much better if I wouldn't need to fight or see it face to face.
Outside, the fog hung like a suffocating shroud, blocking the sunlight and rendering the solar panels useless. The lighthouse, my only sanctuary, was running on borrowed time. I decided to conserve the little remaining power, shutting everything off to save energy for the night. The thought of lying in the dark, shivering without the heater, was almost as terrifying as the visitor itself.
Of course, I could have used the generator, but in this isolated place, where neither the mobile signal nor electricity could reach, saving energy was a necessity. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the occasional creak of the old building settling—or was it something else?
I crawled into bed, layered in every piece of clothing I owned to fight off the cold. Sleep felt impossible, but I forced my eyes shut, knowing the night would be long and fraught with terror. The uninvited guest was coming, and I could only pray that my preparations—meager as they were—would be enough.
As the hours passed away unnoticed, the evening's very first task arrived promptly at 6 p.m: Lighting the lamp. My afternoon nap had been restless, the room chilled by the absence of the heater and shrouded in an oppressive gloom. Fortunately, the flashlight on my phone came to the rescue. Guided by its faint glow, I made my way to the switch, flicked it on, and instantly felt alive, again.
I would endure the cold air until midnight, then turn on the heater. For now, the dim glow of a single bulb and the faint warmth of the stove should be enough. I planned to cook after finishing my first nighttime task. The energy from dinner might stave off the chill for a few hours, buying me time to conserve power for the heater.
Eating straight from the can would save precious minutes, allowing me to burrow into the warm blanket and remain in bed until 9 p.m., and then again until midnight. Without the heater, the shelter was like a frozen tomb, and I dared not wander in its icy halls.
"Roasted beans and chicken," I muttered to myself, the words echoing in the hollow silence. It was the safest choice, requiring minimal effort and time. So instead of simply reheating it, I decided to cook it properly, the thing that I had rarely done in my life.
Tonight, everything had gone unnervingly smooth—too smooth. By 9 p.m., and then again at midnight, I completed my tasks without a hitch. The weather had cleared, the thick fog dissipating to reveal the endless, dark void of the sea. It felt like a cruel illusion, the calm before the storm. Or perhaps it was a trap, a distraction to lure me into a false sense of safety before the uninvited guest arrived in the late night. I couldn't shake the feeling that something was watching, waiting to pounce with a torrent of horrors I couldn't begin to imagine.
I drifted into sleep with unsettling ease, the bed swallowing me like a shallow grave. But the peace was shattered by the jarring chime of the 3 a.m. alarm, yanking me back to a reality that felt… boring. "Finish the report, then prepare," I muttered to myself, the words echoing hollowly in the stillness. But something was off. The sky, clear and starless, was raining—heavy. The downpour thickened, pounding against the roof like a thousand angry fists. I hated the rain, especially on nights like this. It muffled everything, cloaked the world in a shroud of obscurity, leaving me blind and deaf to whatever might be lurking outside.
I bolted into the shelter, slamming the door shut and locking it with firm hands. The chairs and tables were shoved against the door—a feeble barricade, but better than nothing. My heart raced as I grabbed the microphone to report the storm to the coast guard. But the radio was dead. No static, no signal, just a suffocating silence that swallowed my voice whole.
I fumbled with the controls, restarting, re-plugging, scanning frequencies—nothing worked. Panic clawed at my chest. This antique radio was my only lifeline to the mainland. Without it, I was stranded, cut off from help. And worse, if I couldn't complete my tasks, I'd face consequences I couldn't afford, like a deduction in salary this month, or they would blame me for the broken equipment and I had to pay for the damage.
It was already 3:15 a.m., I had to prepare for the 3.33. The radio would have to wait. I checked the locks again, my fingers brushing against the cold steel of the steak knife and the fork I slipped into my pocket. The rules were clear: stay in the dark, stay silent. I turned off the lights and burrowed under the blanket, my breath shallow and uneven.
At 3:30, the alarm jolted me again. I silenced my phone, even the vibration felt too loud. Silence was my only ally now. I had to keep quiet, there was no signal here, but who knew at that time, I could receive a phone call or a message.
Knock, knock, knock.
The sound reverberated through the shelter, each strike deliberate, unhurried. My breath hitched, and I forced myself to exhale slowly, as if the thing outside could hear even the faintest whisper of air. I followed the rules: stayed in bed, stayed silent, stayed in the dark. My eyes looked towards the window, but the world outside was a void—an endless black expanse broken only by the rain streaking down the glass.
Was I curious? Yes, absolutely. But I had to follow the rules. My original purpose being here was to earn money, pay off the debt then get away. I wouldn't get distracted by any other things. The knocking continued, steady and rhythmic—three knocks every ten seconds, always in the same spot. "I'm not here," I whispered in my mind, clinging to the rule that promised safety: Pretend you're not there.
After what felt like an eternity, the knocking stopped. Relief washed over me, cold and fleeting. "It's gone," I thought, a silent laugh bubbling up. "I survived. It wasn't so bad." Finally I could come out and fix the radio before dawn, so that I wouldn't miss the next report. I laughed in silence: "Hahaaa, I… I can last for one year."
But as I shifted to leave the bed, a voice tore off the silence.
"Hey man, are you there? Are you alright? I came to check on you."
I tried to calm my mind, who was that? The principal keeper? The old keeper before me? The coast guard? Or someone on a random ship out there?
My blood turned to ice. The voice was deep, low, and eerily human. But the rules said nothing about voices. Only the knocking. Was that an imposter?
"Are you on duty? You didn't report at 3 a.m. I'm worried about you."
I stayed frozen, my mind spinning. It could be the coast guard, but it could also be it—the thing outside, mimicking, luring me into a trap.
"Don't you recognize me? I'm the coast guard you spoke to today. Just a quick check, and I'll overlook this time."
The words were convincing, almost too convincing. If it was the coast guard, maybe the thing had fled. I also needed to explain the reason for the late report and broken radio, this should be perfect. But then when I was about to turn on the flashlight, my eyes fell on my phone. The screen glowed faintly, the time frozen at 3:33 a.m.
My heart stopped. Time hadn't moved. The thing was the reason, I was pretty sure about this, it was still there, inches away, separated only by the door. It wasn't the coast guard. It was it—the imposter, the mimic, the thing that could wear any voice, any face.
The voice came again, softer now, almost pleading. "Please, let me in. I just want to help."
I clutched the knife tighter, my knuckles white. The rules were clear: stay silent, stay in the dark, pretend you're not there.
But the voice persisted, creeping into my mind like a poison. "I know you're in there. I can hear you breathing."
I held my breath, my pulse thundering in my ears. The voice chuckled, low and guttural, and I knew then—it wasn't going away.
It was waiting.
And it would keep waiting… until I made a mistake.
The air grew heavy, suffocating, as the banging on the door intensified. Each thud resonated through the room, shaking the walls, the floor, the very core of my being. I sat frozen on the edge of the bed, my muscles locked in place, as if the shadows themselves had coiled around me, binding me to the spot. The chair and table that I'd barricaded the door with groaned under the relentless assault, their wooden limbs splintering with every blow.
At first, I'd hoped silence would be my shield. I'd thought if I stayed still, if I didn't provoke it, the thing outside would grow bored and leave. But I was wrong. Terribly, horribly wrong. It wasn't leaving. It was pushing. Pushing against the door, against my sanity, against the fragile barrier of reality itself.
Then came the sound—sharp, metallic, and deliberate. Something pointed was stabbing into the wood, carving its way through. The door shuddered as if it were alive, crying out in agony with each strike. My heart pounded in my chest, a frantic drumbeat urging me to move, to act, to survive.
I stood up from the bed, my feet barely made a sound as I crept toward the door, my back pressed against the cold, unyielding wall. My breath hitched in my throat, shallow and uneven, as I gripped the fork in my right hand. It was a pathetic weapon against the nightmare that awaited me. In my left hand, I clutched the dull steak knife, its weight a small comfort.
My plan was simple, desperate. I'd stab it in the face with my fork, then bash at its head with the knife handle, do anything to buy myself a moment. And if I could, I'd send it tumbling into the abyss, down the stairs into the cold, dark sea that seemed to stretch endlessly below. I couldn't just wait. I couldn't let it take me without a fight.
"Hey man, I'm sorry. I lost my temper." Said the unknown thing.
The voice was soft, almost apologetic. It was calm, measured, and so human that it made my skin crawl. For a moment, I hesitated. Had I overreacted? Was this just some misunderstanding? My grip on the fork loosened slightly, my muscles unwinding as the tension in the room seemed to disappear.
"You know I have my own work too, I can't keep waiting like this. I must get back to the station now."
The words were calm, but something about them felt… off. Like a mask slipping, revealing the rot beneath. My hand hovered over the doorknob, my resolve wavering. For an instant, I didn't know what to do. It seemed like I was too outrageous. Maybe I'd been too quick to judge. Maybe I'd—
"SO COULD YOU PLEASE, OPEN THIS GODDAMN DOOR!!!"
The voice erupted, a guttural, inhuman roar that tore through the silence like a blade. It was my voice. My own voice, twisted and distorted into something monstrous. My blood turned to ice as I stumbled backward, the fork slipping from my trembling fingers. The thing outside wasn't just mimicking me—it was me. Or at least, some grotesque, malevolent version of me.
Panic surged through my veins as I pressed myself against the wall, my mind racing. What was it? How could it know my voice, my thoughts, my fears? The banging resumed, louder now, more desperate. The door groaned, the barricade splintering as the thing outside clawed and stabbed at the wood.
I had to act. I had to do something. But what? How do you fight something that knows you better than you know yourself?
The Basement. The thought flashed into my mind, sharp and insistent. How had I forgotten the last line of defense? My hand instinctively dropped to my waist, fingers brushing the cold metal of the keychain hanging from my belt.
The basement—I hadn't dared to venture down there yet. It was a pit of impenetrable darkness, damp and suffocating, reeking of something ancient and wrong. But now, I had no choice. I had to move. Now.
As I ran to the stairs, the door shuddered one final time before the chair gave way, collapsing in a heap of broken wood. The table followed, crashing to the floor as the door creaked open, revealing the darkness beyond.
I wanted to stay, to face whatever was coming, to see it with my own eyes. But something primal screamed at me to run, to survive. Curiosity was a luxury I couldn't afford. I bolted for the basement door, my feet sliding upon the floorboards, trying not to make too much noise.
Fumbling with the keychain, I jammed the first key into the lock, my hands trembling so badly I could barely steady it. Miraculously, it turned. The door groaned open, exhaling a breath of stale, rotting air. I slipped inside, my heart pounding like a war drum, and silently shut the door behind me. The click of the latch was barely audible, I hoped that it couldn't hear at all.
I pressed my back against the cold, damp wall, my breath shallow and ragged. My ears strained to pick up any sound from beyond the door. The house was quiet—too quiet. But then I heard it. A low, guttural growl, followed by the sound of something heavy dragging itself across the floor above. It was moving. Searching.
I held my breath, my eyes wide in the pitch-black void of the basement. The air was thick, suffocating, and I could feel the walls closing in around me. Somewhere in the darkness, something shifted. A faint scrape, like claws against stone. My stomach twisted. I wasn't alone down here.
The thing upstairs let out a bone-chilling screech, and I felt the walls vibrate with its fury. It was coming, together with whatever was waiting for me in the basement. I was trapped. Caught between the horror above and the terror below. There was no escape. Only the darkness. And whatever lurked within it.
The radio, silent and lifeless for hours, suddenly crackled to life with a spine-chilling intensity. A high-pitched screech erupted from its speakers, a sound so sharp it felt like a needle driving straight into my eardrum. I winced, covering my ear, but the pain only deepened, as if the sound was burrowing into my skull. My body froze, paralyzed by the unnatural noise that seemed to defy the laws of physics.
Then, as suddenly as it began, the screeching stopped. The silence that followed was heavy, oppressive, like the air before a storm. And then it came—a voice, guttural and hoarse.
"New guy," it growled, each syllable echoing as if spoken from the depths of some forgotten abyss, "Wake your lazy ass up and tell me what's the weather like out there!"
My heart pounded in my chest. The voice was familiar, yet twisted, distorted, as if the person I knew had been consumed by something far darker. It was the voice of the coast guard—or what used to be the coast guard.
The lighthouse plunged into an unnatural silence once more, the kind that presses against your eardrums like a suffocating weight. I could feel the absence of the two entities the moment the coast guard's voice crackled through the radio, but the relief was fleeting. "He was my savior," I whispered, the words barely escaping my trembling lips.
Yet, doubt gnawed at me, a festering wound in my mind. Were they truly gone, or were they lurking just beyond the edge of perception, waiting in the shadows? I couldn't risk stepping out, not without knowing for certain. The thought of them still being there made my skin crawl.
My mind raced, desperate for a way to confirm their absence. And then it struck me—the frozen time. If they were still here, if they were either in the basement or at the door, then time should be still suspended at 3:33 a.m. My heart pounded as I fumbled for my phone, my fingers slick with sweat. The screen lit up, and I stared at the numbers. 3:35 a.m. A shaky breath escaped me. Thank God, time was moving again. They should be gone—theoretically. But this was no time for theory. This was survival.
I turned on the flashlight, my hand trembled as I reached for the basement door, the creak of the hinges echoing like a death knell. I aimed the light directly into the void, ready to blind whatever horrors awaited me. My other hand gripped the knife I had prepared earlier, the cold metal biting into my palm. Stab, then bash—that was the plan. A crude, desperate plan, but it was all I had.
You might think I was so brave, facing the unknown head-on, but the truth was far more pitiful. I was a wreck, shaking so violently it felt like my bones might shatter. My breath came in shallow gasps, as if I'd just run a marathon through a nightmare. My grip on the phone was so tight I thought it might shatter in my hand. Every fiber of my being screamed to run, to hide, to close the door and never look back. But I had to know. I had to be sure.
The beam of light pierced the darkness, revealing… nothing. Just the empty space of the room, the shadows retreating before the glare. My heartbeat thundered in my ears as I sprinted to the switch, fumbling with trembling fingers to flood the lighthouse with light.
Every bulb flickered to life, casting a sickly glow over the room. If something was here, it would be exposed now. It looked like they were gone—really gone. I checked the clock again: 3:40 a.m. My assumption was correct, they would stop the time when they appear.
The crackle of the radio shattered the silence, and the coast guard's voice dripped with unnerving calm. "If you don't respond now, I'll record the report at 3 a.m. as N/A and mark this as your mistake."
My breath hitched as I grabbed the microphone, my voice shaking as I tried to explain. "I'm so sorry, the radio was broken. I couldn't report the heavy rain. I tried to fix it, but then… something came to the door. I had to—"
"Oh, I see," he interrupted, his tone chillingly dismissive. "Today is Tuesday."
The words hung in the air like a curse. He didn't let me finish, didn't let me tell him about the impersonated coast guard, the thing that had been knocking at the door. "Alright then, I'll overlook this time. But be better prepared next time. The next report is at 12 noon."
Relief washed over me for a fleeting moment. He was my savior, my only lifeline to the outside world.
"Hey, man, I just want you to know I'm really thankful for your sympathy," I said, my voice trembling.
But curiosity clawed at me, "Just one more question… have you ever been to this lighthouse? If I don't report for days, will you come to check on me?"
His laughter crackled through the radio, sharp and hysterical. "Nah, man! Do you know how far and how long it'd take me to get there? I'm a busy man, not your babysitter."
The laughter died abruptly, replaced by a chilling, cheerful tone. "Oh, by the way, if you're dead, then call me. I'll come to check once."
The line went dead, leaving me in suffocating silence, again. His words echoed in my mind, twisting into something sinister. If you're dead, call me. The thought sent a shiver down my spine.
The lighthouse seemed quieter now, but it was a false calm, the kind that precedes a storm. I dragged myself to the front door, my legs heavy as lead. The wooden floor was littered with splinters, I swept them up, my hands trembling, and locked the door firmly, twisting the key until it wouldn't budge.
I switched off the lights, bringing the room into darkness once more, then burrowed under the blanket, pulling it tight over my head. Sleep came quickly, too quickly, as if something was lulling me into unconsciousness. But as I drifted off, I felt it—a presence in the room, watching, waiting. And I knew, deep in my bones, that this was only the beginning.