"Brrrr… Brrrr… Brrrr…"
The sound was faint, almost imperceptible, but it clawed its way into my consciousness like a cold finger dragging across my spine. My eyes snapped open, but the room was shrouded in an unnatural darkness, the kind that feels alive, watching, waiting. My phone buzzed again, the vibration rattling against the nightstand like the chattering teeth of something unseen.
I reached for it with a trembling hand, the screen hurt my eyes in the blackness. 11:45 a.m. "Oh it's time for the report", I said to myself, but something was wrong. I didn't remember setting it on vibration. I never set it to vibrate. I always left it at half volume, loud enough to wake me but not disturb anyone. Except… There was no one else here.
"Snooze or stop?" The words whispered themselves in my mind, but my finger hovered, paralyzed by the coldness. Instead, I hit the power button, letting the phone decide. The screen went dark, bringing back the silence. It was heavy, suffocating, as if the room itself was holding its breath.
I sat up slowly, the warmth of the bed evaporating as a chill crept up my spine. My mind raced. I didn't set the phone to vibrate. So who—or what—did?
A shiver ran through me as I swung my legs over the edge of the bed. The floor was cold, unnaturally so, as if I'd stepped onto ice. I had to check the weather, report to the coast guard. The thought of leaving this room, of stepping out that door, made my stomach churn. But did I have any other choices? Absolutely no, unless I wanted to receive a warning call from the principal keeper or some minus on my payslip.
As I stood, the air around me shifted, thickening like fog. I felt it then—a presence, something lurking just beyond the edge of my vision. My breath hitched, and I forced myself to move, to grab my jacket and head for the door.
Actually, this job was both a nightmare and an ideal dream to me, in different aspects. I was a sleepaholic, addicted to the sweet escape of 12 to 15 hours of uninterrupted slumber. But here, in this forsaken place, I was torn from my beloved bed every 3 or 6 hours, the cold seeping into my bones, making it impossible to go back into the comfort of sleep.
And when I did manage to pass the free time, there was nothing to be found. No TikTok, no Facebook Watch, no endless scroll of short videos to numb my mind. Moving to an isolated island, with no internet (the principal keeper said sometimes I might catch the signal, if lucky enough), was not a good idea, wasn't it?. He advised me to use satellite internet, but I don't think I would have any money left in my pocket with my endless internet usage.
So you see, I had abandoned my two greatest passions—sleep and the internet—in a desperate bid to pay off the debt. Normally, a lighthouse keeper would receive 30k annually, but that's not enough to cover the interest in 1 year.
That's why I had accepted the offer to Kuru Island, a remote, godforsaken place that seemed to exist outside of time, where the modern world was but a distant memory. The salary was doubled, but at what cost? I dreamed of the day when I would escape this purgatory, when I would open a small popcorn shop or perhaps become a writer, spinning tales of the horrors I had endured.
Yet, in a positive way, this cursed lighthouse was the ideal dream I had described. My own nature had always been a mystery, even to me—a creature caught between solitude and the need for it. I didn't even know whether I was an introvert or extrovert. Those few who knew me well had always given the same, chillingly accurate advice: The perfect job for me was one where they simply gave me orders, locked me in an isolated room, and left me alone to finish the work.
My employment history was a graveyard of abandoned positions. The longest I had ever lasted was a year—a staggering, unbelievable record. The shortest was a mere half a day. Could you believe that, it took me nearly one week for the three round interview, then on the first day, I couldn't stand the leadership style of my boss, I decided to leave at lunch.
The average time was a pathetic two to three months before the walls would start to feel like they were pressing in, not from the confinement, but from the suffocating pressure of a boss's gaze, the endless, meaningless chatter of colleagues, and the crushing pointlessness of it all for a pittance of a salary.
I had always gotten fed up and fled. But here… here there was no one to flee from. The pressure didn't come from a man in a suit, but from the whispering sea below. The communication wasn't with colleagues, but with the things that scratched and pounded at the door in the dead of night. And the salary… the obscenely high salary was blood money, payment for my silence and my solitude. It was, in every sense, the job I was made for. I had finally found a place where I wouldn't get fed up and quit.
Because here, you didn't quit. You just hoped you survived, long enough, to pay off the debt then get back to society.
Despite the eight hours of sleep that should have left me refreshed, I awoke with a bone-deep weariness. The fight last night had drained me in ways I couldn't explain, leaving me hollow and weak. My body moved on autopilot as I finished the report, my mind already drifting to the task ahead—the basement. It needed to be checked, cleaned, and transformed into a safehouse. I couldn't afford to run, to hide, to feel that clawing desperation again. Not like yesterday.
The rain had stopped hours ago, leaving the ground dry and cracked beneath the blinding sun. My eyes struggled to adjust against the harsh light from the sun as I scanned the horizon. No ships. Not a single one. Big or small, the sea was empty, just as it had been the day I arrived on Kuru Island. The further I ventured, the more isolated it felt, as if the island itself was swallowing all traces of life. I wondered if anyone else had ever set foot here—truly set foot—except for the familiar faces I'd come to recognize. Faces that seemed to know more than they let on.
After the weather report, the coast guard's voice crackled through the radio, breaking the oppressive silence. His tone was different this time—less guarded, almost teasing.
"How was the sleep? I thought you'd already called for help to take you home." His laugh was soft but carried an edge, as if he knew something I didn't. Something he wouldn't—or couldn't—say.
I forced a smile into my voice, playing along. "Thank you for letting me skip the 6 a.m. report. Slept like a baby."
I paused, then pressed gently, "By the way, if you could tell me anything about this place—its history, the rules, anything to avoid… situations like last night—I'd really appreciate it. Anything to make my time here easier."
There was a long silence on the other end, so long I thought the line had gone dead. Then, his voice returned, low and cryptic. "Nah, man. I can't tell you anything. It's for your own good. You'll thank me later."
Before I could respond, the line cut out, leaving me alone with the static hum of silence. I stared at the radio, my knuckles white where I gripped the edge of the table.
"Maybe he'll appear again," I muttered to myself, "like he did last night." But deep down, I knew hoping wasn't enough. Not here. Not on this island.
The basement loomed in my thoughts like a dark promise. My plan was simple: clean it out, organize the canned food stored down there. The cans were heavy—good for throwing at intruders if it came to that. A multipurpose weapon to keep my distance, and if nothing else, they were still edible. Practical. Smart.
As I descended the creaking stairs, the air grew colder, thicker, as if the basement itself wasn't welcoming my present. The flickering bulb cast long shadows that seemed to move on their own, twisting and stretching across the damp concrete walls.
I reached the storage room first, my footsteps echoing unnaturally loud in the silence. The cans were stacked in neat rows, their labels faded and peeling. I reached for one, my fingers trembled as I reached for one, turning it over to check the expiration date. It was gone. Erased. My pulse quickened. Was it simply the passage of time that had worn it away, or had someone—or something—deliberately removed it?
I grabbed another can, then another, my movements growing frantic. Every label was the same: blank, empty, void of any trace of when it had been made. My mind raced. The supply boat was supposed to come quarterly, but had it?
What if the boat only came once a year? What if these cans had been here since the beginning, untouched, forgotten, rotting in the dark? A wave of nausea swept over me, cold and unrelenting. Had I been eating food long past its expiration? Had I been consuming something… wrong?
But what choice did I have? The thought of venturing outside, of braving the frigid air to catch fish every day, discouraged me quickly. No, I couldn't risk it. Not out there. Not in the cold.
I swallowed hard, my throat dry. "From now on," I whispered to myself, the words barely audible in the oppressive silence, "No matter how tired I am, I'll cook them. Never straight from the can again." The promise felt hollow, like a prayer to a god who wasn't listening.
I began gathering the oldest cans, their surfaces cold and slick beneath my fingers, and carried them to the basement. As I refilled the cupboard in the kitchen, I searched for anything other than chicken and beans, anything to break the monotony. But there was nothing. Just row after row of identical cans, their labels blank, their contents a mystery.
But my hand froze mid-air. A sound. Faint, almost imperceptible. A whisper? A breath? My heart hammered in my chest as I turned slowly, scanning the room. Nothing. Just the shadows. Just the silence.
I searched my memories, there was something related to the storage room. The mirror! But it was still daylight, the sun stubbornly clinging to the sky. Surely, I was safe. Surely, nothing could go wrong. Curiosity gnawed at me, a relentless itch I couldn't ignore. I decided to confront it, to unravel its secrets.
And yes, it really had something unnatural. Everything else in the lighthouse was ancient, weathered, coated in a thick layer of dust and neglect. But the mirror… It was clean, shiny and polished. Its surface gleamed with an unnatural sheen, untouched by time, unaffected by even the smallest scratch. My reflection stared back at me, crisp and unnervingly clear.
That's when the unease began to creep in, slow and insidious. The mirror was wrong. Everything in this place was cloaked in grime, yet the mirror was immaculate, as if it existed outside the bounds of reality. I leaned closer, my breath fogging the glass for the briefest moment before it vanished. And then I saw it—the lag.
My reflection blinked, but not in sync with me. It was subtle, almost slight, but undeniable. My own eyes closed, and a fraction of a second later, the mirror's version of me followed. It was like watching a video call with a delay, a ghostly echo of my movements. My heart stuttered in my chest. I blinked again, faster this time, and again, the reflection hesitated, its movements sluggish, deliberate.
Perhaps I had overslept, or perhaps the exhaustion from yesterday's torments had finally claimed my sanity—for what I witnessed could only be the fevered delusions of a mind teetering on the precipice of madness.
The storage room seemed to pulse with malevolent life, its shadows writhing and whispering secrets I dared not comprehend. I could not—would not—remain in that accursed chamber any longer. Something unspeakable lurked within the mirror, something that watched me with eyes I could not see but could feel boring into my very soul.
My trembling hands fumbled with the lock, desperate to seal away whatever unholy presence had taken residence there. The metal felt ice-cold against my flesh, as if the very door had been touched by death itself.
I fled to the basement, my footsteps echoing like funeral bells in the suffocating darkness. The cans felt unnaturally heavy in my grasp, as though they contained not food, but the weight of countless sins.
Beneath the lighthouse's ancient foundation, where the sea's eternal hunger had gnawed at stone and mortar for countless decades, lay the basement—a festering wound in the earth itself. The wooden steps groaned under my weight, each plank soft and spongy with decades of maritime decay, threatening to give way and plunge me into the writhing darkness below. I switched on the light bulb, it was so old that I could barely see anything with the dim light.
The air hung thick and putrid, a mist of brine and rot that coated my lungs with each breath. But it was the mold that truly transformed this chamber into a living nightmare. Black as midnight and covered with unholy moisture, it crept across every surface like a creature—pulsing, breathing, growing as I watched in horrified fascination. I didn't know how long I could stay down here, or I would rather be swallowed by the unknown thing outside.
After arranging the final cans upon the shelves—each one now seeming to leer at me with their faded labels like dead eyes—I held the broom with firm hands and desperately scraped at the floor, trying to remove the fungal rot that seemed to pulse beneath my feet like a living heartbeat. Each stroke of the broom only seemed to awaken more spores, sending them dancing through the fetid air like spirits.
Then, in the basement's most forsaken corner, where shadows pooled like distorted figures, I glimpsed it—a towering wardrobe with two doors, its left panel attached with a mirror that gleamed dully in the dim light. The sight of it made my flesh crawl, yet I found myself drawn to it like a moth to flame.
"No rule... no one mentioned the mirror in the basement," I whispered to the suffocating darkness, my voice barely audible among the sounds of endless waves hitting the lighthouse. "Which means it could be safe... unlike the cursed thing in the storage room." The words tasted like ash on my tongue, but I clung to this fragile hope as I approached the ancient furniture.
The mirror's surface was shrouded in dust thick as grave dirt, decorated with spider webs that trembled as if their creators still lurked nearby, and damaged by stains that resembled dried tears... or blood. Yet through this veil of corruption, I could still see my reflection, wavering and distorted like a face glimpsed through murky water.
Despite the poor living conditions, I appeared almost... handsome. The thought should have comforted me, but instead it filled me with inexplicable dread.
I began to test the mirror's nature, blinking slowly while watching my reflection mirror the movement with perfect synchronization. I forced a smile—the expression felt foreign on my lips—and my doppelganger smiled back with equal timing. Then, seized by some manic compulsion, I began to dance, flailing my limbs in grotesque pantomime while my reflection followed every spastic movement with mechanical precision.
"Just a normal mirror," I gasped, though the words felt like a lie even as they escaped my throat. "The basement is safer... much safer than the storage room."
The air was heavy with the scent of damp earth and something else—something metallic, almost like blood. My fingers trembled as I grabbed a tattered piece of cloth from the corner of the room. I wasn't sure if I touched it, something strange would happen or not.
The basement was dimly lit, the single bulb flickering ominously, casting long, jagged shadows that seemed to dance on the walls. My eyes darted toward the mirror. It was old, its surface clouded with grime and streaks of something dark that I didn't want to identify. I moved closer, the cloth in my hand, intending to wipe away the filth, but something stopped me.
The wardrobe in the corner was a grotesque thing, half-functional, half-cursed. Only one side was usable for storage; the other side, instead of a door, the mirror was fused directly to the back panel, its surface unnaturally smooth, as if it were a portal rather than a reflection. A tattered curtain hung above it, swaying gently despite the stagnant air. It felt like an entrance—no, a summoning—to another dimension. A place where things that should never see the light of day waited, watching, hungry.
This wasn't a place for comfort or rest. It was a fortress, a temporary shelter against the unspeakable. The thought of sleeping here, of letting my guard down, sent a shiver down my spine. No, this was a place to defend, to barricade myself in when the darkness came calling. And it would come. I could feel it in the air, in the way the shadows seemed to pulse with a life of their own.
I stepped back, my heart pounding, and surveyed the basement. It was as clean and prepared as it could be, given the circumstances. The mirror was covered, the entrances secured. I felt a flicker of relief, but it was fleeting. This place was a last resort, a desperate measure. If it came to it, I could fight back here. I could survive—for a while. But deep down, I knew the truth: the things that waited in the dark were patient. Perhaps they were watching me, and laughing at me with these pathetic preparations.
As I turned to leave, the flickering light finally gave out, plunging the basement into utter blackness. Behind me, I heard the faintest sound—a soft, wet click, like something wet and heavy shifting against the glass. I didn't look back. I couldn't. I bolted up the stairs, the door slamming shut behind me, leaving the basement and whatever waited within to its silence.
It was already 3 p.m., but lunch felt like a distant memory. I knew if I had eaten earlier, I'd be so relaxed on the bed, lost in lethargy instead of preparing for what lay ahead. So, I decided to combine three meals into one—a feast to sustain me through the long, creeping hours until after midnight. A feast for survival.
I reached for the oldest cans on the kitchen cupboard, their labels faded and peeling. I hadn't bothered to count them since I arrived, too careless to plan how long they'd last until the next supply boat. I'd been eating recklessly, indulging without thought. But now, a gnawing dread crept in—what if I ran out? What if I starved here, alone?
Two hours stretched ahead until 6 p.m.—too long for a meal, too short for a nap. I scanned the room for something to distract me while I ate the "masterpiece" I'd created. But there was nothing. The offline games on my phone had lost their charm, and I craved something more, something alive. Maybe I'd buy the cheapest satellite internet package or beg the supply guy for a SIM card that could catch a signal here. Otherwise, the boredom might kill me before starvation or unknown things could.
Then I saw it—the antique radio, dusty and forgotten. In this desolate place, maybe it could pick up a signal from some distant land. I just needed a voice, any voice, to break the suffocating silence.
I wiped it down and plugged it in, my fingers trembling slightly as I tuned the dial. For ten minutes, there was nothing but white noise—a hissing, crackling void that seemed to mock my desperation.
Just as I was about to give up, a faint sound emerged from the speaker. I cranked the volume to max and adjusted the signal, my heart pounding with excitement. The antenna was fully extended, the window cracked open to let in whatever ghostly frequencies might be floating in the air.
Finally, the signal stabilized. A radio station—faint, but audible. It sounded like a thriller, maybe an audiobook or a crime drama. Perfect for my meal. I closed the window, leaving just a sliver open to keep the signal alive. Outside, the sea roared, its waves crashing like an anger from mother nature.
I sat down, spooning a mouthful of chicken and beans into my mouth—and immediately spitted out. It was unbearably salty, as if I'd used seawater instead of fresh. The bitterness lingered, metallic and foul, like the meat had been preserved in brine for centuries.
Was the can spoiled? Or was it something worse? I couldn't bring myself to check the others. Exhaustion weighed me down, and the thought of cooking again felt impossible. So, I decided to boil it once more, hoping to drown out the taste. I'd force it down, no matter what.
The radio's story grew darker. It wasn't just a thriller—it was a nightmare. A woman's screams pierced the static, raw and desperate. Chains rattled, dragging across the floor. Then came the sound of metal striking wood, over and over—a butcher's cleaver, perhaps, or something far more sinister. The woman's cries grew weaker, pleading for mercy. It was as if she were chained in a corner, waiting for her turn, her fate sealed.
Wait. This wasn't an audiobook. It was too real—a recording. A chill slithered down my spine. Was some serial killer playing a tape of one of his victims? Or had I stumbled upon a radio station that reveled in broadcasting horrors? The intensity escalated. Each chop of the blade was followed by a loud scream, the butcher's voice now a guttural whisper, chanting words I couldn't understand—a ritual, a spell, something unholy. The woman begged, her voice breaking, "Please, no! Please, stop!" But the butcher only laughed, a sound that dripped with malice, as if her pain were his greatest pleasure.
"Or… is this a live broadcast?" The thought crept into my mind like a spider. "Is someone committing a crime right now, so confident that no one will hear because this station is so remote?" The idea was chilling, but it made sense. What else could explain this? I couldn't think of any other reason why a radio station would play this kind of horror.
"Or… does he know I'm here? Alone on this island? Is this a message—a warning that *You're next*?" The thought was paralyzing. I had nowhere to run, no weapon to defend myself, no boat to escape. I shook my head, trying to dispel the paranoia. "This is just like a horror movie. It can't be real. How could he know I'd turn on the radio and find this frequency? It's just a coincidence." I told myself to turn it off, finish my meal, and carry on the daily tasks. Everything would be fine.
But then the signal faltered. A long, hissing static filled the air, followed by a low, guttural laugh. And then, a single word, whispered through the void: "Hungry."
I dropped my spoon, my heart pounding like a war drum. The room felt colder, the shadows stretching longer, as if they were alive. Outside, the sea roared louder, its waves crashing with a ferocity that felt… intentional. As if it, too, were waiting.
And then, the radio went silent.
The torture had ended, but it didn't matter. I was about to turn it off when I heard it—a faint, desperate voice. "Help me… please, put me out of this… help…" The voice grew louder, more frantic, repeating the same plea over and over. I strained to listen, but the radio was already at max volume.
And then it hit me—the voice was familiar. Too familiar. It was my voice! I knew it because I'd recorded myself countless times for assignments, listening to my own voice for hours. This was unmistakably me.
My mind raced. Rule four: "The radio may turn on itself sometimes. You will hear old voices, or even your own. Do not respond, no matter how familiar it sounds. Just turn it off after the loudest scream. This should be over in a minute." But what had gone wrong? Did I turn the radio on, or did it turn itself on? If it was me, the rule didn't apply. But I'd heard my own voice—should I follow the rule? Even if I wanted to respond, there was no microphone. Should I wait for the loudest scream to turn it off, or do it now?
As I hesitated, the voice grew louder, more desperate, more real. It wasn't just coming from the radio anymore—it was leaking out, merging into reality. The crackling static connected with the human tone, wrapping around me, but I couldn't identify its source. It was everywhere and nowhere, all at once. My skin prickled as the creepy thoughts hit: If I waited another minute, as the rules demanded, the voice would fully manifest. And then, it would appear—the second me. The thing that wasn't me but had my voice like a stolen skin.
Panic surged through me. My hands trembled as I reached for the radio, twisting the volume knob until it clicked into silence. I unplugged the cord from the socket, holding the cursed device to my chest, and I rushed toward the storage room. That room was a perfect graveyard for things I didn't want to see—the mirror that seemed to watch me, the shadows that seemed to move when I turned my back. It was the prison for this damn radio.
I slammed the radio onto a dusty shelf, then gasped for air after running. I didn't dare look at the mirror. I couldn't. My reflection might not sync with me like a while ago. I locked the door with shaking hands, the click of the latch echoing like a death knell.
Back at the table, I tried to finish my meal, but the food tasted like ash, cold and salty. My body wouldn't stop trembling. My mind raced, spiraling into dark, unanswerable questions. How did it have my voice? Not just my real voice, but my recorded one too—every inflection, every pause, every breath. It wasn't mimicking. It was becoming. And if it could do that, what else could it take from me? My face? My memories? My life?
I decided to throw away the lunch. I didn't have any mood to eat anymore, my appetite was long gone. My mind spiraled uncontrollably, a whirlwind of unexplained events that left me completely drained. I glanced at my phone—4:30 p.m. Still over an hour before I had to do the daily tasks again. The radio's static-filled chatter was more than enough to scare the hell out of me.
I dragged my weary body to the bed, plugged in my earphones, and closed my eyes, hoping the familiar podcast of a comedic story I'd heard a hundred times would put me into a peaceful mood. Slowly, I drifted off, the tension in my muscles and my mind vanishing away.
But peace was just temporary.
I didn't know how long I'd been asleep when the sounds began. It wasn't the familiar sounds of my alarm, but something far more sinister—an unpleasant mixture of whispers, faint screams, and giggle laughter that seemed to come from the very walls around me. My eyes snapped open, but my body refused to move.
Sleep paralysis. I'd experienced it before, but this… this was different. The whispers grew louder, closer, their words were gibberish yet dripping with something evil. I tried to move, to scream, but my limbs were frozen, as if unseen hands pinned me down. My chest heaved against an invisible weight, each breath was a struggle, each gasp was a battle against suffocation.
The whispers surrounded me now, their voices overlapping in a chaotic symphony of terror. I could feel them—distorted figures just beyond the edge of my vision, their presence pressing in on me from all sides. And then, as suddenly as it began, it stopped. The room plunged into silence, broken only by the sound of my own gasp breathing. I bolted upright, drenched in sweat, my heart pounding like I'd just finished a marathon. The salty taste of sweat was right on my tongue.
I knew better than to go back to sleep. Every time I'd tried, the paralysis returned, dragging me into a nightmare I couldn't escape. I forced myself to move, my limbs trembling as I swung my legs over the side of the bed. My phone lay lifeless on the nightstand, its screen dark. Dead. Panic prickled at the edges of my mind, but I pushed it down. It had to be around 4:40 or 4:50 p.m., 10 out of 10 times sleep paralysis came to me at the start of falling asleep. No need to worry.
I went downstairs, tried to stay awake for a while. My phone felt colder than usual as I plugged it in, the charging light flickering weakly. I used to obsess over its battery, recharging it multiple times a day, sticking to it like an inseparable item, but now it was no different from a brick. "A few minutes", I told myself. Just enough to power it on, then I could rest again before the tasks at 6 p.m.
But as I waited, a chill crept up my spine. The whispers returned, faint at first, then growing louder, more insistent. My breath caught in my throat as I realized—they weren't coming from the walls, or inside the lighthouse.
They were coming from outside.
The roar of the sea had vanished. When did it stop? How long had I been standing here, oblivious, while the world around me twisted into something unnatural?
And the whispers were no longer whispers. They were joined by footsteps—heavy, deliberate, like something dragging itself across the earth, burdened by an unseen weight. My heart hammered in my chest as I rushed to the front door, anger and terror rising within me. Was I still trapped in paralysis? Was this a dream, or had I walked into a waking nightmare?
The outside world made me speechless.
Time and space itself seemed to have frozen. The waves still crashed against the rocks, but their movements were much slower, almost mechanical, as if the ocean had been drained of its life force. No sound accompanied them—only silence. Above, the sky was wrong. Something loomed there, a vast, indistinct shape like a colossal birdcage, its bars almost invisible but I could still see them, enclosing me and the lighthouse in a prison of unknown dimensions.
The horizon was shrinking.
I stared into the distance, my breath shallow. The edges of the world were closing in, the once-endless expanse of sea and sky folding in on itself, tightening like a noose. I was extremely panicked. This wasn't in any rule. This wasn't supposed to happen.
The whispers grew louder, closer, their rhythm accelerating. They weren't just sounds anymore—they were human voices, scraping against my eardrums. I pinched myself hard, the pain sharp and grounding. This wasn't a dream. This was real.
Then a familiar sound interrupted my mind, breaking the chaos. My phone is powered on. I quickly got inside, locked the door. The screen flickered to life, casting an unnatural glow across the room. The battery icon showed 100%, but the time… the time was wrong. It wasn't 4:50 p.m. It was 6.10 p.m, which meant I had already missed the daily task.
"Think, think, think!" I hissed to myself, my voice trembling. "There's a connection. This isn't random. It can't be."
Then it hit me—Rule One. The light must be turned on at exactly 6 p.m. every day. Not a second sooner, not a moment later. It doesn't matter if the sky is clear, choked with fog, or if the horizon is empty of ships. Sometimes, it's not about guiding anyone home.
It's about keeping them out.
I rushed for the lamp immediately, my hands shaking as I fumbled with the switch. The moment the light came to life, the whispers recoiled, the oppressive silence shattered, replaced by the familiar roar of the sea.
I turned to the window, my breath catching. The birdcage was gone, the horizon stretching endlessly into the void once more. Relief washed over me, but it was fleeting quickly.
As I stared into the darkness, I saw them— distorted shapes, faint but unmistakable, retreating into the shadows. They weren't human. They weren't anything I could name.
And I knew, deep in my soul, that they would return when darkness reclaimed its dominion, if I couldn't turn the lamp on time, or the lamp was broken. It was like a fragile barrier.
The light had saved me this time, I just needed to flip the switch. But for how long? Or if the light was broken, what could save me? The flash on my phone, or the flickering bulb in the basement? Maybe I should ask for some backup light sources from the supply guy, I should start writing a list of things for the survival kit that would come in months away.