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The Lighthouse Keeper's Log Shaina Tranquilino September 22, 2024

Day 1 The sea is restless tonight. Waves crash against the rocks below, and the wind howls through the lighthouse, rattling the windows. There’s a fog rolling in, thick and suffocating. I can barely see past the edge of the cliff, and yet… there it is again. A light. Flickering, out on the horizon.

It’s faint, but unmistakable. A ship, perhaps, though no vessel should be this far north in this weather. I’ve sent out the usual signal—no response. Odd. But perhaps they’re just out of range. I’ll keep watch through the night.

Day 3 The light returned again last night. I’m beginning to doubt my senses. It moves, not like a ship, but with a strange, deliberate rhythm. It disappears beneath the waves, only to reappear moments later, closer. I watched it for hours, mesmerized, trying to understand what I was seeing.

I reported the sighting to the mainland, but the response was dismissive. “No known ships in the area,” they said. “Possibly a trick of the light.” A trick of the light. Am I imagining it?

Tonight, I will keep detailed notes on its movements. Something is out there. I can feel it.

Day 5 I’ve barely slept. The light comes each night, always at the same time, always in the same place. Tonight, it was closer than before—too close. The rhythm has become more erratic, almost like it’s… signaling.

I know how this sounds, but I swear the light is alive. It’s watching me. Waiting.

I’ve started hearing things, too. Strange sounds beneath the crash of the waves. A low hum, like a voice just out of earshot, whispering through the fog. I’m not sure what it’s saying, but it fills me with a dread I can’t shake.

I tried to ignore it, to focus on my duties, but my mind keeps drifting back to the sea, to the light. I feel as though something is calling me. I must stay vigilant. I mustn’t let it draw me in.

Day 7 I saw it clearly tonight. Not a ship. Not a flare. Something else. Something unnatural.

It rose from the depths, a glowing orb, hovering just above the water’s surface. The light it emitted wasn’t like anything I’ve ever seen—pale and cold, with an otherworldly sheen. It pulsed slowly, in time with my heartbeat, or so it seemed. For a moment, I was frozen, unable to look away.

Then, I heard the sound again. Louder this time. A voice, no longer a whisper. It spoke my name.

I ran inside, bolted the door, and shut all the windows, but I could still feel it. Watching. Waiting.

Day 9 I dreamt of the sea last night. Dark and endless, stretching out in every direction. The light was there, beneath the surface, pulling me down. I woke gasping for air, drenched in sweat.

I can’t shake the feeling that the light is getting closer each night. There’s a madness creeping into my mind, twisting my thoughts, making me doubt what’s real and what isn’t. I’ve tried to contact the mainland again, but the radio is dead. The storm last night must’ve damaged the lines. I am utterly alone out here.

I’ve started keeping the lantern lit at all times, but it does nothing to ease my fear. The light outside grows stronger. It’s as if it’s challenging me.

Day 11 It spoke again tonight. Louder this time. Clearer. Not my name, but something else. Words I didn’t understand, but they echoed in my mind long after the sound faded.

I went outside, against my better judgment, to face it. The fog was thick, but the light cut through, illuminating the shore in that same eerie glow. It was waiting for me, just beyond the rocks.

I called out to it—demanded to know what it wanted. No answer. Just that same pulsing light, drawing me in.

It wants me to follow. I know this now.

I’m losing my grip on reality. I can feel it, slipping through my fingers like sand. But I have to know. I have to understand what it is.

Day 13 The light is in my dreams now, constant and unyielding. It’s no longer content to stay on the horizon. Last night, it hovered just outside the lighthouse, bathing the walls in its cold glow.

I couldn’t help myself. I went outside again, to the edge of the cliff. The waves crashed below, and there, in the water, it waited. But it wasn’t alone this time. Shapes moved beneath the surface—dark, sinuous forms, circling the light like moths to a flame.

I stood there for what felt like hours, watching them. Watching it.

I could hear the voice again, louder than ever, and for the first time, I understood. “Come.” That’s what it was saying. “Come.”

Day 14 I’m not sure how much longer I can resist.

The light calls to me, day and night. I hear it even when I’m inside, whispering through the walls, through my thoughts. It promises answers, secrets hidden beneath the waves. I am so close now, I can feel it. The truth, just beyond my reach.

But the cost… I fear what it will demand of me. My mind, my soul, my very being. It would be so easy to give in. So easy to let go.

I must stay strong. I mustn’t follow. But the light, it’s always there, waiting, watching.

Day 15 This will be my final entry.

I’ve made my decision. The light will not be denied, and I no longer have the strength to fight it. I’ve seen what lies beneath the waves, and it is beautiful. Terrible, but beautiful.

There are things in this world, in this universe, that we were never meant to understand. I know this now. But the light has chosen me. It wants me to see.

I will go to it tonight, to the edge of the sea. To the place where the land meets the water, and the sky meets the depths. I will follow the light, wherever it leads.

And when the fog rolls in, when the tide pulls me under, I will finally know the truth.

The lighthouse was found abandoned the next day. The keeper's boat was missing, though no sign of it or him was ever discovered. The logs remain, his final words a mystery, unsolved and whispered about by those who dare to keep watch at the edge of the world.

The Insistent Whisper Shaina Tranquilino October 11, 2024

Detective Aaron Greaves sat in his car, staring out at the cold rain that slicked the streets of Hollowbrook. The town was small, sleepy, but not without its horrors. Eight people had vanished in as many weeks, leaving no trace, no evidence, and no hope. Greaves had investigated homicides for over fifteen years, but this case was different. No blood, no bodies, just an ever-present sense of something watching. He took a drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling lazily toward the cracked window. His eyes flickered toward the abandoned mill, where the most recent victim, a schoolteacher, had last been seen. The place was a ruin, decaying and forgotten, but Greaves couldn't shake the feeling that something there held answers — something hidden, waiting to be found.

He was about to step out of the car when he heard it for the first time.

"I know who did it."

Greaves froze, the cigarette burning low between his fingers. The voice had come from the back seat — faint, a whisper just above a breath. He spun around, the shadows thick in the back of the car, but no one was there.

He turned back, shook his head. Stress, he told himself. Too many late nights, too many dead ends. He crushed the cigarette into the ashtray and climbed out of the car, ignoring the faint chill crawling down his spine.

The second time, it was louder.

"I know who did it."

Greaves was standing by the mill's entrance, flashlight sweeping through the yawning blackness beyond. The voice was clear, like someone standing just behind him. He turned again, sharply this time, his heart thudding. The only sound was the rain tapping against the rotting wood of the building.

"Who's there?" he called, his voice firm but betraying a note of unease. Silence answered him.

He entered the mill, his footsteps echoing on the damp floorboards. The air was thick with rot, the smell of mold curling into his nostrils. He pushed deeper inside, heart beating fast, senses on high alert. The voice hadn’t come again, but it lingered in his thoughts, gnawing at his nerves.

By the time he reached the center of the mill, he felt it again: a presence, unseen but palpable. His flashlight flickered, casting long, shifting shadows along the walls.

"I know who did it," the whisper came again, this time insistent.

Greaves whipped around, his flashlight beam shaking. "Who are you?" he demanded, voice rough.

The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. Then, the whisper came once more, closer this time, intimate.

"I can tell you... but there’s a price."

Greaves’ blood ran cold. The whisper wasn’t coming from outside him. It was inside his head, curling through his mind like smoke. His grip tightened on the flashlight.

"I don’t make deals with voices in my head," he muttered, trying to shake off the growing unease. But something about the whisper felt ancient, powerful. It slithered through his thoughts like it belonged there.

"You want to know, don’t you? The killer’s right under your nose. I can show you. But first… you must give me something in return."

Greaves pressed a hand to his temple, willing the voice away. "What are you?"

"What I am doesn’t matter, Detective. What matters is that I know the truth. And you… you want to catch him, don’t you?"

He felt it — the overwhelming urge to agree. His head ached, the pressure of the voice building.

"A simple price. A memory. One precious moment — that's all I need."

Greaves swallowed hard, his mind racing. His fingers twitched toward his gun, but he knew it would do no good. This wasn’t a person. It was something else. Something older. Something dark.

"What kind of memory?" he asked, against his better judgment.

"Something precious. Perhaps the day your daughter was born? Or the last words your wife said to you before she died?"

His heart lurched painfully at the mention of his wife. He hadn’t spoken to anyone about her in years. The wound still felt fresh, the loss a raw nerve in his soul. He gritted his teeth. "No."

The whisper chuckled, low and mocking.

"It’s a small price, Detective. You want to catch him, don’t you? You want to end this?"

Greaves’ mind wavered. He could feel the memories shifting in his head, the warmth of his wife’s smile, the softness of her voice on the last morning before the accident.

"One memory. Just one... and I will give you the name."

Greaves’ heart pounded in his chest. The image of the missing faces swam before him. Eight people, lost, their families torn apart. He was so close. But the memory of his wife was all he had left. If he lost that…

"Time’s running out, Detective." The whisper turned cold, sharp, pressing in. "Another will disappear tonight. Do you really want that on your conscience?"

His hands shook, indecision clawing at him. He squeezed his eyes shut, her voice echoing in his mind, the last real thread to his old life.

"Choose."

The word echoed in the hollow of his skull.

With a trembling breath, Greaves whispered, "Take it."

The world shifted. He felt a searing pain in his chest, a ripping sensation deep within his mind, and suddenly, the memory was gone. He reached for it, but it was like trying to grab smoke. His wife’s face, her voice, her last day—it was all a blur, something distant, like a half-forgotten dream.

The whisper coiled in his mind, triumphant.

"Good. The name you seek is Marcus Vane."

Greaves’ eyes snapped open. Marcus Vane. His own partner.

Cold realization settled in. He stumbled back, breathless, the weight of the truth crashing down on him. He knew Marcus, had worked with him for years. He never suspected…

The voice slithered back into his thoughts, laughing softly.

"Enjoy the truth, Detective. It will cost you more than you know."

And then, silence.

Greaves stood alone in the empty mill, the name echoing in his hollowed mind. The whisper was gone, but so was the memory of the one person he had loved the most. All for the truth.

And now, the truth felt like a curse.