I Work As A Lighthouse Keeper. NEVER Open The Foundation Door.

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It helps me tremendously. I took the job because I didn't have much choice. My landscaping business went under in March. Too many clients who couldn't pay, too many materials I'd bought on credit. Sarah packed her bags the same week.

She said she needed someone with better prospects. That was her word for it. Prospects. Kenneth Luna called me two days after I posted my resume on some Coast Guard contractor website. He had this formal way of talking, like he was reading from a manual.

Mr. Walls, we have an opening for a lighthouse keeper at Beacon Point. Are you available for an interview? I figured it was some kind of desperate place if they were calling me that fast, but I needed work. Any work.

The interview happened at a diner in Millfield that only plays 80's rock. Kenneth showed up in his Coast Guard uniform, all pressed and official. He was probably 40 something, built like he still did push ups every morning, had this small scar above his left eyebrow that made him look serious even when he wasn't trying.

The position requires someone comfortable with isolation, he said, stirring his coffee with military skill. Beacon Point sits on a peninsula cut off from the mainland twice a day when the tide comes in. I told him isolation sounded perfect. I wasn't lying. He slid a folder across the table.

Photos of the lighthouse, some paperwork. The lighthouse looked like something from a postcard. White tower, red roof perched on Gray rocks with the ocean stretching out behind it. Pretty in that lonely way. Your duties are straightforward, Kenneth said.

Maintain the automated light system. Log weather conditions twice daily. Perform routine inspections of the structure radio. Check in with the Coast Guard every morning at O 800 hours. The pay was decent, better than what I've been making the last few months of the business anyway, room and board included.

I signed the papers right there at the diner while Def Leppard played overhead. Kenneth drove me out to see the place that afternoon. The Causeway was this narrow strip of broken concrete that connected the peninsula to the mainland. Water lapped at both sides. High tide covers this completely.

Kenneth said. Twice a day, every day, you'll learn the schedule. The lighthouse sat at the end of the peninsula like it had been there forever. Probably had been the keepers. Quarters were built into the base.

2 rooms, a kitchen, bathroom, simple stuff. A radio set up in the corner for the morning. Check insurance. The automated light system lived in a control room behind the quarters. Looked complicated, but Kenneth walked me through it, mostly just monitoring displays and replacing bulbs when they burned out.

Previous keeper left a manual, Kenneth said, pointing to a thick binder on the desk. Everything you need to know. I moved in the next week, brought what I had left, some clothes, a few books, an old radio I'd found in the garage. The quiet hit me right away. Not just no traffic or neighbors, real quiet, the kind where you can hear your own breathing.

My routine settled in pretty fast. Wake up at 7:30, radio check in at 8, weather readings at noon, and six. Walk the perimeter once a day, checking for damage or problems. The oddity light system ran itself. Mostly just had to keep an eye on the displays and make sure nothing looked wrong.

Kenneth visited once a month to check the equipment and bring supplies, fresh food, batteries, replacement parts. He always came at low tide when the Causeway was clear. Always stayed exactly 2 hours, never longer. The first visit was just business. Checked the light system, tested the radio, made sure I understood the procedures, asked if I had any problems.

I didn't. The second visit was the same. Kenneth seemed satisfied with how I was handling things. He brought groceries in a new weather logbook, asked about my mental state. I told him I was fine.

More than fine, actually. The isolation suited me. But the third visit was different. Kenneth showed up with the usual supplies, but he seemed distracted, kept looking around like he was checking for something. We went through the equipment check, but he was quieter than usual, more formal, if that was possible.

Mr. Walls, he said when we finished with the light system. I should inform you about the previous keeper. I've been wondering about that. The manual he'd left was thorough, but there were personal notes in the margins, shopping lists, doodles.

Someone had lived here before me and left in a hurry. He quit suddenly, Kenneth said after eight months. Abandoned his post in the middle of the night. Family emergency? I asked.

No Kenneth stared out the window at the water. He stole the supply boat. We found a drifting empty near the harbor three days later. Never found him. That part bugged me a little.

Not the stealing, people do stupid things when they're desperate, but leaving in the middle of the night seemed weird. Why not just quit properly? Mental breakdown? Kenneth said, like he was reading my thoughts. Isolation effects people in unexpected ways, some handle it better than others.

He turned to look at me, those stern brown eyes studying my face. You've been here two months, how are you managing? I told him the truth. The quiet didn't bother me, actually helped me think clearer than I had in years. No phones ringing, no clients complaining, no Sarah reminding me about bills we couldn't pay.

Just the ocean and the lighthouse and the simple routines that kept everything working. Some people need constant stimulation, I said. I guess I'm not one of them. Kenneth nodded, but he still looked concerned. The mind can play tricks in places like this.

If you start feeling unusual, radio immediately. Don't wait. Unusual how? Paranoia, hallucinations, obsessive thoughts. He paused.

The previous keeper reported seeing things that weren't there. Hearing voices, he became convinced someone was watching him. I figured the guy probably had issues before he came here. Isolation doesn't create problems, it just reveals them. I've been alone for two months and felt better than I had in years.

Slept through the night, ate regular meals, actually enjoyed the work. The quiet suits me perfectly, I told Kenneth. He gathered his papers and headed for the door. Remember what I said about radioing? If anything seems wrong, anything at all.

I watched him drive back across the Causeway. The tide was starting to come in. In two hours I'd be cut off again until morning. Just me and the lighthouse and the endless ocean. Exactly how I wanted it.

Tuesday morning I was doing my usual inspection of the lamp room when I found them. Deep scratches carved right into the interior glass of the Lantern housing. Not random marks either, letters clear as anything. Don't go down. I stood there for maybe 10 minutes, just staring at the thing.

The scratches were old. You could tell by the way they'd collected dust and salt residue. Probably been there for years. I figured it was some kind of joke from whoever worked here before me, maybe even before the guy Kenneth mentioned. People get weird when they're stuck alone too long.

I ran my finger along the grooves. Deep cuts. Whoever did this use something serious, probably a knife or metal tool. Had to press hard to get through the thick glass like that. The letters were maybe 2 inches tall, carved in block style.

Professional looking, almost like someone took their time. The lamp room's not that big, maybe 12 feet across. Just enough space for the light assembly and some basic maintenance equipment. I've been up here dozens of times already and somehow never noticed the message, probably because I was always focused on the light mechanism itself, not the glass housing around it.

I pulled out my daily log and wrote it down. Vandalism discovered in lamp room. Message carved into interior glass appears old. No structural damage to lighting system. That was it.

Just the facts. Honestly, it bugged me a little. Not the message itself, that was obviously some bored keeper trying to mess with whoever came next, but the fact that I'd missed it for weeks. I'm usually pretty thorough about these things. That's what Kenneth's paying me for.

I finished the rest of my inspection. Light rotation mechanism working fine. Backup systems green across the board, weather sensors clean. Everything normal except for those 4 words scratched into the glass. Don't go down where the basement.

I've been down there plenty of times already. Nothing but storage rooms and the old generator that doesn't run anymore. Some rusty equipment and boxes of spare parts. Pretty typical lighthouse stuff. Maybe it was about the tide pools below the rocks.

People probably drowned out there over the years. Made sense to warn someone about that. I kept cleaning the lens assembly and tried not to think about it. Just some previous keeper's idea of a prank, that's all. It was.

Three nights later I woke up to footsteps, heavy ones, climbing the spiral stairs that lead from my cottage up to the lamp room. Slow, deliberate steps. Someone wearing boots probably. The metal stairs ring out pretty loud when you walk on them. I checked my watch 3 in the morning exactly.

The lighthouse was supposed to be empty except for me. I grabbed my flashlight and listened for maybe 30 seconds. The footsteps kept going. One step, pause, another step, pause. Like someone was being careful not to rush.

Or maybe they were carrying something heavy. I figured it had to be Kenneth doing some kind of surprise inspection, though that didn't make much sense either. He always came during low tide in the daytime, and he would have radioed first. I put on my boots and open the cottage door. The footsteps were definitely coming from above me now, almost to the lamp room level.

Kenneth. I called up the stairwell. That you? The footsteps stopped. I waited.

Nothing, just the usual sounds of wind and waves outside. I climbed the spiral stairs with my flashlight, taking them two at a time. The metal steps felt solid under my feet, no vibration or movement that might explain phantom footsteps sounds. The lamp room door was locked from the inside, same way I always leave it.

I unlocked it and swept my flashlight around the space. Empty light assembly running normally. No sign anyone had been up there. I checked the glass housing where the message was carved. Still there, same as before, the letters caught my flashlight beam and threw weird shadows on the curved walls.

I looked around for maybe 5 more minutes, checked behind the light assembly, examined the windows, even looked up at the ceiling. Nobody there, not a soul around building settlement. I figured old lighthouses make all kinds of noises, metal expanding and contracting with temperature changes, wood beams shifting, pipes settling. That had to be it.

I locked the door again and went back down to my cottage. Took me another hour to fall asleep. The footsteps came back the next night, same time, 3:00 in the morning, exactly same pattern, too slow climb up the spiral stairs, stopping at the lamp room level. This time I didn't call out, I just grabbed my flashlight and went up there as fast as I could.

Maybe 30 seconds from hearing the first step to reaching the lamp room. Door locked from inside, empty room, light working fine. I started timing it after that. The footsteps always lasted exactly 4 minutes and 20 seconds. Always stopped at the lamp room.

Never came back down. By the 4th night I had it figured out. Had to be thermal expansion in the stair support brackets. The temperature drops pretty fast after midnight and metal contracts when it cools. Probably creates stress points that pop and crack in a rhythm.

That sounds like footsteps. Made perfect sense. I'd heard similar things in other buildings during temperature swings, except the footsteps kept coming every single night at exactly 3:00 AM. Same duration, same pattern, even when the temperature stayed steady. I started staying awake to listen for them, sitting in my kitchen with a cup of coffee, checking my watch every few minutes.

3:00 AM would roll around and there they'd be, slow, heavy steps climbing toward the lamp room. I stopped investigating after the first week. No point. I knew what I'd find up there. Empty room, locked door, everything normal.

But the sounds were starting to get to me. Not because they were scary, they weren't just because I couldn't explain them properly. I kept running through possibilities. Pipes, thermal expansion, wind patterns, structural settling, none of it really fit the pattern. The thing that bugged me most was how regular they were.

3:00 AM exactly every night. Building noises don't work like that, they're random. These footsteps had a schedule. I thought about mentioning it to Kenneth during his next supply run, but that seemed like a bad idea. He'd already warned me about the previous Keepers mental breakdown.

Hearing voices, feeling watched, paranoia, reporting mysterious footsteps probably wasn't going to help my case. I needed a logical explanation, had to be something I was missing, some simple mechanical 'cause that would make sense. Once I figured it out, I started keeping detailed notes. Time the footsteps began, duration, weather conditions, temperature readings, looking for patterns or correlations.

But the more I wrote down, the less sense it made. The footsteps didn't care about wind speed or temperature or humidity. They just came every night at 3:00 AM like clockwork. That part bugged me more than anything else, the quality of it. On the fifth night, I decided I wasn't going to sit in bed listening anymore.

That was it. I'd had enough of lying there waiting for three in the morning, like some kind of alarm clock was about to go off in my head. I got up around 2:30 and went down to the cottage's main level. Figured I'd position myself right at the base of the spiral stairs this time, not halfway up like I'd been doing right at the bottom where the metal steps started their climb to the lamp room.

I brought my flashlight and a cup of coffee that was probably too strong, sat on the bottom step with my back against the curved wall. The lighthouse was doing its thing above me, that slow rotation every 10 seconds, the beams sweeping across the water and back. I could feel the slight vibration through the metal structure.

Kind of soothing, actually. 258 on my watch. I kept checking it every 30 seconds or so. Couldn't help myself. 3:00 hit and nothing happened for maybe 10 seconds.

Then I heard them. The footsteps. But here's the thing that made my brain sort of stutter. They weren't coming from above me. They were coming from below.

I mean, I was sitting at what I thought was the bottom of the stairs, the foundation level of the lighthouse. But the sounds were definitely coming from underneath where I was sitting, like there was another level down there that I somehow missed. I stood up fast, almost spilling my coffee, aimed my flashlight down at where the spiral staircase met the floor.

And that's when I saw it. The stairs kept going. I don't know how I'd missed it before. I'd been up and down these stairs probably 100 times since I moved in, but there it was. The spiral continued downward, past what I thought was the bottom level, just three or four more steps curving down Into Darkness.

The footsteps were coming from down there, slow and heavy just like always, but they weren't climbing up to the lamp room, They were walking around somewhere beneath the foundation. I followed the sound with my flashlight beam, took those few extra steps down, and found myself in a small space I'd never seen before, maybe 8 feet across.

The walls were the same stone as the rest of the lighthouse foundation. But darker, damper. And there was a door. A steel door, painted the same Gray green as the surrounding walls, camouflaged. Basically, if you weren't looking for it with a flashlight, you'd probably walk right past it.

The paint was old and peeling in spots, but it matched well enough that in regular light it would just blend into the wall. The footsteps stopped just like that, right behind the door. I stood there for maybe 2 minutes listening. Nothing. Complete silence except for the lighthouse mechanism above and the ocean outside.

I tried the door handle. Locked, obviously. The next morning I radioed Kenneth at 800 hours like always. Did my weather report first. Partly cloudy.

Wind from the southwest at 15 knots. Visibility. Good. Then I asked him about the foundation level. Kenneth, I found something down below the cottage.

There's another level down there with a door. What's that about? Long pause, Longer than usual. Kenneth always responded pretty quick to questions. That area was sealed in 1987 following a structural assessment, he said.

Finally, his voice had that official tone he used sometimes, not the normal conversational way he talked to me. Contains only old storage materials, nothing of operational significance. Sealed how? There's a door down there. Another pause.

The entrance was welded shut as part of the safety modifications. Do not attempt to access that area, Jerry. It's not safe. I looked down at my notes from the night before, wrote welded shut with a question mark next to it. What kind of storage materials?

I don't have access to those records. Kenneth said. The crucial thing is that area is off limits for safety reasons. Focus on your regular duties. Is everything else running normally up there?

That was his way of changing the subject. Kenneth was good at that. Yeah, everything's normal, lights working fine. Weather instruments are good. Excellent.

I'll be out for the monthly supply run on the 15th. Luna out that afternoon. I went back down to look at the door again. Brought a better flashlight this time, one of those heavy duty ones Kenneth had brought with the last supply delivery. The door wasn't welded shut, not even close.

There was a padlock on it. Old and rusted, sure, but just a regular padlock you could probably cut with bolt cutters, the kind they put on storage units, nothing fancy. I ran my light around the door frame looking for Weld marks or anything that would back up Kenneth's story. Didn't see anything, just the door, the padlock, and some rust stains where water had dripped down the wall.

Over the years. Kenneth had lied to me. That part bugged me a little. I mean, I got that there might be safety issues or whatever. Maybe there really wasn't anything interesting down there.

But why make up the whole welding story when a simple it's locked for safety reasons would have worked fine? That night the footsteps happened again. 3:00 exactly 4 minutes and 20 seconds. I was down there waiting for them, sitting on those bottom steps with my flashlight off, just listening. The sounds were definitely coming from behind that door.

Someone or something walking around in whatever space was back there. Steady pace, heavy boots, the same pattern every single night. But there was nobody down there. Couldn't be. The padlock was on the outside of the door.

You can't lock yourself into a room from the outside. I started checking that padlock every day. Part of my new routine. Morning radio, check. Weather readings, Equipment inspection, padlock, check.

The thing never moved. Same position, same amount of rust, same scratches in the metal. But every night, 3 in the morning, something walked around behind that door. The whole thing was turning into an itch I couldn't scratch during the day. I'd be doing my normal maintenance work, but part of my brain was always thinking about that door, what Kenneth wasn't telling me, why he'd lied about the welding, what was down there that needed to be kept locked up.

I started researching the lighthouse online during my free time. Found some old Coast Guard records, newspaper articles about when it was built, nothing about any structural problems in 1987, nothing about sealing off parts of the building. The more I looked into it, the more questions I had and the more Kenneth's evasive answers bothered me.

By the end of the week, I wasn't just curious anymore, I was obsessed. That's the honest truth. The whole thing had gotten under my skin in a way that probably wasn't healthy. I'd lie awake before 3:00 in the morning thinking about what might be behind that door. During my daily walks around the lighthouse, I'd look for other entrances to that lower level.

There weren't any, just the one door with its rusted padlock and its nightly visitor that couldn't possibly exist. The footsteps kept coming every night, exactly on schedule, and I kept going down there to listen. Tuesday afternoon, the fog rolled in. Thick. I'm talking.

Can't see your own hand? Thick, the kind that makes the lighthouse beam look like it's cutting through Gray cotton. Perfect cover if you're planning to do something stupid. I grabbed the crowbar from Kenneth's last supply run. Heavy thing, maybe 2 feet long, Felt solid in my hands when I tested the weight.

I figured if Kenneth showed up early for some reason, I could always say I was checking foundation cracks or something. Guy wouldn't see me from 10 feet away in that fog. Anyway, the padlock was older than I thought. Rust had eaten through half the metal, and when I wedged the crowbar behind the shackle, the whole thing practically crumbled.

Took maybe 30 seconds of pressure before it snapped clean through. That's when the smell hit me. Brine. Yeah, expected that. Ocean waters seeps into everything around here, but underneath that was something else, something that made my stomach clench.

Uptight, like when you find a dead seagull that's been baking in the sun for a week. Decay, that's what it was. The door swung open easy. No squeaking hinges or resistance, just darkness going down at a steep angle. I clicked on my flashlight and aimed it into the hole.

Stone steps carved right out of the rock, worn smooth in the middle where people had walked for God knows how long. The beam didn't reach the bottom, just showed me maybe six or seven steps before the light got swallowed up. I should have walked away right then, should have locked that door back up and thrown the broken padlock in the ocean.

But you know how it is when you've been obsessing over something for days. Logic kind of takes a back seat. I went down. The steps were slippery. Not wet exactly, but damp enough that my boots didn't grip right.

I kept one hand on the wall for balance and held the flashlight with the other. Each step down made the smell stronger. That mix of salt and rot that gets in your nose and stays there. 15 steps. I counted them.

That's when I saw the first one. Guy was slumped against the left wall like he'd sat down for a break and never got back up, still wearing his keeper's uniform, the old style kind with brass buttons and a peaked cap. The cap had fallen off and was sitting next to his feet. What was left of them?

The uniform looked vintage like, something from the 50s or 60s, dark blue wool that had faded to Gray in places. The guy's face was mostly gone, just dried, skin stretched over bone, eye sockets black and empty. I stood there for maybe a full minute, trying to process what I was looking at. Dead lighthouse keeper in the basement that Kenneth definitely knew about.

My hands started shaking a little. Not panic, just adrenaline. I kept the flashlight beam on the body and tried to think through what this meant. How long had this guy been down here? Why hadn't anyone moved him?

Then I heard something behind me, soft scraping sound, like fabric against stone. I spun around and aimed the light back up the stairs. Nothing there, just the way I'd come down. When I turned back, my beam caught something else. Another body, this one about 5 steps further down.

This keeper looked newer, still had some flesh on him, though it was Gray and bloated in places where the uniform had pulled tight. His face was turned toward the wall, but I could see enough to know he hadn't been dead as long as the first one. My mouth went dry. 2 dead keepers in a basement that was supposed to be sealed for safety reasons.

I kept going down. The third body was halfway to the bottom, newer, still, maybe a few months dead. Hard to tell in this environment. The 4th 1 looked like he'd only been there a few weeks. The 5th, the fifth one, still had skin that looked almost normal, pale and waxy, but not decomposed.

His eyes were open, staring at nothing, mouth hanging slack like he'd been trying to say something when he died. 5 dead lighthouse keepers, all wearing uniforms from different decades. I reached the bottom and stopped. The stairs opened into a circular chamber, maybe 30 feet across. Natural stone walls curved around like we were inside a giant well.

My flashlight beam swept the perimeter, and that's when I saw the writing Scratches. Hundreds of them, covering every inch of wall space I could see. They come at high tide, was carved deep near the entrance. Below that the water brings them further around. Don't let them in.

Repeated over and over in different handwriting. Some messages looked old, worn smooth by time. Others were fresh. The stone dust still visible in the grooves. In the center of the chamber was a pool.

Natural depression in the rock floor, maybe 6 feet across. Dark water that reflected my flashlight beam like black glass. I could hear it moving, a soft lapping sound that meant it connected to the ocean somehow. That's when I noticed the water level. It was rising.

High tide had to be. I stepped closer to the pool, trying to see how deep it went. The water was clear near the edges, just dark because of the depth. I could make out the bottom maybe 3 feet down, where the rock continued into what looked like a tunnel. Something moved in the water, just a ripple at first, like a fish surfacing, but the shape that broke through wasn't any fish I'd ever seen.

It was a face, almost human, but wrong in every way that mattered. Pale skin like wet leather, eyes too big and completely black, no whites at all. The thing looked right at me and smiled. Rows of teeth, needle sharp and way too many of them. It started pulling itself out of the pool.

I ran, didn't think about it, didn't try to get a better look, just turned and hauled ass up those stone steps as fast as my legs would carry me. Behind me I could hear wet dragging sounds like something heavy being pulled across rock. The dead keepers flashed past my light beam as I climbed 5 bodies that had seen the same thing.

I just saw five guys who probably tried to handle it differently. I hit the door and slammed it shut, then jammed the crowbar through the handle and twisted it sideways. The metal bar caught against the door frame and held tight. Something hit the other side of the door hard, then again. From the door and.

Stood there in the fog, breathing hard and trying not to think about what I just seen. My hands were. Shaking for real now. The crowbar had. Left scratches in the.

Paint where I'd forced it through the handle. The impact stopped. I waited. There for maybe 10. Minutes, but nothing else happened.

Just the sound of fog dripping off the lighthouse rails and my own heartbeat hammering in my ears. The door held for now. I didn't even wait for my hands to stop shaking, went straight to the. Radio at 4:00. 30 and called.

Kenneth had to try three times before he answered. Kenneth, it's Jerry. We need to talk static. For a few seconds. Jerry, you're not scheduled for check in until O 800 hours tomorrow.

Yeah. Well, I'm calling. Now I kept my. Voice steady, but my. Free hand was still trembling.

I need you to. Tell me what's really. Down there, long pause, longer than usual. What do you mean? Jerry.

Cut the bullshit, Kenneth. I opened the door. The silence. Stretched so long. I thought the radio died then Kenneth's voice came back different, tired, like he'd been expecting this call for months.

Jerry. Listen to me very. Carefully. Did you go inside? I saw them.

Five bodies and something else, Something that came out of the water. Kenneth swore, Actually swore. First time I'd heard him use anything stronger than darn in four months. Are you hurt? Did it touch you?

No. I got out. Barricaded the door with a crowbar. I wiped. My forehead with my.

Sleeve still sweating even though the fog had cooled everything down but. I need to know. What I'm dealing with here? Another pause. I could hear.

Kenneth breathing through the. Radio static, Jerry. What I'm about to? Tell you doesn't leave this conversation, Understood. Just tell me.

Kenneth's voice dropped to barely above a whisper. Had to turn the volume all the way up. Those things have been down there longer than the lighthouse. Hell, longer than any human settlement on this coast. We think there's some kind of ancient species live in underwater cave systems that connect to the ocean floor.

I sat down hard in the radio chair. Ancient species. The lighthouse. Was built over 1. Of their access points wasn't intentional.

The original construction crew in 1873 had no idea what they were building on top of. So why not move it? Why keep people here? Because the light keeps them dormant. Something about the rotation, the intensity.

We figured it. Out after the first. Few keepers went missing in the 1880s. My mouth. Felt dry.

Missing the Coast Guard. 'S been maintaining this. Place for over a century, Jerry. Not just for navigation, the beacons. The only thing that keeps those creatures from spreading along the coast, I thought. About the carved messages.

On the walls, all those different hands, all those warnings. The previous keepers, the. Ones who disappeared. Most of them found the entrance eventually. Curiosity kills more than cats, turns out, Kenneth. 'S voice got even.

Quieter, some lost. Their minds before they. Ever made it down there just knowing something was underneath? Drove them crazy, but some. Went down.

Yeah, and some came back up for a while. I didn't like the sound of that. What do you mean? For a while. The ones who saw them and lived, they changed.

Stopped eating, stop sleeping, started talking about hearing voices, feeling watched. Eventually they'd go back down. Always at night, always during high tide. The five bodies. Different states of decay, different time periods.

That's them in the chamber. Probably we never recovered most of them. Kenneth paused. Jerry, I need to ask you something crucial. When you saw the creature, did it see you?

I remember. Those black eyes. That smile. Yeah, it looked right at me. Kenneth swore again.

That's not good. Once they know someone's been down there, they get active. The light doesn't work as well. What does that mean? It means you need.

To get off that. Lighthouse Tonight I looked out the. Window at the fog. Couldn't see more than 10 feet in any direction. Kenneth, it's thick as soup out here and high tides coming.

I don't care. I'm sending the supply boat. Be ready to leave in 2 hours. 2 hours. Kenneth, the causeway's already underwater.

Has been for an hour. Silence again, then typing sounds through the radio. Kenneth checking his tide charts. Jesus, you're right. High tides early today.

Storm system pushed it ahead of schedule. My stomach dropped. How early? Six hours. You're stuck until morning.

I stood up and looked toward the barricaded door. Couldn't see it through the fog, but I knew it was there, knew something was behind it. Kenneth, what happens if they get out? They won't. That door's.

Solid steel, and the Beacon's still running. But what if they do? Kenneth didn't. Answer for a long. Time.

When he did, his voice sounded older. Just keep. That light running Jerry. No matter what you hear, no matter what happens, that beacon's the only thing between you and them. The radio crackled.

Connection was getting worse with the fog. I'll have a boat there at first light. 6:00 AM sharp. Be ready to move, Kenneth. Wait.

Static. Then nothing. I tried calling back three times. No answer. So there I was, alone in the fog with five dead lighthouse keepers and whatever the hell had crawled out of that pool.

The sun was already getting low, maybe 2 hours of daylight left. I checked the beacon controls, everything running normal, light rotating every 10 seconds like clockwork. Backup systems, green fuel levels. Good. That's when I heard it.

Wet sounds like something dragging itself across stone, coming from the direction of the barricaded door. I grabbed the binoculars and went to the window, facing that way. Couldn't see anything through the fog, but the sounds were getting louder, rhythmic, scraping like claws on rock. Then silence. I waited 5 minutes.

Nothing. The sun kept dropping, fog getting thicker, and I. Started thinking about what? Kenneth had said the beacon. Keeps them dormant.

Once they know someone's been down there, they get active. I'd open. That door seen. That thing in the water made eye contact with something that had been sleeping under this lighthouse for God knows how long. The scraping started again, closer this time.

I checked my watch, 7/15 still an hour. Until full dark. The beacon kept turning above me, steady white light cutting through the fog every 10 seconds, my only protection against whatever was stirring below 10 hours. Until Kenneth's boat. Arrived.

I wasn't sure the. Light would be enough.