The storm hadn't quit, not even a little, when Elias Crowe killed the station wagon's engine. The sudden silence was worse than the roar, like the world holding its breath. Rain lashed the windshield, turning Bleakspire Light into a smeared ghost beyond the glass—a gaunt tower of pitted stone, its lens dark and unblinking, squatting on a cliff that looked ready to crumble into the sea. The keeper's quarters huddled at its base, a low, sagging heap of weathered boards and cracked windows, like a dog too tired to run from its master. Elias sat there, hands still on the wheel, the key's jangle the only sound besides the storm's howl. His jacket pocket crinkled, the foreclosure notice a lead weight against his chest.
"We made it," he said, voice rough as the gravel under their tires. He didn't look at Marianne or Caleb, didn't trust himself to meet their eyes. The Hollow Road had nearly killed them, and now here they were, at the edge of nowhere, betting their lives on a lighthouse older than his granddaddy's ghost stories. He forced a grin, the kind you wear when you're selling a lie. "Our new start."
Marianne didn't answer right away. She stared at Bleakspire, her hands knotted in her lap, fingers digging into the worn wool of her coat. The lighthouse wasn't just old—it was wrong, its angles too sharp, its shadow too heavy for a place meant to guide ships home. She'd pictured something quaint, a postcard beacon with ivy and charm, not this brooding hulk that seemed to glare back. Her throat tightened, a memory of a hospital room flickering—white walls, antiseptic sting, a loss she couldn't name. She swallowed it down, like always, and turned to Caleb in the backseat. "Ready to see our new home, buddy?"
Caleb, ten and small for his age, clutched his sketchbook like a shield. His hazel eyes, too big for his pinched face, flicked from the lighthouse to the sea beyond, where waves churned like a beast pacing its cage. He hadn't shaken the whisper from the road, that tug in his chest when the car skidded, like the sea had reached for him. Now, staring at Bleakspire, he felt it again—not a voice, not yet, but a pressure, like fingers brushing the back of his neck. "It's big," he said, voice barely above the rain's drumbeat. "Too big."
Elias chuckled, the sound forced and brittle. "Big's good, kiddo. Means we got room to breathe." He opened his door, rain stinging his face like a swarm of bees, and stepped into the mud. The air was thick with salt and something heavier, a sour tang that clung to the back of his throat. He rounded the wagon, popping the trunk to grab their bags—two duffels, a suitcase, and Caleb's battered art box, all they'd salvaged from the life they'd left behind. The bank had the rest, or would soon enough.
Marianne climbed out, pulling Caleb with her. Her sneakers sank into the gravel, cold muck seeping through the seams. She shielded her eyes against the rain, Bleakspire's tower looming like a judge about to pass sentence. The quarters' windows were dark, some cracked, one boarded with warped plywood. The door, painted a peeling red, hung slightly ajar, creaking in the wind. She shivered, not just from the cold. "Looks like it hasn't been touched in years," she said, keeping her tone light for Caleb's sake.
"It's got character," Elias said, hoisting the duffels. His boots squelched as he headed for the door, shoulders hunched against the storm. "Manual said the last keeper left sudden. Place needs work, but we'll make it ours."
Marianne didn't reply, her eyes on Caleb, who stood frozen, staring at the tower. His sketchbook was tucked under his coat, but his free hand traced invisible shapes in the air—waves, maybe, or something else. She touched his shoulder, gentle but firm. "Come on, sweetheart. Let's get out of this mess."
Inside, the keeper's quarters smelled like a grave left open—mildew, salt, and something sharp, like rust or old blood. The air was damp, heavy enough to taste, and the single bulb overhead flickered, casting shadows that danced like drunks. The main room was sparse: a sagging couch, a table scarred with knife marks, a woodstove that looked like it hadn't been lit since Eisenhower. Warped floorboards groaned underfoot, and a narrow hallway led to smaller rooms—bedrooms, Elias figured, or maybe storage for whatever ghosts haunted a place like this.
Elias dropped the bags, wiping rain from his beard. "Cozy," he said, trying for a joke, but the word fell flat, swallowed by the room's chill. He crossed to the stove, checking for kindling, his hands moving on instinct. He'd been a mechanic, good with his hands, good at fixing things—cars, appliances, anything but the mess his life had become. The lighthouse was his chance to start over, to prove he could still provide. He clung to that thought, even as the bulb's buzz grated his nerves like sandpaper.
Marianne set her purse on the table, dust puffing up in a gray cloud. She scanned the room, cataloging its flaws like the librarian she was—cracked plaster, cobwebs thick as lace, a faint stain on the wall that might've been water or something worse. Her fingers itched for a broom, a bucket, anything to impose order on this chaos. She'd always been practical, the one who balanced the checkbook, who packed lunches when Elias worked late. But practicality felt like a thin shield here, in a place that seemed to resent their presence.
Caleb hung back near the door, his sneakers leaving wet prints on the floor. The lighthouse's hum was louder inside, a low throb that vibrated in his chest, like a heartbeat too big for one body. He didn't like the room, didn't like the way the shadows moved when he wasn't looking. His eyes drifted to a hallway, where a staircase climbed to a locked door—metal, rusted, rattling faintly in some unseen draft. He took a step toward it, then stopped, feeling that pressure again, heavier now, like a hand on his shoulder.
"Caleb," Marianne called, sharper than she meant. "Stay close, okay?"
He nodded, retreating to her side, but his gaze lingered on the door. He wanted to draw it, to pin it down on paper, but his pencils felt too small for whatever was up there. He hugged his sketchbook tighter, the storm's roar echoing in his ears, mingling with that whisper he couldn't shake.
Elias knelt by the stove, finding a stack of brittle logs in a corner. "We'll get a fire going," he said, more to himself than them. "Warm this place up. Make it home." But the word "home" tasted wrong, like spoiled milk. He struck a match, the flame flaring then guttering in the damp air, and for a moment, he swore the shadows leaned closer, watching.
Elias struck another match, the flame flaring brighter this time, catching the dry edges of the kindling. The woodstove hissed, spitting sparks like a cat riled up, and a thin warmth began to creep into the keeper's quarters, pushing back the damp chill. He sat back on his heels, watching the fire take hold, and felt a flicker of something like hope. It wasn't much, but it was enough to keep him moving. He stood, brushing soot from his hands, and crossed to the suitcase, pulling out a dog-eared lighthouse keeper's manual, its cover stained with coffee rings and time.
The manual was his lifeline, a map to this strange new world of gears and lenses. Elias flipped it open, squinting under the flickering bulb, his finger tracing terms he'd memorized but still didn't trust—"fresnel calibration," "wick maintenance," words that felt like they belonged to someone else's life. He'd fixed carburetors, rebuilt transmissions, but a lighthouse? That was a machine from another century, all brass and rust, and he was betting everything he could learn it fast. The bank's foreclosure notice burned in his pocket, a reminder of what happened if he failed. He muttered to himself, "Just another engine," but the words sounded hollow, drowned by the storm's growl outside.
Marianne, meanwhile, had found a cardboard box in a corner, half-buried under dust and cobwebs. She knelt, her practical hands sorting through junk—rusted screws, a cracked mug, papers yellowed to the point of crumbling. Her fingers brushed something smooth, and she pulled out a photograph, its edges curled like dead leaves. It showed a man in a keeper's coat, maybe fifty, his face carved with lines deep as fjords, staring straight at the camera. His eyes were pale, almost white in the sepia, and they seemed to follow her, unblinking, like he knew she was there. Marianne's breath caught, her mind flashing to that hospital room, the doctor's voice saying "I'm sorry." She shoved the photo back into the box, her hands trembling, and stood, dusting her knees as if she could shake off the unease.
"Caleb, don't wander," she called, her voice sharper than she meant. She turned, scanning the room, and found him halfway down the hallway, staring at the rusted metal door at the top of a narrow staircase. The door rattled, a faint clatter in the draft, and Caleb stood frozen, his sketchbook dangling from one hand. His face was pale, his eyes wide, like he'd heard something she couldn't. Marianne crossed to him, her sneakers squeaking on the warped boards, and touched his shoulder. "What's wrong, buddy?"
"It's loud," Caleb said, his voice a whisper. "Up there. Like… scratching." He didn't look at her, his gaze locked on the door, his fingers twitching as if itching to draw.
Marianne frowned, listening. The storm's howl was constant, the rain a steady drum, but she heard nothing else—no scratching, no sound beyond the lighthouse's low hum, like a pulse in the walls. "It's just the wind," she said, guiding him back to the main room. "Old places creak, that's all." But her heart wasn't in it, and Caleb's eyes stayed on the door, like he knew she was wrong.
A knock at the front door made them all jump, the sound sharp as a gunshot. Elias dropped the manual, pages fluttering, and crossed to the entrance, his boots heavy on the floor. He opened the door, rain gusting in, and found a man in a yellow slicker, his face weathered as driftwood, holding a crate of supplies—canned goods, flour, a jug of water. The man's eyes were small, darting, like he didn't want to be there any longer than he had to.
"Name's Hargis," he said, voice gruff, shoving the crate into Elias's arms. "Town sent me. Basics to get you started." He glanced past Elias, taking in Marianne and Caleb, his expression unreadable. "Place ain't lucky, you know. Keepers don't stay long."
Elias bristled, his jaw tightening. "We're staying," he said, the words more defiant than he felt. "Appreciate the supplies, though."
Hargis nodded, already backing away, rain dripping from his hood. "Lock up tight," he said, almost an afterthought. "Storm's bad, but it ain't the worst thing out here." He turned, vanishing into the deluge, his truck's headlights cutting through the mist before fading.
Elias shut the door, the crate heavy in his arms. "Friendly guy," he muttered, setting it on the table. He wanted to laugh it off, to call Hargis a small-town crank, but the man's words stuck, like a splinter under a nail. He looked at Marianne, hoping for a shared eye-roll, but she was staring at the crate, her face pale, like she'd seen the photo's eyes again.
Marianne forced herself to move, unpacking the supplies with mechanical precision—cans of beans, a sack of rice, anything to keep her hands busy. Hargis's warning echoed, joining the hospital memory, the photo's stare, Caleb's unease. She told herself it was exhaustion, the storm playing tricks, but Bleakspire felt alive, its walls watching, waiting.
Caleb sat on the couch, sketchbook open, his pencil hovering over a blank page. He wanted to draw the door, the staircase, the sound he'd heard—scratching, like nails on wood—but his hand wouldn't move. The lighthouse's hum was louder now, vibrating in his teeth, and that pressure in his chest tightened, like a hand closing slow. He looked at his parents, Elias flipping through the manual, Marianne stacking cans, and wanted to tell them to leave, to drive back through the storm. But he knew they wouldn't, not with the bank, the bills, the life they'd lost.
The bulb overhead flickered, dimming for a heartbeat, and a faint creak came from the hallway, sharp and deliberate, like a footstep on the stairs. Elias looked up, Marianne froze, and Caleb's pencil snapped in his hand. The sound didn't come again, the storm's roar swallowing it, but the room felt smaller, the shadows thicker. Elias cleared his throat, forcing a grin. "Old place," he said. "Gonna take some getting used to."
But as the fire crackled and the rain pounded, none of them believed it.