The air inside the lighthouse felt wrong.
It wasn't just cold—it was wet, as if the walls themselves were sweating. Arin clicked on his flashlight, the beam slicing through layers of dust that swirled like disturbed ash. Inside, nothing had been touched in years. The tools, the old rope coils, the cracked wooden table—all frozen in time, waiting.
Yet someone had been here.
Fresh footprints—wet, bare footprints—led across the floor, circling the room before disappearing toward the spiral staircase going up.
Arin crouched down.
The prints were small. Narrow. Human.
But there was something off: each step seemed to press too deep, like whoever made them carried more weight than their size should allow… or had been standing there for far too long.
A chill ran down his spine.
He followed the staircase with his light. It wound upward, disappearing into darkness. The tapping sound he heard earlier was gone, replaced by the slow thrumming of waves crashing outside.
At the foot of the stairs lay a single object:a brass key, green with age but polished at the edges, as if handled frequently.
He picked it up. It was warm.
Arin's flashlight flickered.
He shook it once—and froze.
A sound echoed from above.
A single footstep.
One.Only one.
But heavy—so heavy the staircase groaned under the weight.
Arin's pulse quickened. He pointed the light upward again, but darkness swallowed it whole.
"Hello?" he called, voice hoarse.
Silence.
Then another step.And this one… closer.
Arin backed away instinctively.
The step after that came faster. And faster.Someone—or something—was running down the stairs.
He stumbled, dropping his flashlight, the beam spinning wildly across the walls. Shadows stretched and twisted, making it impossible to see clearly.
The footsteps thundered closer—almost at the bottom.
He braced himself—
And then everything stopped.
The shadows froze.The lighthouse went still.A cold wind slithered through the doorway, though there was no wind outside.
Arin slowly retrieved the flashlight.
He lifted the beam toward the staircase.
Empty.
The steps were bare.
No figure. No footprints. Nothing.
But something had changed.
A new wet footprint had appeared right behind him—so close he could feel the damp cold rising from it.
It pointed toward the stairs.
As if whoever left it was standing right behind him moments ago.
Watching.
Waiting.
Arin swallowed, chest tightening.
Then he saw it.
Carved into the wood of the staircase, scratched violently into the grain:
DON'T LOOK UP.