I'm on the dock at 11pm and the old lighthouse is flashing. Not blinking like it's broken—steady, intentional, twice every minute. Perfect rhythm. The town said that door's been locked since the '80s. No one climbed those stairs. But that light keeps going. And I'm standing here wondering if I'm about to learn something I shouldn't.

I text my friend Jake: 'the lighthouse light is on.' / He: 'no it's not, it's been dark forever.' / 'I'm literally looking at it right now.' / He calls. 'Don't go there, Mara.'

I'm walking toward the gate. My phone's losing signal. I can see the light clearer now—it's coming from the top room. The door should be chained. But when I get to the fence: the chain is on the ground.

I'm halfway to the door when I see movement in the lamp room window. A shadow. Tall. Slow-moving. It turns toward me. It sees me seeing it. And it stops moving.