Beacon of the Deep

When the light goes out, the darkness awakens.

The wind howled through the cliffs of Ebonreach, hurling sea spray high into the air. Waves battered the base of the lone lighthouse, the ancient structure standing like a sentinel at the edge of the world. For as long as anyone in the village could remember, the light had never gone out—not during storms, not during wars, not even during the night the sea swallowed the fishing fleet whole.

That was before the lightkeeper vanished.

Seventeen-year-old Mara Thorn had grown up with the lighthouse in her periphery. Her late mother used to tell her stories about the “Watcher in the Fog,” an ancient spirit kept at bay by the beam of the lighthouse. Mara had always dismissed them as bedtime tales, something to scare children away from the cliffs. But when Old Jareth, the last lightkeeper, didn’t show up for his weekly supply run, and the light atop the lighthouse flickered out that very night, Mara felt a chill deeper than the ocean itself.

No one in the village dared go up to check. They muttered about curses and shadows in the surf. Some even packed up and left, saying the sea was restless again. But Mara had always been different. Her mother had died at sea, and her father vanished five years later under similar strange circumstances. She had too many questions—and maybe, just maybe, the lighthouse held some answers.

Armed with her mother’s old lantern and a satchel full of dry matches, Mara made her way up the winding cliff path. Rain lashed her coat, and the wind tried to throw her off the trail, but she pressed forward, drawn by the dark shape looming in the storm. The lighthouse door stood ajar, creaking gently on rusted hinges.

Inside, the air smelled of salt, oil, and something older—something wrong.

She climbed the spiral staircase, her footsteps echoing through the tower. At the top, in the light chamber, the great lens stood motionless, its gears silent. Cobwebs clung to the walls, and dust had settled thick on the console. But it wasn’t abandonment that struck her—it was the sense that something had interrupted this place. There were signs of a struggle. A shattered lantern. A smear of black soot across the floor.

Then she heard it.

A low moan, like the cry of a dying whale, carried on the wind. But it didn’t come from outside. It came from beneath.

Mara found the hidden trapdoor beneath a rug in the storage room. It opened with a shriek, revealing a spiral staircase descending into darkness. She hesitated—then lit her lantern and stepped down.

The tunnel was impossibly old, carved into the stone beneath the lighthouse. Strange markings lined the walls, symbols her mother had once sketched in her journals. As she descended, the air grew damp and heavy, filled with whispers that weren’t hers.

At the bottom, the tunnel opened into a chamber lit by flickering blue light. In the center stood a pedestal, and on it, a cracked orb pulsed faintly. Chains wrapped around the pedestal and ran into the walls, as if something were being held here.

And there, beside it, was Jareth.

Or what was left of him.

His body was twisted, eyes wide in horror, mouth open in a scream that had never finished. Around him, shadow-like tendrils curled and shifted, forming vague, humanoid shapes.

Mara backed away, but a voice—deep, rumbling, and old as the sea—filled the chamber.

"You let the light go out. You broke the seal."

She turned to flee, but the shadows moved faster, blocking the path. Her lantern flared, reacting to their presence, its flame growing brighter as they closed in.

"The light was never meant to guide ships," the voice continued. "It was a prison. A warning. And now, you must choose—rekindle the flame, or be the last to drown."

Heart pounding, Mara raised the lantern high. Its flame shot toward the orb on the pedestal, striking it with a blinding flash. The chamber shook, the chains rattling violently. The shadows shrieked and recoiled, and for a moment, everything was light.

Then silence.

When Mara opened her eyes, she was alone. The orb now glowed steadily, and the chains were tight once more. The whispers had stopped.

She climbed back to the top of the lighthouse. The console flickered to life with a low hum. She turned the crank, and the great lens rotated, casting its beam once more into the sea.

Back in the village, people emerged from their homes, eyes wide as the light cut through the storm once again. The air felt lighter. The waves calmed.

Mara stayed in the tower that night, watching the sea.

She was the new lightkeeper now.

And she would not let the darkness rise again.