The Journey of the Hallways of the Dark Lighthouse Is a Long One

The ruins of the original lighthouse watched in silence from that crumbling cliff over those stormy seas, black as a soul, extinguished and left dead centuries before. Abandoned many moons ago, long left to rest in a quiet alcove, with the townsfolk of the village not far recalling tales of grisly discoveries. These are the ghost stories of spectral shapes and haunting sighs, whispered on the breath of the courageous who dared approach.

The lighthouse was the fabled site of so many tragic happenings that Claire a spunky 28-year-old journalist, slunk over there trying to get some quotes and possibly debunk some legends. So, one cold fall day when the sea slammed ferociously up against the cliffs below she armed her camera and notepad and went out to them. The salt held a thick flow in the air, whispering unease as she walked to the building. setScale.

Stepping onto the grass which long ago covered the paths to the lighthouse she felt an electric twinge in the air of a soil humming echoes from those who had passed through these meadows before her. There was a lighthouse in the story literally creaking in time with and in the wind cutting through a small crack high on the walls of Stonehearst, played an unforgiving croon that seemed to sound about teh whole atmosphere. The girls shivered, and her curiosity to look at what jiggled propelled her.

Vanessa pushed on the door and it crept slowly open to the sound of creaking hinges, beyond which the inside was coated in a thin layer of dust and devoid of all but artificial light. There air was dampening, musty with the scent of things rotting and dust settling; a small hint that no ar one had been here in years. Hissone of a comm and the clangor of rusted machineries rebelling in their cages: Claire snapped on her flashlight and shone life-beams into this sector erased by all nipper or ripper: peeved chairs amidst flaking photos of keepers from once upon a time—a shelfscape silted over with flick.

As she started down the stairs, she saw symbols carved into delicate swirling patters on the walls which made them wander and dance. I did not know them however, they felt sinister. The hushed whispers tickled the wind with her every stride, imperceptible yet ever present just as though akin to the lighthouse cooed at her.

“Is anyone here?” Claire's voice called, tremulous only in the quiet © The only response she got was an echo of her voice coming from the shadows. Up the winding staircase she marched, and it groaned and creaked under her.

She made it to the top, coming out into the lantern room just in time to see storm waves breaking against the cliff below, right beneath her and as they made it up she was bowled over. But then her eyes landed on the rest of her room and she thought, Oh shit. There was not anything left other than a few pieces of broken glass and a hand made whale bone lamp in shards on the floor.

In the center of this, an old battered leather diary. Claire could barely hold it, the weight of it was so exciting as she took grip! She opened it and began to read: September 14, 1898

Alas the flashing light began and I am sorry but the sea is here to stir whose however dark Fishermen speak about the voice of waves, But then I heard you. Tiny whispers weep, still they wail for my aid. But from what?

Claire felt a chill tingle down the nape of her neck as she read. Wheeling, she moved toward it only to find the room empty. Trying not to have a heart attack, she continued reading, each entry itself part of an increasing horror story of despair, solitude and insanity. October 3, 1898

The voices Are no longer silent They haunt my dreams, whisper wade into the water DOWN I go to the shores,the truth scavenge!! If I… go down, tell the world that I tried to fight till the last minute.

Claire dreaded coming to the end of the book, but it was not being dated anymore that made her particularly close the diary knowing that there would be at least when keeper had not come back. The whispers from around the darkened corners of her mind were now practically deafening, echoing dire pleas. “Help us… help us…”

Enthusiastic on exploring, claire walked down the spiral staircase and opened the door guiding her outside to walk down the rocky pathway till she stood near the seashore. That night, the sea was agitated — its waters appeared to churn and spill angrily like it had a beating heart, stoked to life by the dense fog that enveloped everything in the same listless shade of gray. She could now also clearly hear the much louder whispers by the time she got to the beach, swimming to her ankles and sucking away from the particles of beach that fell between her toes

“Who are you?” Her voice barely above a whisper, she beckoned to the mist again. “What do you want?”

Soon the fog cleared and the ghosts were stranded on land. Sad, semi-transparent, famished-glances. Her heart pounded as she recognized the lighthouse keepers from pictures she had discovered within.

One man, whose face was long with sorrowful eyes that were filled with hollowness; he too rested his atop the hilt of a sword 31 “In this desolute world of Folly and Vice. They were what was left from a deluged landscape, trapped between that world and another, forever heeding the call of the sea. We cannot find peace.”

“What happened to you?” You ok, Clairegirl? Emma queried but her voice had gone thin, the slightest panic having entered.

The woman said, "We fell because we were followed… The voices of the deep called to us… They lured us into the storm." We hunted the drowned… but we became […] We were our own Bastion of Light until it was our tomb.

Claire felt a tidal wave of empathy crash into her. “How can I help you?” They held her, trembling in their arms, as she begged them to do so and tried to ease their pain.

The woman with the trembling voice was flickering, like a candle flame first ignited. "We have to return the light." "Or it is our burden to carry from here until the day we die… You must light the tower and reveal our failings.

Claire speeded back to the lighthouse, ready to help. She pushed a few logs and rubbles to the side furiously searching for something — anything that might please her light. In the back, she found an old glass oil lamp — dusty but in perfect condition. She spilled asplash of oil and her hands shook when she fumbled with the matches.

She ignited the wick and it sputtered a tiny flame into existence which warmed and brightened most of the area. Claire positioned the lamp in the innermost part of the lantern room, its light unmovable through the dark.

As the whispers around her grew louder, the air was instantly representative and filled more a crackling energy. When they got there, Claire crouched and back away slightly it began to emit some unusual glow above. And she emerged from the shore with an expression of peace.

She whispered a note through her voice of “blessings upon you”. “You have given us hope.”

The light grew brighter, warming her and soothing her in ways that overtook even the bitter cold. They started to glow, more solid, less defined by shadow. Their eyes, turned towards the light, grateful and hungry.

And left for good after another final dazzling display, and a whispery zephyr against Jamie's nape as hundreds of whispers danced into the soft eventide draught that swelled playfully across the chamber. This was different to the lighthouse I thought you were thinking of, no longer a place of captivity but the building seemed to be alight again with souls from long ago; a sanctuary aglow.

Claire dragged herself beneath the slow sinking sun, painting golden across the water as she walked down lighthouse steps, an absolute feeling of self-realisation swelling inside her chest. For me, that old derelict was now the very opposite—a beacon of hope and grace –a statement on life recreated.

All around the village more tales of the old lighthouse would once again make this tale, they tell it were burdened that line lungless from world they had created and yet it was not so fell wrong; it also cut into another place just as cleanly. Claire, whose life was forever changed by her escapade would bring their stories to the wider world so that the notes and photos of yesterday would be remembered all times.