The old lighthouse on the edge of Blackmoor Bay had been abandoned for over thirty years, its once-proud structure now a skeletal silhouette against the stormy sky. Locals whispered about strange occurrences—lights flickering inside when no one was there, the sound of a distant bell ringing at midnight, and shadows that moved when no one was near. Most people avoided it, but a few curious souls, like the retired historian Elias Wren, found themselves drawn to the place. Elias had spent his life studying forgotten histories and obscure folklore. When he stumbled upon an old journal in a dusty attic, he felt compelled to visit the lighthouse. The journal belonged to a man named Thomas Hargrove, who had worked as a lighthouse keeper in 1923. His entries spoke of “a presence” that watched from the darkness, a being that seemed to understand the thoughts of those who entered the tower. Curious and skeptical, Elias arrived at the lighthouse just before dawn. The air was thick with salt and damp wood, and the wind howled through the broken windows like a mourning wail. He climbed the spiral staircase, each step creaking under his weight. The interior was cold, the walls lined with rusted metal and faded paint. At the top, he found the beacon room, where a single bulb hung from the ceiling, casting long shadows across the floor. As he stood there, something shifted in the corner of his eye. He turned quickly, but nothing was there. A chill ran down his spine, but he dismissed it as the cold. He opened the journal again, reading aloud the final entry: “It knows what I’ve seen. It watches me even when I’m not looking. I can’t leave. It won’t let me.” Suddenly, the light above him flickered. Not the bulb, but the actual beacon, which hadn’t functioned in decades. It pulsed once, then twice, casting a dim glow across the room. Elias froze. He reached for his flashlight, but it wouldn’t turn on. He tried again, then again, until he realized the batteries had died. He was alone in the dark, with only the echo of his own breath. Then, he heard it—a soft whisper, not in the air, but inside his mind. It said his name. Elias spun around, heart pounding. “Who’s there?” he called out. No answer. Just silence, thick and heavy. He descended the stairs slowly, every footfall echoing in the empty tower. As he reached the ground floor, he noticed something strange: the door behind him had closed, though he was certain he had left it open. He tried to push it, but it didn’t budge. He looked up and saw a faint glow coming from the upper floor, the same light he had seen earlier. He climbed back up, trembling, and found himself in the beacon room once more. This time, the light was brighter, pulsing in a steady rhythm. The journal lay open on the desk, and the last page had a new entry written in shaky handwriting: “It is here now. It has always been here. It is waiting for you.” Elias backed away, his breath shallow. He tried to leave, but the door was locked from the inside. Panic set in. He pounded on the door, shouting for help. No one answered. The light above him grew brighter, and the whispers returned, louder this time, filling his mind with voices too fast to understand. Then, as suddenly as it began, everything stopped. The light went out. The whispers vanished. The door swung open, as if pushed by an unseen hand. Elias stumbled outside, gasping for air, the morning sun blinding after the darkness. He looked back at the lighthouse, now silent and still, as if nothing had happened. Over the next few days, Elias tried to convince himself it had all been a dream. But the journal remained in his possession, and the pages were now filled with strange symbols, none of which he recognized. He could not recall writing them. One night, he woke up to find the journal open on his desk, the same words appearing in the margins: “It is waiting.” He never returned to the lighthouse again. But sometimes, when the wind howled through the trees, he swore he could hear the distant sound of a bell, and the feeling that something was watching him, just beyond the edge of the light.