The old lighthouse stood on the edge of Blackwater Cove,

 The old lighthouse stood on the edge of Blackwater Cove

, a remote, rocky coastline where waves crashed against cliffs and a constant fog cloaked everything in eerie silence. No one lived near the lighthouse anymore, not after the night twenty years ago, when the light inexplicably went out, and the shipwreck happened.

A storm had swept through the cove that night, and the merchant ship, The Resolute, missed the darkened beacon, crashing into the rocks below. Only a few bodies washed ashore, and some townsfolk said they’d seen faces floating in the water, haunting the coastline with their twisted expressions and pleading eyes. But the strangest thing was the one body they couldn’t find: the lighthouse keeper himself, who was supposed to be guiding the ships to safety.

Since then, the lighthouse was left abandoned. But on certain nights, like tonight, townsfolk claimed to see a dim light flickering within the tower, and sometimes, just barely, hear the faint tolling of a bell.

James had heard the stories growing up. His grandmother used to scare him with tales of The Resolute’s ghostly passengers, left to wander the cliffs in search of the lighthouse keeper. But now he was older, and none of that seemed to matter—until he took a bet from his friends to stay the night in the old lighthouse.

He trudged up the path, laughing it off as his friends jeered and joked from the base of the hill. The door creaked open with a gentle push, and the stale scent of seawater and dust filled the air as he stepped inside. 

The tower was cold and silent, each footstep echoing up the spiral staircase as he climbed, his flashlight illuminating strange marks on the stone walls. At the top, he reached the glassed-in light room. His flashlight flickered, then went out, leaving him in near darkness. Only the dull glow of the moon shone through the fogged glass.

Suddenly, he felt a cold draft, as though a door had opened. He spun around, but no one was there. Just the thickening shadows in the corners. He called out, his voice trembling.

In the silence that followed, a faint whisper floated through the air: “Where were you… that night?”

James froze. The whisper grew louder, angrier, echoing off the walls. "You let us drown…”

Terrified, he stumbled back, only to feel a bony hand clutch his shoulder. He spun around, and there stood a man, drenched, seaweed hanging from his hollow eyes and lips twisted in rage.

Before James could scream, the man spoke in a guttural voice, water dripping from his mouth. “We’ve been waiting… for the keeper.”

The walls around him seemed to close in, ghostly faces emerging from the shadows, their eyes hollow, locked on him. One by one, the spirits of The Resolute’s passengers rose from the darkness, their hands reaching for him, pulling him into their icy grasp.

His friends waited by the hill all night, laughing at how scared James would be. But as dawn broke, they found the lighthouse door swinging open, empty except for the silence… and a single footprint wet with seawater, leading back to the cliffs. 

No one ever saw James again. But some say that on stormy nights, if you stand close enough to the cliffs, you can hear his voice, calling for the lighthouse keeper who never returned