Arin stared at the message carved into the stair.
DON'T LOOK UP.
The letters were jagged, as if carved in panic, each cut deep enough to splinter the wood. The warning was old—years old—but the edges of the carving were strangely clean. Like the wood hadn't aged. Like the message was preserved.
He shone the flashlight upward, but the beam failed long before reaching the top. The darkness above looked too dense, too thick, like it wasn't just absence of light… but the presence of something else.
Something that didn't want to be seen.
Arin exhaled slowly and backed away from the staircase.
He needed answers.
He needed to find the logbook—the old records from the last keeper.
The ground floor had a small cabinet under piles of dust and rope. Inside, beneath rusted lantern parts, he found a leather-bound journal swollen with moisture.The Lighthouse Log – Keeper Elias Crowe.
Arin recognized the name. Crowe was the last known keeper. Missing for thirty years.
He opened the journal carefully.
The first pages were normal: weather reports, supply notes, maintenance updates. Then the handwriting changed—shaky, anxious.
He flipped to the middle:
Entry 156:The footsteps came again. Three floors above. No one else is stationed here. No one is allowed to be.
Entry 162:The light turned by itself tonight. I tried to shut it off. It wouldn't let me.
Entry 170:The tower breathes. I heard it inhale when I slept.
Arin's hands trembled.
The next entry was smeared, words barely legible under water stains:
Entry 175:The thing on the stairs is not human. It has weight, but no shape, no… face.Never look up when you hear it. It learns you by sight.
Entry 176:If the black beacon turns, run. It means it has noticed you.
Entry 178 (last):It's awake again. The lighthouse… it's hungry. I can't keep it contained anymore. If anyone reads this—leave. Don't open the door. Don't listen to the—
The sentence ended abruptly, dragged off the page as if the pen was yanked from Crowe's hand.
Arin shut the journal, heart pounding.
He suddenly realized something strange.
The door he entered through… was now closed.
He hadn't touched it.
Slowly, carefully, he tried the handle.
Locked.
A drop of cold water hit the back of his neck.
He froze.Not water—condensation.
He turned around.
The staircase was dripping, as if something wet had just climbed down it.A low creaking echoed above, but it wasn't footsteps… it was slower, like weight shifting.
Like breathing.
Then came a sound so soft he nearly missed it:
Tap…
…tap…
...…tap.
Higher this time.
Not running.
Just waiting.
Arin lifted the flashlight toward the first step.
Then he saw it.
Not a figure.Not a shadow.
A handprint.
Small, narrow—and soaking wet—pressed onto the stair railing.Fresh. As if fingers had curled around it seconds ago.
And then another appeared.Right above it.Slowly. Deliberately.Flattening itself into the wood as if something invisible was climbing down, step by step.
Arin stumbled back.
A whisper drifted down the staircase, breathy and faint:
"Don't… look… up…"
The same warning from the journal.
The same warning carved into the wood.
But this voice wasn't written.
It was alive.
Right above him.