The road curved along the jagged coastline like a cracked spine, narrow and crumbling at the edges where the sea had begun reclaiming the land. Isabelle kept her hands tight around the steering wheel, knuckles pale, while Théo poured over a weathered map in the passenger seat, muttering to himself.
"Are you sure this is right?" she asked, breaking the heavy silence.
Théo didn't look up. His brow was furrowed, his glasses sliding down his nose. "The coordinates match. Cross-referencing the old disappearance reports, it's the only location that wasn't fully investigated." He tapped a finger on the map. "Lighthouse Saint-Cyr. Decommissioned officially... but rumors say someone kept it functional."
"And no one thought that was worth checking?"
Théo smiled grimly. "No one survived long enough to."
A shiver rippled down Isabelle's spine. She could almost feel the salt-heavy wind whispering warnings through the cracked windows. Ahead, rising from the mist like a sentinel from another world, was the lighthouse.
It stood alone at the cliff's edge, white stone mottled with dark scars from centuries of storms.
Its glass crown was intact—and worst of all, its light was on.
Pulsing. Turning.
Alive.
Isabelle pulled the car onto the overgrown shoulder and killed the engine. The lighthouse's beam swept across the cliffs and over them, a pale ghost-finger brushing across her face. She caught herself holding her breath.
Neither of them moved at first.
The place radiated something... wrong. Like it had grown old without aging. Forgotten but furious.
"We need to be careful," Isabelle said finally.
Théo nodded, sliding out of the car and adjusting the strap of his satchel. He had brought a small handheld radio and a thick notebook filled with obsessive scribbles—notes on the victims, coded messages pulled from anonymous forums, patterns that no one else had seen.
Together, they picked their way through the thorny grass, boots crunching on stones and shattered shells. The closer they got, the more Isabelle noticed little details: barnacles clinging to the lower stones; what might have been symbols, scratched into the walls near the base; and high above, a faint figure moving behind the glass.
A trick of the light.
It had to be.
The lighthouse door groaned open under Théo's touch, swinging inward to reveal a narrow spiral staircase leading up into darkness.
The smell hit her first.
Damp. Metal.
And something sweeter, rotting just beneath it.
Without a word, they entered, flashlights slicing thin beams through the gloom. Each step creaked traitorously under their weight. Isabelle's ears rang with phantom sounds—waves crashing, far-off voices, the scrape of nails on stone.
They climbed in silence.
As they neared the first landing, Théo froze. He pointed downward.
At the base of the railing, something was wedged between two posts.
A ribbon.
Faded blue, fraying at the edges.
The kind Vivienne used to wear braided into her hair.
Isabelle's heart slammed against her ribs.
Someone wanted them to find this.
She slipped the ribbon into her pocket and pressed on, feeling the walls seem to close tighter around them with every step.
Near the top of the lighthouse, the stairs branched—one leading to the light chamber, the other to a cramped maintenance room.
The door to the light was ajar.
Golden, sickly sunlight spilled out in wide, pulsing arcs.
"We check the maintenance room first," Théo whispered.
Isabelle nodded. She didn't trust what might be waiting in the light.
The maintenance room was a claustrophobic box filled with ancient equipment: rusted gears, coils of copper wire, broken radio transmitters. A thick layer of dust coated everything—except the desk at the far end.
There, neatly laid out, were dozens of polaroid photographs.
Victims.
Women, their faces frozen in varying expressions of fear, defiance, despair.
And among them—Isabelle's heart lurched—Vivienne.
Alive.
The photo was newer than the others. The background behind Vivienne was blurred, but she was unmistakable. Pale hair, fierce eyes burning even through the static grain of the image.
Isabelle traced the edge of the photo with trembling fingers.
"We're close," Théo said. His voice was tight, but she caught the faint spark in it—hope.
Isabelle tucked the photo away carefully. She had to believe it too.
That Vivienne wasn't just a ghost leading her deeper into madness.
A noise interrupted her thoughts.
Mechanical. Rhythmic.
The light above them had changed.
Instead of sweeping smoothly over the cliffs, it was stuttering. Flashing.
Théo noticed it too. He pulled out his notebook, flipping quickly to a page filled with Morse code translations.
Isabelle watched, dread sinking sharp claws into her chest.
Flash. Pause. Flash flash. Long flash.
Dots and dashes. A language of urgency.
Théo's face paled as he decoded it aloud:
"V... I... V... I... E... N... N... E..."
"Vivienne," Isabelle breathed.
The lighthouse itself was calling to them.
Or Vivienne was.
Or something else using her name.
Either way, it was a summons they couldn't ignore.
They hurried up the last flight of stairs, Isabelle's heart hammering with a wild, painful rhythm. The final door to the light chamber was heavy, its hinges protesting as she shoved it open.
Inside, the world tilted.
The glass windows around them bent the sunlight into broken rainbows. Dust motes whirled like angry wasps. The great lens turned in slow, agonizing circles, grinding on unseen gears.
And there, etched across the inner ring of the glass, freshly carved:
WITNESS. SILENCE. FEED.
The same mantra they had seen in the cathedral basement.
On the floor, discarded like a forgotten toy, was an old recorder.
Red light blinking. Still recording.
Isabelle picked it up with shaking fingers and pressed play.
Static crackled... and then a voice—Vivienne's voice—soft, desperate.
"If you're hearing this, it's already too late. He watches from the broken places. He wears your faces."
The message ended abruptly.
Isabelle staggered back, nearly slipping on the damp floor.
Théo moved to the far side of the chamber, looking out the broken window toward the cliffs.
"Look," he said.
Isabelle joined him.
Far below, near the water's edge, a figure stood.
Small. Fragile.
A woman.
She raised one arm and waved once—beckoning.
Vivienne?
Or something else?
"We have to go down," Isabelle said, her voice hardly more than a breath.
And deep inside, she felt it—the gears of this nightmare finally grinding into their final, deadly alignment.
To be continued...