Elias, the last keeper of the lighthouse, had left behind an air of mystery that clung to the place like a persistent fog. The structure stood tall and imposing, its weathered stones whispering tales of the past. I had come seeking solitude, but the moment my foot crossed the threshold, an unsettling chill crept up my spine.
As I explored the dimly lit rooms, my attention was drawn to a small, dust-covered chest tucked away in a corner. Inside, I found a journal, its pages yellowed with age. The name "Elias" was scrawled on the first page in a hurried hand. Intrigued, I settled into a creaky chair to read.
Elias's entries painted a picture of growing paranoia and fear. "The lighthouse is a prison, not a beacon," one entry began. He wrote of a malevolent spirit trapped within the walls, a force that grew restless with each passing day. "It seeks a host," he warned, "and I fear I am next."
As I read on, I felt a prickling sensation at the back of my neck. The air grew colder, and a shadow flitted across the room, though there was no source of light to cast it. "You are not alone," a rough voice seemed to whisper, though I knew I was the only living being in the lighthouse.
Driven by an instinctive urge to flee, I stumbled out of the lighthouse, the journal clutched tightly in my hands. The storm lashed at me, each gust of wind a reminder of the danger I had narrowly escaped. As I reached the safety of my car, I glanced back at the towering structure. It stood silent and foreboding, a guardian of secrets best left undisturbed.
Safe at last, I pondered the fate of Elias and the truth behind his warnings. The lighthouse was no mere refuge; it was a place of confinement for something dark and hungry. I vowed never to return, the journal a testament to the secrets that lay within those walls, secrets that were best left forgotten.
