Chapter I

The boat cut through grey waves like a knife through silk, each rise and fall bringing Thomas Wren closer to the distant tower that pierced the horizon. Captain Moorhouse stood at the helm, his weathered face impassive as he navigated the treacherous waters surrounding Beacon Isle.

"You're certain about this, then?" the captain asked, not for the first time that morning. His voice carried the weight of unspoken warnings.

Thomas adjusted his coat against the salt spray and nodded. "I am. The position suits me well enough. Solitude and routine—that's all I require."

The captain grunted, his eyes fixed on the approaching shoreline. "Solitude, aye. You'll have that in abundance. But routine?" He shook his head slowly. "The lighthouse has a way of disrupting routines, or so I've heard."

Thomas chose not to respond. He had heard the stories, of course—sailors were incapable of discussing Beacon Isle without embellishment. Tales of previous keepers who had abandoned their posts, or worse, been found wandering the rocks in a state of madness. Superstitious nonsense, all of it. The truth was far more mundane: the isolation drove weak minds to invention, nothing more.

As they drew nearer, Thomas could make out the details of his new home. The lighthouse stood on the highest point of the island, a stark white tower against the grey sky. The keeper's cottage huddled beside it, small and sturdy, built to withstand the storms that regularly battered this forsaken place.

The boat ground against the wooden dock with a hollow thud. Captain Moorhouse helped Thomas unload his trunk—a single piece of luggage containing all his worldly possessions. Books, mostly. Clothing. A few personal effects that held memories he would rather forget.

"Supply boat comes once a month," the captain said, tying off the mooring line. "Weather permitting, which it often doesn't. You'll want to keep your provisions carefully rationed."

"I understand."

"And the light—it must be kept burning, every night, without fail. Ships depend on it. Lives depend on it." The captain's expression was grave. "Whatever else happens on this island, the light must not go dark."

Thomas met his gaze steadily. "It won't. You have my word."

For a long moment, the captain studied him, as if searching for something in Thomas's face. Then he nodded once, sharply. "There's provisions in the cottage. The log book is in the lighthouse. Everything you need to know is written there. The last keeper—" He paused. "Well. You'll see."

Without another word, Captain Moorhouse climbed back into his boat. The engine coughed to life, and the vessel pulled away from the dock, leaving Thomas alone on the weathered planks.

He stood there for several minutes, watching the boat grow smaller against the vast grey canvas of sea and sky. Then he picked up his trunk and began the climb toward the lighthouse.

The path was steep, carved into the rock and worn smooth by generations of keepers who had made this same journey. Gulls wheeled overhead, their cries sharp and accusatory. The wind carried the taste of salt and something else—something ancient and indefinable that seemed to emanate from the very stones of the island.

When Thomas reached the cottage, he found the door unlocked. Inside, the air was stale but dry. A simple room served as both kitchen and living quarters, with a narrow bed in one corner and a wood stove in the other. Everything was sparse, functional. This suited him perfectly.

He set down his trunk and walked to the lighthouse. The door groaned as he pushed it open, revealing a spiral staircase that wound upward into shadow. Thomas began to climb, his footsteps echoing in the confined space.

At the top, he found the lamp room, its great Fresnel lens catching what little light penetrated the grey afternoon. And beside it, on a small desk, lay the keeper's log—a thick leather-bound volume, its pages filled with neat handwriting.

Thomas opened it to the last entry. The date was three weeks ago. The handwriting, which had been so precise in earlier entries, had deteriorated into an almost illegible scrawl.

I cannot stay. The voices in the fog—they know my name. They know what I've done. Tonight, I will leave the island, even if I must swim. Forgive me. The light will not go dark. They promised me. They will keep it burning.

Thomas closed the log book slowly. Outside, the first wisps of fog were beginning to gather, creeping across the water like grasping fingers.

He had work to do.