They arrived just before the storm hit.

Dylan grunted as he slammed the heavy oak door shut behind them, saltwater streaming from his jacket and pooling on the checkered tile floor. “That wind’s a bastard,” he said, laughing breathlessly.

Evan didn’t answer. He stood in the middle of the lighthouse’s circular room, staring up at the winding metal staircase that spiraled into the gloom above. Thunder cracked, close and raw, rattling the old glass windows. The whole structure seemed to shudder in protest.

“Jesus,” Evan finally muttered. “This was a terrible idea.”

“It was supposed to be romantic,” Dylan said. “Off-grid weekend. Cozy, rustic, a hundred miles from your email.”

“And one step from dying in a Stephen King movie,” Evan shot back.

They’d rented the place on a whim—two nights in a decommissioned lighthouse on Breaker’s Point, isolated on a jagged peninsula, accessible only by a narrow causeway at low tide. The brochure had promised spectacular views and utter seclusion.

They got both. And now, the causeway was gone—swallowed by a rising ocean and pounding surf.

The storm had come early.

Evan paced, arms crossed. “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

Another crash, this one not thunder. It had a duller, heavier resonance—like something striking the base of the tower. Then again. And again.

Dylan went to the slit-like window. “Could be debris hitting the rocks. Driftwood or something.”

“That didn’t sound like wood.”

They climbed the stairs. The flickering oil lantern Dylan lit at the landing painted shadows along the curved walls. Every now and then, a burst of lightning lit the world outside in stark black and white—waves the size of buildings throwing themselves at the cliffs.

In the keeper’s quarters near the top, they found a dusty room with twin beds and a rusted telescope aimed out to sea. Evan turned to speak, but Dylan was staring at something in the corner.

A journal.

He picked it up. The leather cover was warped and soft from age. He opened it and read the first line aloud:
“Day 1. Still no sign of him. The sea took Jacob last night.”

Evan looked at Dylan, frowning. “Is this real?”

Dylan flipped a few pages.

“Day 3. I saw him in the water. Or someone. Hair black with kelp. Eyes glowing like lantern glass.”

Thunder rattled the walls again. Evan sat on one of the beds. “This is how horror movies start. Stranded gay couple reads cursed diary in ancient lighthouse. Cue sea monster.”

Dylan didn’t laugh.

A howling sound rose from below. Not the wind—no, something thinner. More human. Evan stiffened.

“You heard that?”

They both stood frozen.

Then came the banging again. But it was no longer distant. It was climbing. Banging. Scraping. Moving.

Someone—something—was on the stairs.

Dylan snatched the lantern. “Go. Now.”

They dashed up the final steps, into the lantern room. Glass all around. No place to hide. The bulb itself was long dead, but the old mechanisms still stood, black iron and rusted gears.

Below, the banging stopped.

Evan whispered, “Do you see anything?”

Dylan leaned over the railing. Rain sliced horizontally through the air, and waves hammered the rocks. But it wasn’t the sea he was looking at.

Movement on the stairs. Slow. Wet.

A pale, glistening hand gripped the banister. Then another. Something was pulling itself up—not quite crawling, not quite walking. Its skin shone like fish-scale in the lightning. It paused, head tilted.

And it looked at Dylan.

He gasped, stepped back—and knocked over the lantern. It shattered.

Darkness fell.

They backed away, pressed against the glass as the thing crept closer. It was humanoid. Almost. Hair long and tangled. Eyes round and black. Its mouth opened wide—far too wide.

“Jacob,” it said.

Evan screamed.

Dylan grabbed the metal rod from the lantern and swung—connected with a sickening crunch. The creature shrieked, then slithered back, dropping over the side of the stairwell like a serpent.

Silence.

For a moment, the only sound was the storm.

Then, from below:
“You shouldn’t have come here.”
“He still waits.”
“The sea does not forget.”

Dozens of voices. Echoing up the stairwell.

Evan’s hand gripped Dylan’s. “We’re not alone.”

The sea surged outside. Glass cracked.

And from the water below, pale faces began to rise.

They’d come for peace. For romance. For a quiet weekend off the grid.

But the lighthouse was never abandoned.

The sea kept its dead.

And, I mustn’t neglect the obligatory shameless self-promotion. New Yesterdays is available through the following links: Books-A-Million, Barnes & Noble, and Amazon. You can get the audiobook at Libro.fm or from your favorite booksellers.