They wake with light, two sparks so bright,

In their eyes, worlds of wonder and delight.

Hand in hand, they lead me on,

To lands unknown, at the break of dawn.

With laughter wild, they chase the breeze,

Climbing high, as if the trees

Hold secret whispers just for them—

My heart beats loud as their little hymn.

Through starlit dreams, their voices ring,

Tiny adventures in everything.

They hold my heart, fierce and free,

Two souls bound, forever with me.

© 2024 A.M. Roberts. All rights reserved.

November slips in with a quiet grace,

her breath a soft chill against the skin,

where leaves have turned to copper and gold,

and fires flicker to welcome her in.

She brings the scent of earth and pine,

of crisp air laced with distant smoke,

a reminder that warmth can still be found,

in knitted scarves and borrowed coats.

There’s a calm in her fading light,

a beauty in the bare, open trees,

as if she’s showing us the art of letting go,

of finding peace in simplicity.

We gather closer, hands and hearts,

sharing stories by the early dusk,

with laughter that fills the cooling air,

and mugs that warm like gentle hugs.

November is the pause before winter’s chill,

a season of softness, an ember’s glow,

reminding us to slow, to breathe, to see—

that even in endings, there’s room to grow.

© 2024 A.M. Roberts. All rights reserved.

The air in Marta’s workshop always smelled of lavender and wool. The afternoon sun streamed through the small window, casting golden patches across the floorboards, and dust motes danced in the warm light. The hum of the old sewing machine filled the room as she guided fabric beneath the needle, her hands moving with the precision of years of practice.

She had become known throughout the village for her skill, and people came from far and wide to commission pieces. Some wanted quilts that could cradle them in the warmth of a lost love, while others sought fabrics that could bring a touch of happiness to a home weighed down by grief. Marta never refused a request, knowing that the stories she stitched were never hers to keep.

But there were times when the weight of those emotions became too much to bear. After her husband’s death, Marta had stopped sewing for nearly a year, the workshop falling silent as dust gathered on the spools of thread. She had buried herself in solitude, unable to face the memories woven into each blanket and scarf she had made for him.

A Mysterious Client

It was only after her sister’s gentle coaxing that Marta reopened the workshop, though she rarely took on more than a few commissions. One autumn afternoon, as the leaves turned gold and the air cooled, a new client arrived—a man whose presence seemed to shift the air itself. He wore a dark coat that brushed the floor, and when he spoke, his voice carried the distant sound of wind through trees.

“I’ve heard of your gift,” he said, his eyes drifting over the unfinished quilt draped across a chair. “I need a quilt that can hold the memory of a lost love.”

Marta hesitated, her fingers brushing the edge of her apron. She had done many such quilts before, but there was something in the man’s gaze, a sadness that ran deeper than anything she had ever encountered. “What is the story you wish me to weave?” she asked softly, her voice barely carrying over the ticking clock.

The man paused, looking out the window at the clouds gathering in the sky. “She was taken too soon,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I never got the chance to tell her goodbye.”

Marta nodded, understanding his unspoken grief. She led him to the workshop’s back room, where she kept her fabrics—rolls of rich blues, deep reds, and the pale silver of dawn. He selected a bolt of dark indigo, the color of twilight, and Marta felt the weight of his sorrow settle over the fabric like mist.

As she began to sew, the memories came to her—brief flashes of the man’s love, her laughter in the rain, the touch of her hand on his cheek. The emotions flowed through Marta’s fingers, weaving themselves into the threads, turning each stitch into a heartbeat. The quilt grew heavy with their story, its edges fraying under the burden of what was left unsaid.

Threads of Grief

Days turned into weeks, and Marta found herself working late into the night, the man’s sorrow seeping into her own. She couldn’t shake the memories of her husband, the nights when they would sit together on the porch, watching the stars appear one by one in the wide sky. She thought of the promise he had made to her before he fell ill—“I’ll find you in the next life, Marta, no matter where you are.”

But now, she could only find him in the quilts she had made for their home, each one stitched with the love they had shared. She reached for a bolt of blue fabric and cut a piece for herself, her hands moving almost on their own as she stitched her own grief into the seams. A tear slipped down her cheek, landing on the quilt’s surface, and she watched as the fabric shimmered, catching the moonlight in a way that seemed almost alive.

A Finished Quilt, a New Beginning

One cold morning, the man returned to collect the quilt. Marta unfolded it on the table, revealing a landscape of deep indigo swirled with silver threads that shimmered like constellations. He ran a hand over the fabric, his expression softening as he traced the lines of a memory woven into the cloth.

“She would have loved this,” he said, his voice cracking. “Thank you.”

Marta nodded, feeling a strange lightness in her chest. She watched him leave, the quilt wrapped carefully in his arms, and for the first time in months, she felt something other than the ache of loss. She turned back to the blue quilt she had begun for herself, running her fingers over the stitches she had made the night before.

She worked on the quilt in the evenings, adding a new piece each time a memory surfaced—his laugh, the way his hair caught the sunlight, the warmth of his hand in hers. Each stitch brought her a little closer to the man she had lost, and as the fabric grew, so did her understanding that grief was not something to be hidden away. It was something to be shared, to be stitched into the fabric of life, alongside love and hope.

The Final Threads

Months later, as winter melted into spring, Marta finished her quilt. It was a patchwork of blues and golds, threaded with the memories of her husband and the life they had built together. She draped it over her shoulders and stepped outside into the night, feeling the weight of the stars above her. The wind rustled through the trees, carrying with it a whisper that brushed against her ear.

“I found you, Marta.”

She closed her eyes, letting the warmth of the quilt wrap around her like an embrace. She knew then that she would keep sewing, that she would continue to weave the stories of others into her work, because it was through those threads that she could hold on to the love she had known.

And as she walked back into her workshop, she felt as though a new thread had been added to the sky—a line of silver that connected her to the stars, and to those who watched over her from beyond.

© 2024 A.M. Roberts. All rights reserved.

The night is thick with a chilling breeze,

whispers rustle through empty trees,

and shadows stretch like fingers long,

pulling me toward their ghostly song.

Lanterns flicker with a haunted light,

casting spells on Halloween night.

Jack-o'-lanterns grin with wicked glee,

their hollow eyes daring me to see.

I walk a path both dark and strange,

where laughter echoes, low and deranged,

and every step on the cobblestone

feels like a pulse that’s not my own.

The air is sweet with fear and thrill,

as creatures creep from windowsills,

and every gust, a breath unknown,

sends chills deep down into my bones.

So let the shadows sway and spin,

in the dance where night and fear begin,

for Halloween is a ghostly trance,

when all the darkness comes to dance.

© 2024 A.M. Roberts. All rights reserved.

When the winds howl and tempests rise,

and the world feels bent to break,

I dig my roots a little deeper,

holding ground for strength’s own sake.

The sky may darken, clouds may roar,

and shadows fall on steady light,

but somewhere beneath, my spirit stands,

anchored firm, unseen, and bright.

For storms may lash and branches sway,

and even the tallest trees may bow,

yet deep within, a quiet strength,

keeps my heart unbroken somehow.

So let the thunder roll, the wild winds blow—

I am rooted, fierce, and free.

Through every storm that life may send,

my spirit holds, unshaken as the sea.

© 2024 A.M. Roberts. All rights reserved.

The heat in San Jose village pressed down like a heavy blanket, turning the air thick and stifling. The river that once wound through the fields had dried to a trickle, leaving the crops withered and brittle. Cattle wandered listlessly along the parched ground, their bones jutting against their hides. The village had not seen real rain in nearly three years, and each day the sky stretched above them, endless and empty.

Miguel sat on the porch of his family’s wooden house, watching the dust devils twist across the horizon. He ran a hand over the old leather pouch that had belonged to his grandmother, the last rainmaker the village had known. Inside were herbs and seeds, talismans that she had used in ceremonies to summon the rains. She had taught him the old songs, the ones that called to the sky and whispered to the clouds, but Miguel had always thought they were just stories—until the rains stopped coming.

He closed his eyes, remembering the day she had passed, her voice weak but filled with certainty as she placed the pouch in his hands. “The rains will listen to you now, Miguelito. But you must believe. The sky knows when your heart is true.”

He had laughed then, thinking her words were nothing more than the ramblings of an old woman. But now, as he watched the land crack under the weight of drought, desperation gnawed at him. The village elders had tried everything—prayers, rituals, even hiring engineers to dig deeper wells—but the ground remained dry, and the crops continued to fail. The villagers whispered that the land was cursed, that the spirits of the river had turned their backs on them.

Miguel opened the pouch, the dried herbs crumbling between his fingers. He had tried the ceremony twice before, chanting the old words into the night, but the sky had remained stubbornly clear. He wondered if he should even try again—if there was any place for a rainmaker in a world where satellite weather predictions held more power than ancient songs.

A Community Divided

Word spread quickly that Miguel was attempting the old ways, and the reactions in the village were mixed. Some of the elders nodded approvingly, murmuring that it was time to respect the traditions that had kept their ancestors alive. But many of the younger villagers looked at Miguel with skepticism, their faces drawn with worry.

One afternoon, as Miguel was gathering herbs by the riverbed, he ran into Carlos, a farmer who had lost most of his corn to the drought. Carlos crossed his arms, leaning against the rusted remains of a tractor. “You think a few old words are going to bring the rain, Miguel?” he asked, his tone sharp with frustration. “This isn’t your grandmother’s time anymore. We need real solutions—irrigation systems, government aid—not fairy tales.”

Miguel straightened, meeting Carlos’s gaze. “And where have those solutions gotten us, Carlos? Look around you. The wells are dry, and the land is dying. Maybe it’s time we tried something different.”

Carlos scoffed, shaking his head. “You think those songs of yours are going to bring back the river? We’re wasting time when we should be working on something real.”

Miguel felt a flicker of doubt, but he swallowed it down, clenching his fists around the herbs in his hands. He turned away without another word, but Carlos’s skepticism lingered with him, heavy as the heat that pressed against his skin. He knew that many in the village thought the same—that he was chasing ghosts instead of facing reality.

The Ceremony Begins

On the night of the new moon, Miguel gathered the villagers who still believed in the old ways. They lit fires along the dried riverbed, their shadows flickering against the rocks as the night deepened. Miguel stood at the center, wearing the red sash that had once belonged to his grandmother. He held the pouch of herbs close to his chest, the scent of sage and cedar filling the air.

He raised his hands to the sky, his voice carrying the ancient words over the crackling of the flames. The villagers joined in, their voices blending into a low, steady hum that reverberated through the earth. He closed his eyes, letting the rhythm of the chant fill him, imagining the clouds gathering above, heavy with rain.

But as the hours dragged on, the sky remained empty, a dark expanse stretching above them. The wind shifted, sending dust swirling into their faces, and one by one, the villagers’ voices faltered, their hope fading with each breath.

Miguel’s heart sank as he opened his eyes, seeing the disappointment in their faces. He felt like a fraud, like a child playing at being something he could never become. He let the herbs slip from his fingers, scattering into the wind, and turned away from the riverbed, his head bowed.

A Sign in the Sky

But just as the last embers of the fire began to fade, a rumble echoed across the horizon. Miguel froze, turning back toward the sky. A cloud had appeared, small and dark against the stars, moving slowly toward the village. The wind shifted again, colder this time, carrying the scent of wet earth.

The villagers gasped, their eyes widening as a flash of lightning cut through the sky. Miguel felt a surge of hope rise in his chest, but he forced himself to remain still, holding his breath as the cloud hovered above them. It thickened, deepened, and then, with a shuddering exhale, released a thin curtain of rain.

It wasn’t much—barely more than a drizzle—but as the drops fell onto the cracked ground, the villagers reached out their hands, catching the rain on their fingertips. Laughter and cries of relief filled the air, mingling with the sound of the rain as it soaked into the earth.

Miguel stood in the center of it all, feeling the rain run down his face, mingling with the tears he hadn’t realized he was shedding. He glanced at Carlos, who stood at the edge of the crowd, his expression a mix of disbelief and something softer, something that almost looked like hope.

But the rain lasted only a few minutes before the cloud drifted away, leaving the land as dry as it had been before. The villagers exchanged glances, their initial joy fading as quickly as the rain itself. Miguel felt the weight of their expectations settle on his shoulders, heavier than ever.

A Final Reckoning

In the days that followed, Miguel became the subject of heated debates. Some called him a savior, convinced that he had only just begun to unlock his power. Others accused him of raising false hope, of tricking the village into believing in miracles when what they needed were practical solutions.

Miguel kept to himself, spending his days by the riverbed, his mind churning with uncertainty. He tried the ceremony again and again, but the rain never returned, and the sky remained an unbroken blue.

One evening, as he sat by the dried river, he heard the soft crunch of footsteps behind him. Carlos approached, a bottle of rum in his hand. He sat down beside Miguel without a word, offering him the bottle. They drank in silence, watching the sun set over the barren fields.

“I don’t know if it was real, what you did that night,” Carlos said finally, his voice quiet. “But for a moment, it made us all believe. That counts for something, doesn’t it?”

Miguel took a long sip, the warmth of the rum spreading through his chest. He thought about his grandmother, about the promise she had made to him, and about the fleeting rain that had fallen like a dream. “I don’t know,

Carlos. Maybe the old ways aren’t enough anymore. But I have to try. If there’s even a chance, I have to try.”

Carlos nodded, the lines on his face softening in the twilight. “Well, if you’re trying again, I’ll help. We need all the hope we can get.”

The Last Rainmaker

That night, they worked together, gathering herbs and lighting the fires, calling out to the sky with voices that echoed across the empty fields. And though the rain did not come, Miguel felt a change in the air—a shift in the way the earth held its breath, as if it, too, was waiting.

As the villagers joined them, their voices rising in unison, Miguel realized that the true power of the rainmaker was not in controlling the clouds, but in the way it brought the people together, reminding them that hope was not yet lost. The rain would come, someday, and until then, they would keep calling out to the sky.

And beneath the stars, with the embers of their fires glowing against the darkness, they waited for the sound of thunder.

© 2024 A.M. Roberts. All rights reserved.

The air was thick with the scent of fried fish and rum, mingling with the sea breeze as the town of San Isla celebrated its annual Tide Festival. Lanterns hung from palm trees, casting warm light over the sandy streets where people danced to the beat of drums. Laughter and chatter filled the night, drowning out the rhythmic crash of waves against the shore.

Javier watched the festivities from the shadows, his back pressed against the wooden railing of the pier. He had never been one for crowds, preferring the quiet solitude of his fishing boat, but tonight was different. There was a stranger in town, and with him, the rumors of treasure hidden beneath the old lighthouse. The stories had spread like wildfire, whispered in the market stalls and along the docks, capturing the town’s restless imagination.

He scanned the crowd, his gaze lingering on the man who had become the center of the town’s gossip—a tall figure dressed in black, with a face that seemed carved from stone. The stranger stood at the edge of the dancing circle, his eyes following the movements of the villagers, but his expression never changed.

Javier took a deep breath, feeling the weight of his own family’s history pressing down on him. His father had once been the keeper of the lighthouse before it was abandoned, and though he had never spoken much about it, there had always been a haunted look in his eyes whenever the tides came in, especially during the festival. A look that seemed to suggest there were secrets buried deeper than the shifting sands.

An Unexpected Encounter

As the music reached a fever pitch, the stranger turned suddenly, his gaze locking onto Javier’s. For a moment, neither of them moved. Then the stranger tipped his hat and disappeared into the shadows, heading toward the narrow path that led to the cliffs. Javier hesitated, the voice of his father echoing in his mind—a warning, spoken on nights when the wind howled against their small house by the sea: “The past always finds its way back with the tide.”

Curiosity and a sense of obligation pulled Javier from the safety of the festival lights. He followed the stranger, his footsteps crunching over the gravel path as the sounds of the celebration faded behind him. The air grew cooler as he approached the cliffs, the sea’s roar louder in the darkness.

When he reached the top, he found the stranger standing near the old lighthouse, its structure silhouetted against the moonlit sky. The man turned to face him, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“You’re Javier, aren’t you? The fisherman,” he said, his voice smooth and low, carrying just enough familiarity to set Javier’s nerves on edge. “You’ve been watching me all night.”

Javier squared his shoulders, forcing his voice to remain steady. “You’re new here. And new people don’t usually come to San Isla without a reason.”

The stranger’s smile widened, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He turned back toward the sea, his hands tucked into the pockets of his coat. “I came for the stories. The legends of treasure buried beneath the lighthouse. It’s quite a tale, isn’t it? And one that has a way of drawing in the curious.”

Javier’s chest tightened. He thought of the tales his father used to tell—the stories of a shipwreck off the coast, of gold and silver scattered across the seabed, hidden away by the tides. But he also remembered the warnings, the way his father’s voice had dropped to a whisper whenever he spoke of the night he had seen shadows moving on the water, shadows that didn’t belong to any boat or fisherman.

“Those are just stories,” Javier said, trying to sound dismissive, but his voice wavered. “Old wives’ tales meant to keep kids away from the cliffs.”

The stranger turned back to him, his eyes gleaming in the moonlight. “Stories have a way of hiding the truth. And sometimes, they’re the only way to find it.”

Secrets Beneath the Waves

The stranger’s words lingered with Javier long after he returned to the festival. He tried to lose himself in the music, in the warmth of familiar faces, but his mind kept drifting back to the cliffs, to the questions that had gone unanswered. By the time the festival wound down and the villagers began to drift home, Javier found himself walking back toward the lighthouse, the darkness now feeling more like a challenge than a threat.

The moon was high by the time he reached the old stone structure, its beams weathered and crumbling. The waves crashed below, spraying saltwater against the rocks. Javier made his way down the narrow steps that led to the cave beneath the lighthouse, a place he had not visited since he was a child.

The cave’s entrance was half-submerged, hidden by the rise and fall of the tide. Javier waited for the water to recede before slipping inside, his lantern casting a flickering light over the wet stones. The air was damp and cold, carrying the faint smell of decay.

He reached the back of the cave, where an old iron door stood rusted and chained. His father had once told him that it led to an underground passage, but he had never dared to open it. Tonight, however, felt different.

As if something was pushing him forward, guiding his hand to the lock.

To his surprise, the chains slipped away easily, and the door creaked open with a groan that echoed through the cave. Javier hesitated, a sense of dread settling in his chest, but he pushed forward, stepping into the darkness beyond.

A Discovery and a Warning

Inside the passage, the air grew colder, the walls lined with old carvings that twisted and coiled like serpents. Javier ran his hand over the rough stone, feeling the grooves where time had worn the edges smooth. He shone his lantern down the corridor, revealing a chamber at the end, where the floor was covered in sand and shells, as if the sea itself had reached inside to reclaim it.

In the center of the chamber lay a chest, its wood swollen and cracked from the moisture. Javier knelt beside it, his breath fogging the air, and pried it open with a rusted crowbar he had found in the cave. Inside, he found gold coins and silver trinkets, wrapped in decaying cloth. But as he reached for one of the coins, something caught his eye—a bundle of old letters, their ink faded but still legible.

He picked up the letters, his hands shaking as he recognized the handwriting—his father’s, detailing a night long ago when he had stumbled upon the treasure while tending the lighthouse. But the letters spoke of something else, too—warnings about a shadow that had followed him home, a presence that had lingered in the darkness, whispering his name when the tides came in.

Javier’s hands trembled as he read the final lines, written in a hurried scrawl: “The tide knows. It knows what I’ve taken. It will come for me, as it will come for all who disturb the sea’s secrets. To my son, I am sorry...”

A sound behind him made Javier freeze—footsteps, too light to belong to any of the fishermen he knew. He turned sharply, raising the lantern, and saw the stranger standing at the entrance of the chamber, his smile gone, replaced by a look of grim satisfaction.

“You found it,” the stranger said softly, his voice carrying a strange echo in the chamber. “But some secrets were never meant to be uncovered.”

The Tide’s Reckoning

Before Javier could react, the stranger lunged, knocking the lantern from his hand. The flame sputtered out, plunging them into darkness. Javier fought back, but the man’s grip was like iron, forcing him to the ground. He felt the cold edge of a knife against his throat, the stranger’s breath hot against his ear.

“You should have stayed away, like your father tried to,” the stranger hissed. “But now, you’ll join him. One more shadow among the waves.”

Javier struggled, his fingers clawing at the sand, until his hand brushed against one of the coins from the chest. He threw it at the stranger’s face, catching him off guard, and managed to break free, scrambling to his feet.

He ran toward the entrance, his heart pounding as the sound of rushing water filled his ears. The tide was coming in, faster than it should have, the sea rising to claim the cave. He threw himself through the iron door just as the water surged forward, slamming it shut behind him. The last thing he heard before the cave filled with water was the stranger’s scream, cut short as the sea swallowed him whole.

Javier emerged from the cave, gasping for air as he stumbled onto the shore. The tide lapped at his feet, as if testing his resolve, but he clutched the bundle of letters to his chest, knowing that he had survived what his father could not. He looked out at the dark sea, the waves crashing against the rocks, and knew that some secrets were better left buried beneath the tides.

© 2024 A.M. Roberts. All rights reserved.

Twilight drapes the world in velvet hues,

a tender kiss between day and night,

where shadows grow and colors fade,

and stars wake softly, one by one.

There’s a hush that settles on the earth,

a pause between the sun’s retreat

and the moon’s gentle rise,

as if the world is holding its breath.

I walk beneath this fleeting light,

bathed in purple, gold, and gray,

where every step feels weightless, still,

in the arms of evening’s gentle sway.

For twilight is a promise kept,

a bridge between the dark and dawn,

a moment that lingers soft and sweet,

before the world moves on.

© 2024 A.M. Roberts. All rights reserved.

The rain speaks in quiet, steady words,

a gentle rhythm against the earth,

tapping out secrets on rooftops and leaves,

each drop a story, each splash a dream.

It rolls down glass in trembling lines,

tracing paths we’ll never see again,

drawing maps of places left behind,

in rivers of silver, soft and thin.

I stand beneath its cool embrace,

face tilted to the weeping sky,

letting the chill sink into my skin,

as the world around me sighs.

For in the rain there’s a cleansing grace,

a way to start, to let things go,

and as the clouds begin to break,

I feel lighter with each falling drop.

© 2024 A.M. Roberts. All rights reserved.

Marcus sat at the small wooden desk in the lantern room, the lighthouse beam sweeping across the sea in a steady rhythm. He flipped through the journal of the previous keeper, his eyes lingering on passages that grew increasingly erratic—pages filled with desperate scrawls about shadows that moved, whispers that had no voice.

“They watch, but do not see,” read one entry. Another had a rough sketch of a shadow with limbs like branches, stretching far beyond what seemed natural. Marcus turned the page, only to find the next ripped out, leaving behind a jagged edge and dried spots that looked suspiciously like blood.

A shiver ran through him, but he shook it off. Just stories, he told himself. Stories from a mind that cracked under the isolation. He turned back to the beam, watching it sweep across the dark waters, when he caught a glimpse of movement below—something shifting among the rocks near the water’s edge.

He grabbed his flashlight and hurried down the spiral staircase, its metal frame clanging underfoot. As he reached the rocky shore, the beam from his flashlight swept over the waves, revealing nothing but the wind-driven spray. But then he saw it—a shadow slipping beneath the water’s surface, too large and too dark to belong to any animal he knew.

His breath caught, a memory flashing in his mind: a shadow that had stretched across the lantern room glass on a night not long after he first arrived. He stepped closer to the water’s edge, his pulse quickening as a voice—no more than a breath—seemed to rise from the crashing waves.

“You’re not alone...”

Marcus staggered back, his flashlight tumbling from his grip and plunging into the water. He stared into the darkness where the shadow had disappeared, and for the first time since arriving, a deep sense of dread settled in his gut. He was not sure if he had come to the lighthouse to keep the darkness at bay or if the darkness had been waiting for him all along.

The minutes dragged on as he stood on the rocky shore, his breath visible in the cold night air. He forced himself to turn back toward the lighthouse, its steady beam offering a fragile sense of security against the vast, hungry dark. His steps were heavy on the metal stairs as he climbed back up, the sound echoing through the narrow shaft, amplifying the isolation that pressed in around him.

He paused midway, catching his breath, and glanced out of one of the narrow windows that dotted the stairwell. Below, the ocean churned in a restless dance, the waves smashing against the jagged rocks that surrounded the lighthouse. For a moment, he thought he saw a figure standing on the rocks—tall, unmoving, its form blurred by the mist that rose from the sea. He blinked and looked again, but the shape had vanished, leaving only the dark, shifting water.

He hurried the rest of the way up, his pulse racing, and shut the lantern room door behind him with a metallic clang. The beam swept over the ocean, its steady rhythm a small comfort against the uncertainty that clung to the corners of his mind. He returned to the desk, the journal still open to the page with the ominous scribbles, and ran his fingers over the rough sketch of the shadow. He turned to the next page, hoping to find some explanation, but it was missing—ripped out, the jagged edges still flecked with those mysterious, rusty stains.

Marcus reached into his pocket and pulled out his old navy-issued lighter, flicking it open to cast a small flame over the page. The light danced over the scrawled words, casting his own shadow against the walls of the lantern room. It stretched unnaturally long, twisting up the curved glass like the limbs in the journal’s drawing. He snapped the lighter shut, plunging the room back into darkness, the lighthouse beam providing the only light.

He tried to reason with himself. It had to be the isolation playing tricks on him. The wind, the waves, the way the light distorted everything around him—it all added up to a mind searching for patterns, filling the gaps with ghost stories. He glanced down at the journal again, catching a snippet from one of the last entries:

“It is in the light they hide, not the dark. But even the light can be fooled.”

A chill crawled up his spine, and Marcus snapped the journal shut. He moved to the window, staring out at the vast black sea. The lighthouse beam swept past again, briefly illuminating the rocks below. And there—just for a heartbeat—he thought he saw a face in the waves, pale and expressionless, staring back at him.

He stumbled away from the window, knocking into the desk and sending a stack of papers fluttering to the ground. He pressed a hand to his chest, trying to steady his breathing. He knew he needed to write this down, to document whatever was happening. But as he reached for a pen, his hands shook too much to hold it steady.

Marcus paced the lantern room, his thoughts spiraling. He had been at this post for only a few weeks—long enough to know the rhythms of the tides, the routine of the nightly watch. But now, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he had become part of a different rhythm, one that pulsed beneath the surface of the ocean, beneath the layers of time that clung to this place.

The wind outside rose to a howl, the lighthouse beam cutting through the dark like a blade. Marcus clutched the edge of the desk, his knuckles white, listening to the strange quiet that seemed to follow each sweep of the beam. Then, faint and almost indistinguishable, he heard it—scraping, somewhere below, like something dragging against the stone.

He forced himself to move toward the stairs, the sound growing louder with each step downward. His footfalls echoed in the tight space, mingling with the soft, rhythmic tapping that seemed to come from the very walls themselves. He paused at the bottom, where the door to the lower storage room stood slightly ajar, the shadows inside deeper than the night beyond.

He hesitated, then nudged the door open with the toe of his boot, revealing the dark, empty room. He swept his hand along the wall until he found the light switch, and the bulb flickered to life, casting a weak yellow glow over the dusty shelves and the tools stacked against the wall. But the corner remained in shadow, darker than it should have been, like a black stain against the gray stone.

He took a cautious step forward, his breath fogging in the chill air. The shadows seemed to pulse, as if alive with their own breath. He reached out with a shaking hand, the tips of his fingers brushing the edge of the darkness—and then it moved, pulling away like a living thing, retreating into the deeper shadows of the room.

Marcus stumbled back, his head spinning. He slammed the storage room door shut, locking it with a trembling hand. He backed up against the wall, pressing his palms flat against the cold stone, trying to steady the frantic rhythm of his heart. Whatever it was—whatever they were—he knew now that they were more than shadows. They had a purpose, a presence that reached beyond the light.

He retreated back up the stairs, each step feeling like it took him further away from the safety of the light, even as he moved closer to the lantern room. By the time he reached the top, his hands were shaking so badly he could barely grip the railing. He cast a final glance down the dark spiral of the stairwell, half-expecting to see something climbing up behind him—something dark and shadowy, with limbs that bent the wrong way.

The door to the lantern room swung open, and Marcus fell inside, slamming it shut behind him. He leaned against it, his breath coming in ragged gasps, the taste of salt heavy on his tongue. He was alone in the light, but he knew, deep down, that the darkness outside was waiting. It was patient, relentless, and no beam of light would keep it at bay forever.

He turned back to the desk, to the open journal, the words blurring under his exhausted gaze. He picked up the pen, forcing his hand to steady, and began to write, his voice a whisper in the silence as he spoke the words aloud to himself:

“The shadows move. They hide in the light, and I think they are watching me. I am not alone here—not anymore.”

He pressed the pen down harder, the ink bleeding into the paper, but he couldn’t stop writing, couldn’t stop the thoughts from pouring out. And outside, the sea raged on, carrying with it the echoes of a whisper that rose from the waves, calling his name like a forgotten song.

-End-

© 2024 A.M. Roberts. All rights reserved.