The fog rolled thickly over the coastal village of Dunsmore, clinging to the weather-beaten cottages like a shroud. Lights flickered in the windows as the townsfolk settled in for yet another long evening, but one place remained dark: the old lighthouse at the edge of the cliffs, long since abandoned after the mysterious disappearance of its last keeper, Old Tom Pritchard. The locals spoke of the lighthouse in hushed tones, recounting tales of the echoes that could be heard on stormy nights, ghostly voices rising from the depths of the sea.
In that same village lived a boy named Arthur, a dreamer whose imagination far exceeded his years. The stories of the echoes fascinated him, and despite his mother’s warnings to stay away from the cliffs, he harboured a nagging curiosity about what might lie beyond the fog. The village was steeped in superstitions, but Arthur’s young mind craved adventure; he often envisioned himself exploring the lighthouse, uncovering its secrets, and perhaps even discovering what had happened to Old Tom.
One fateful evening, emboldened by a dissatisfaction with the mundane nature of his life, Arthur resolved to venture to the lighthouse. He slipped on his woollen coat, grabbed a flickering lantern, and set off through the thickening mist. The sound of the sea crashing against the rocks filled the air, a rhythmic lullaby that urged him forward. Each cautious step drew him closer to the grey silhouette of the lighthouse, looming against the darkening sky.
As he approached, the wind howled around him, carrying with it a cacophony of distant whispers. Arthur strained to listen, believing he caught fragments of words swirling like leaves in the tempest. He recalled the villagers’ warnings about the echoes—disembodied voices of those who had perished, lost to the depths of the abyss. But in his heart, he felt that they were not fearful voices. Instead, they beckoned him, urging him closer.
He pushed open the creaking door of the lighthouse, which stood ajar as if inviting him inside. The air was stale and heavy, filled with the scent of salt and decay. Nevertheless, he stepped over the threshold, his lantern casting fleeting shadows that danced on the damp stone walls. Dust motes swirled in the light, and Arthur shivered, the hairs on his neck standing on end.
The first floor held little of interest—only crumbling furniture and shattered glass. Yet the echoes persisted, weaving in and out of his hearing, familiar yet alien. He climbed the spiral staircase cautiously, feeling the weight of each step. At the top, the lantern room lay abandoned, cracked panes looking out over the turbulent sea. Outside, the waves roared like a monster awakened from slumber. As he scanned the horizon, something stirred in the water, a dark shape undulating just beneath the surface.
Just then, a wave crashed against the rocks below, sending a spray of saltwater up to the window, and the echoes intensified, filling his mind with myriad voices, overlapping and entwining like strands of silk. Fragments of sentences reached him—pleas for help, cries of despair, and laughter turned to terror. Arthur staggered back, wide-eyed as a particular voice broke through the chaos, clear and resonant.
“Help me… I am trapped…”
The voice was both distant and immediate, carving itself into his consciousness. Arthur squeezed his eyes shut, focusing on the words. “I’m here!” he shouted into the abyss, his bravery now tinged with desperation.
“Find me… beneath the waves…”
He felt the urge to dive into the sea swell within him, a primal call that pulled at his very being. But reason clashed with instinct, and he hesitated. What awaited him down there? Was it a mermaid’s lament or something far crueler? The fear of the unknown clawed at him, but the voice was persuasive, luring him towards the edge of the precipice.
“I will help you!” Arthur found himself calling, the words tumbling from his lips before he could fully comprehend their meaning. He clutched the railing, gazing down into the churning water. As if sensing his resolution, the waters calmed momentarily, revealing something shimmering just beneath the surface.
Compelled by a newfound courage he hadn’t known he possessed, he stepped back from the railing and dashed down the staircase, heart pounding with anticipation and fear. Outside, the night air whipped against his skin, cold and salty. The void that lay before him seemed to pulse in rhythm with his heartbeat.
As he reached the water’s edge, he felt a sudden chill—a pressure building in his chest as if the ocean were a sentient force, watching him. The waves, which had roared with fury only moments before, now lapped gently at his feet, as if inviting him into their depths. He knelt, the water lapping around him, and shouted, “Where are you?”
“Below…” came the voice again, now emerging like a seductive melody, wrapping around him.
The darkness of the sea beckoned, and with a determined breath, Arthur plunged his lantern into the water. The light flickered, then faltered; the sea swallowed its glow, returning him to darkness. Panic suddenly flooded his mind—had he truly heard that voice? Was this all a trick of the mist and the wind?
But another wave crashed, and within its swell, he saw the flicker of luminescent shapes. Tentacles, like strands of silk, writhed beneath the surface, their movements graceful yet monstrous. Panic surged within him as he recognised the creature—an undulating beast from the depths, its form shifting, neither fully corporeal nor entirely spectral. The echoes, the whispers, they were all tied to this creature, a being at once enormous and ethereal, a guardian of the abyss.
“Join me,” the voice urged, now resonating through the very marrow of his bones. “You can help me.”
Arthur stood, mesmerised by the creature’s call, drawn to it like a moth to a flame. His legs trembled beneath him, but he found himself stepping closer to the water, entranced. “I’ll help you,” he promised, though part of him recoiled in horror.
Suddenly, the tide surged, and the creature broke the surface, water cascading off its lithe form. Its emerald scales glittered in the moonlight, and from its maw came the whispers—voices of those who had been lost, the echoes of their souls trapped between worlds. Among them, Arthur recognised Old Tom’s voice.
“Arthur… save us…”
The horror of the situation crystallised within him. The creature was no benevolent spirit, but a predator—its beauty hiding a dark truth. The echoes were the souls it had consumed, drawn in by its beguiling melody.
Just as panic threatened to overtake him, Arthur turned and fled, the weight of his decision crashing down like the waves around him. The whispers turned to wails, anguish spilling into the night air, haunting him with promises unfulfilled.
He raced back to the lighthouse, every instinct propelling him forward, and climbed the stairs two at a time until he reached the lantern room. An unnatural silence fell upon him as he closed the door, the echoes dwindling to nothing.
Exhausted and trembling, Arthur leaned against the wall, his mind racing. What had he stumbled upon? The voice had seemed so real, the creature so alluring, but behind its beauty lurked an unfathomable darkness.
As dawn broke and the first light pierced the veil of fog, Arthur stepped outside, the remnants of the night’s terror lingering in his thoughts. He wandered back to the village, the faces of his neighbours appearing as shadows of the past.
In time, he found himself a keeper of the stories, whispering of the echoes to anyone who would listen while ensuring the tale of the lady from the sea remained alive. He never returned to the lighthouse, knowing that some mysteries were better left undisturbed, remnants of what could have been haunting him as he moved forward.
But every so often, when the fog rolled in thick and the winds howled with a familiar song, he felt the weight of the ocean’s call. And deep down, in the recesses of his heart, he carried a knowing—somewhere beneath the waves, the echoes of the abyss would always be waiting.
