The Lighthouse

The drug made her pliable, stumbling. Cillian half-carried, half-dragged her out of the Inn and onto the path leading to the old lighthouse.

The lighthouse was a blackened, skeletal structure jutting out of the fog like a broken finger. It didn't emit light; it emitted a low, vibrating hum that Cillian could feel in his teeth.

He walked her to the edge of the cliff railing. The drop was three hundred feet into churning black water.

"Cillian?" Elara mumbled, her head lolling. "Where are we?"

"The end of the road, Elara," Cillian said coldly. "I'm taking the boat. You're taking a swim."

He positioned her against the rusted railing. It would look like a suicide. The grieving widow finally joining her husband.

"Why?" she asked. Her voice wasn't slurred anymore. It was clear.

Cillian paused. "Because you're in my way. And I don't leave witnesses."

"You're a cruel man, Cillian," she said. She wasn't looking at him; she was looking down at the abyss.

"Cruelty is a tool," he said. "It gets things done."

"Yes," she agreed. "That's what I liked about you. The rot in your soul. It’s... pungent."

She stood up straight. She shrugged off his grip like it was nothing.

Cillian stumbled back. The sedative—she should be unconscious.

Elara turned to face him.

The fog swirled around her, reacting to her presence. Her skin began to glow with a faint, bioluminescent pallor. Her eyes, once dark and sad, rolled back in her head, revealing sclera that shimmered like oil on water.

Her mouth opened. It kept opening. The jaw unhinged, revealing rows of needle-thin, translucent teeth.

"You thought you were the hunter," Elara’s voice boomed, echoing not from her throat, but from the air around them. "You small, arrogant thing."

Cillian reached for the gun in his waistband. He drew it, aiming for her chest.

"What are you?" he screamed.

"I am the hunger of the rock," Elara said, drifting off the ground, her feet hovering inches above the gravel. "I am the siren of the lost. I feed on the wicked, Cillian. And you... you are a feast."

She smiled, and the sight of it broke Cillian’s mind.

He pulled the trigger.

* Bang. Bang. Bang.*

The bullets hit her. They passed through her lace dress, through her pale skin, and vanished into the mist behind her like stones thrown into a pond. She didn't bleed. She laughed—a sound like glass breaking in a cathedral.

"Run, little rabbit," she whispered. "Make it taste good."