To the Lighthouse

Douglas and Fionn spotted the crimson storms panes and lantern room from over the barbed pine trees. They entered the thin stretch of forest and continued down the haphazard gravel road towards Woolstock Lighthouse.

The Ford growled and shuddered, rattling the two men like specimens in a jar. With a curling grin, Fionn pressed his foot down on the accelerator.

“Jesus!” Douglas guffawed, clutching the door handle until his knuckles turned white. “Who taught you how to drive?”

“Saying the Lord’s name,” Fionn sang. “That’s sacrilege.”

“It’ll be sacrilege when I arrive at the pearly white gates with a door hanging off my neck.”

“Come on.” The apprentice restorationist was bouncing in his seat, flashing Douglas a toothy grin. “Don’t you enjoy adventure?”

“Not all of us were born on the Dawlish coast.” Douglas leaned forward, peering up at the canopy of brown leaves. “My idea of an adventure is going for fast-food at midnight.”

“Look, man, if you’re down for it when we back in Oxford, then I’ll happily join you.” They shared a look. “We’re a team now.”

“Bloody young fool,” he buttoned his tweed suit up. “These paintings… they better be worth it. You’ve taken years of my life.”

The opening of the road grew with the grey light of an overcast day. The crisp crunch of falling leaves was replaced by the low sloshing of mud. Scrunching his face up, Fionn leaned forward. “I just had this thing cleaned.”

“If it isn’t the mud that’s ruined it, then it’s all those stones you were happily running over.”

Ahead, the Lighthouse stuck out of the ground like a tombstone. It was leaning slightly westwards, having battled the torrent of windstorms for centuries. One side was crystalline white and the other was ashy; flaking with dry sea salt.

Several seagulls swooped alongside the car before ascending and soaring around the lanthorn; their nests were stuffed into the underbelly of the rooftiles. “You haven’t got any food, have you?” Fionn watched the birds with a pensive glare. “They’re vultures.”

“What, the seagulls?”

A disgusted grimace crept over his face. “Vermin,” he regarded.

As the Ford came to a guttural halt, Douglas grumbled. The tension in his hand rippled up his wrist. “I should’ve walked, you bloody maniac.”

Cranking open the door, Fionn stepped down and sank into the sloppy mud. He grunted, slipping and sliding with each step until there was an odd crunch. Pressing his toe down, he felt a splinter of crackles.

“Was the Keeper a farmer?” He stayed exceptionally still. “Did he have animals on here?”

“I don’t care about details like that. Who bloody cares if he had a pet chicken once?”

“I think they’re still here.”

“Where?” Whipping his head round, he eyed the stretch of trees and even glanced at the sea.

“No, I mean here. There are bones under my shoes. I can feel them, Doug.”

The elderly man stared at Fionn from over the car, his gaze mostly feigning disinterest. A heartbeat of silence passed through them and then Douglas deadpanned: “stop being so dramatic. If you dropped a box of chicken wings, you wouldn’t be so bloody melancholy.”

Hastily readjusting himself, Fionn pushed past the car. Each brittle crack sent a shiver up his legs. “Well, I’d probably start crying if I dropped a whole box. I mean, what’s that cost me? A fiver?”

“Hardly straining a monetary budget.” Douglas crossed his arms, waiting for a laugh or indication of agreement.

The apprentice’s forehead only crinkled up as he frowned. “That’s at least half an hour’s wage for me.”

“Oh. Then, you shouldn’t be wasting your wages on fast-food, you fool.”

With his brogues sinking and stained, Fionn struggled to ignore how vast and endless the edge of Woolstock Bay was. It had been abandoned by the Welsh National Assembly and left to fall ruin with its Keeper unemployed and alone.

“I think I’d have become an artist, too, if I’d have been the only one living on this part of the Welsh coast.” Fionn noted the dried hydrangeas curling around the bottom of the lighthouse as well as the wall climbers which grew up and over the paint. No longer fresh and vibrant, there were pale and frozen with salt.

“I do believe we can agree on that part. Artists are usually depressed and lonely people. Their creations are their only company.”

Snorting, Fionn shook his head. “You act so indifferent, but anyone can tell you’re an art curator.” Douglas raised an eyebrow and bent low, picking up the corner of a rotten coop. A distinct sadness fell over his features. “You’re a soppy bastard.”

“Suppose I am.” Throwing it to the floor, he stepped toward the edge of the cliff.

Buckets of seed and withered stretches of rope covered the land around them. A half-consumed collar stuck out of the mud just under Fionn’s shoe.

Sea spray nipped his cheeks as he approached the edge of the cliff. He tasted it on his tongue and at the back of his throat when he breathed. When he attempted to inhale through his nose alone, he violently sneezed and startled Douglas.

“You’re ruining the scenery,” grim disappointment was laced in his words.  

“You ruined it the moment you stepped out the car and showed your face.” Fionn shuffled toward the edge of the cliff, clamping his hands in his suit jacket. He supposed it was picturesque.

A vast expanse of sea lay out before them. There was a sheer drop and a rotten wood-pole acting as a rail. He wrapped a hand on the rust, and it tickled his palm. Waves swept up the rocks and over an outcrop accessible from a thin strip of beach below.  “It feels illegal to be here.” Fionn looked up at Douglas. “You’re the professional… is this against the law?”

“Nah.” He shook his head, his glasses slipped down his nose. “The Intestate’s been sorted.”

“Are the council going to knock it down?”

“It’ll be stripped bare after we’ve got what we need. The Crown Court will probably give it to the National Trust – make it into a tourist spot. Or maybe they’ll sell it to some big, posh company.”

“Who would pay to visit this place?”

“Anyone who hasn’t seen the sea before. Not all of us are lucky.”

It took several moments for Fionn to understand Douglas’ words. When the answer clicked into place, he grinned widely. “You’ve never seen the sea before?”

Without meeting the apprentice’s giddy grin, Douglas intensified his stare across the ocean. “The Keeper who lived here… The newspaper said it was as if he’d got up and walked straight into the sea.”

“Maybe he did.”

“The Government shut this place down. He wasn’t a Keeper anymore. Must’ve sent him over the edge… literally.” Douglas rose up onto one foot, peering into the water.

In a flash of momentary childishness, Fionn grabbed both of Douglas’s shoulders and feigned pushing him. The man cried out in alarm and jumped out of the young man’s hands.

“You fool!” he shuddered and exhaled a long breath. “Nearly gave me a heart attack.”

Giddy with pride, Fionn laughed. “Maybe you should lay off the fast-food at midnight, old man.” 

They waited in the breezy silence for a moment before Douglas shoved Fionn’s shoulder. “Come on. No good standing here like a pot of cold porridge.”

“Is the realtor here?”

“Doubt it. Looks like there isn’t a soul for a hundred miles.” He revealed an iron key which slid into the front door lock. A choking warmth swept over them.

“Is she in there?” Fionn asked stupidly. The curator did not want to waste his breath answering him.

There was a countertop, a sink, washboard and bread bin positioned in front of a small window.

Fionn could imagine a stout man stood scrubbing his dishes, wistfully watching the ocean ahead without a worry in the world. “Perhaps it wasn’t so bad being here alone.”

Cobwebs hung from the curtains, thick with flies and spider eggs. A single leather armchair, dented from a dozen years of weight, sat in front of a set of thin stairs. Beside the kitchen counter was a tiny table with two wooden stools on opposite sides.

“Jesus,” Douglas sauntered toward them. “I’d off myself as well if this was my house.”

“Not so much of a tourist spot now, is it?”

“They could turn it into a hotel.” He noted the view of the ocean. “Whichever weird sod enjoys watching a storm would pay plenty to sleep here.”

A sharp scuttle of a rat echoed from the heater. It popped out of the metal tube, lurching at the new guests.

“Thank you for welcoming us to your humble abode,” Fionn bowed graciously at the creature. “We are here to steal your possessions and sell them for an extremely high price.”

With a scoff, Douglas couldn’t bare the sight of it any longer. “Let’s get the paintings, sign the paperwork and leave.” He took off up the stairs, creaking and waking up the lighthouse from its undisturbed slumber. A wave of wind whistled through the glass. There was a series of grumbles and curses. “It’s locked!” Douglas swore.

Fionn snickered. “Maybe it knows we want to strip it bare. Like body-snatchers.”  

“Beat me to it,” a feminine voice, lilted with a Welsh accent, startled Fionn. The formally dressed, middle-aged woman stood in the doorway with a folder in her hands. “You must be the collectors – from the auction house.”

“Collectors…” Fionn repeated, his cheeks turning pink. “Makes us sound like graverobbers. I’m Fionn – the restorationist.”

“That makes me the graverobber,” Douglas clambered down the stairs, his tie askew. “The lad is just a lapdog for the artwork. You’re Lamorna? We spoke on the phone.”

“Yes.” She shook their hands. “You’ll have to excuse my shoes. I had to walk here; there are no buses to this part of town.” The two men glanced at her feet and found they were caked in mud. Lamorna coughed and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Well, thanks for letting yourselves in. I have the key for the third floor – his paintings are all in there. Then, we’ll sign the paperwork and we can be on our way. It doesn’t feel right staying here too long; it’s like being in a crypt.”

Fionn’s brogue caught on a latch. He frowned, nudging the metal with his toe. “And the basement? Anything in there?”

“I haven’t had any paperwork for it. It’s probably unstable. The cliff is beginning to crumble. I mean, just the other week we had the surveyors in, and this small outcropping just outside collapsed. We left soon after that.” She was flippantly waving her hand, her Welsh accent adding a hint of bemusement to tale. “But that little accident was also a blessing.”

Douglas hovered awkwardly at the bottom of the stairs, itching to get his hands on the key. “No one was killed?”

“Well, no one was but the blessing is it showed us there’s a cave just below this place. It’ll really add to the selling price if we don’t give it to a Trust.” Her eyes widened joyfully. “Right then, speaking of money, let’s get you these paintings.”

 She ascended the stairs which spiralled up and round. The second floor was a dusty, linen covered bedroom. There was a thin bed and clothing rail with shirts still hanging. Douglas glanced down at Fionn, his frown vaguely disturbing.

“Maybe you could start an antique auction as well?” Fionn attempted to joke, but the man shook his head and silenced him. 

“Here we are,” Lamorna unlocked a heavy oak door. As she pushed it open, it scraped against the floorboards and Fionn tugged his ear uncomfortably.

Douglas edged past her. He held an arm over his mouth and coughed, tripping towards a window. After he lifted the lace curtain and unlocked the pane, he accidentally shoved an empty birds’ nest off the sill and swore loudly. When he attempted to look down, he heaved and painfully squeezed his eyes together.

Fionn gingerly entered the room, his own eyes stinging with dust. If they were not here for the purpose of art, he would have assumed the room was full of useless junk as everything was covered in a layer of grey dust.

However, dozens of canvases filled the space; some covered in white sheets and others left bare. A pained feeling filled Fionn’s chest as he crouched, swiping a hand through the concoction of spiderwebs. They were springy to touch, but he wrenched them apart regardless.  

“These will take months to fix,” he said. “We should get them back as soon as possible.”

“We’ll have to hire a removal van – thought it was only a few, not a bloody gallery.”

“Maybe he was a tortured artist.”

“A lonely, tortured painter. Never heard of one of those before.” Idly flicking through a stack of canvases, Douglas frowned. “Half of these won’t sell.”

“The rumour in town was that he wanted to be an artist. Always.” Lamorna waited by the door, eyeing the corners for spiders and insects.

Douglas ran a finger over a portrait of a cow stood on the edge of a cliff. “He did send so many sketches to us.”

“And you only came when he’d died?”

“Adds to their value if their dead.”

There was a heartbeat of pensive silence and then Lamorna recalled: “his Carer said it was like a tomb here.”

“He had a carer?” Douglas glanced at her. “How sick was he?”

“An old woman from town. I can’t remember her name, but he was quite ill near the end. Apparently, he was so frail, almost like a ghost; so spindly and thin.”

Fionn gnawed at the inside of his cheek “Poor bloke,” he murmured.

“Why didn’t the Carer inherit the estate? Did the Keeper definitely have no family?” Douglas asked, helping Fionn pull a bedsheet off a large painting. The younger of the two gasped, refraining himself from touching it.

Lamorna shifted and wrung her hands together. “She, uh, went missing as well.”

Too distracted by the extravagantly wondrous image before them, the two men crouched low and wordlessly.

At the bottom of the canvas was the Keeper’s signature in swirling calligraphy he must’ve taken years to perfect. Mould settled atop the plastic cover like Creeping Jenny on a pond.

The painting was of the lighthouse from the perspective of the sea. Fierce waves splattered the cliff and the building was covered in red tendrils which rose out of the ground, coiling around it.

The ridge of the lighthouse filled Fionn with dread. He lifted a hand up, his fingers shaking slightly as he scraped some of the mould away.

The Keeper had painted crimson sludge splurging from the base of the building. It dribbled over the cliff as if it were a needle skewered through the Earth.

“Bloody hell,” Douglas pulled Fionn’s wandering hand away protectively. “Wonder what inspired him to do that?”

Lamorna had entered the room. Her heels scuffled next to Fionn which startled him. He got to his feet, straightening his creased suit. “How do these keep for so long?” she asked, peering at him. “Surely they would be ruined with the sea salt and sunlight?” One of the canvases in front of her was of a flock of seagulls.

“It’s wax-medium,” Fionn said. “Stops water damage and the elements.”

“Would be great if they had a product like that on the market. I have to buy an expensive sun cream, so I don’t start getting wrinkles from the sun or sea air.”  

“You know…” Douglas pulled his disturbed gaze away from the painting. “Would be good to do this place up. Could plaster the walls. Rip up the floor s’well. Get some air fresheners.”

“I think so, too. If we got a really luxurious company to buy this place, it could really put South Wales on the map for premium holiday breaks.” There was thoughtful silence from her and then she sighed pitifully. “But places like this are spoiled by the damp and cold. What we need to do is start from the bottom, really scrub this place up until you can’t tell it was a rotting and decrepit tomb.”

There was a grunt from Fionn as he struggled to pick up the most expensive painting.

Douglas slowed him down, helping him place it safely back against the ground. “We’ll hire a van. There’s no way we’ll get it in the car.”

“But it’s so…”

“I know, lad. But you’ll have to be patient. Good things come to those who wait, you know.” Turning back to the realtor, he squinched. “What did you say happened to the Carer? She got any kids who want to testify for this place?”

“Oh no,” Lamorna said. “I think this place made her go mad, too. The Keeper had a habit of hobbling out of the lighthouse and onto the beach. She stayed nights and kept waking up to find the Keeper was screeching along the shore like an escaped convict. That’s how he went missing. The one day, she woke and found he was gone completely. The same with her; she never came back to town. Must’ve been a few weeks ago, now.”

“Jesus,” Douglas said. “She hasn’t got any expensive paintings, has she?” He inhaled too quickly and started to cough; the gritty taste of dust coated his tongue.

“No. She doesn’t – or didn’t I mean. Uh, do you want a drink? If we’re going to be here most of the evening, I’ll need one. I could put the kettle on?” Lamorna offered. “I bring a travel one with me wherever I go, and it is getting chilly – I’ll pop it on for myself.” She disappeared from the room, having not strayed more than a meter into the room.  

“Bloody brought the tone down, didn’t she?”

“I think the tone was already on the floor,” Fionn snarked.

The two men took an inventory of viable paintings. Douglas kept a pad of sticky notes in his jacket pocket and used them to label the ones they’d keep, and the ones he thought belonged on a bonfire pile.

With a regretful scowl, Fionn pressed an orange sticky note to the small illustration of seagulls. It was quaint and minimal. The colours once on it had faded to white which made it all the more alluring to him.

“It’s faded,” Douglas pressed. “You and I both know it’s only because the realtor was having a good look at it that you want to faff about with restoring whatever’s survivable which, by the way, is not a whole lot.”

“Well, we could let her keep it?” Fionn offered.

 “Mark my words, we’ll leave it here for her and she’ll forget all about it. Only got her expensive sun-cream paycheque to worry about.”

Falling into a bitter silence, Fionn watched Douglas flick through each painting and label them alone. He checked the auctioned ones for damage, scribbling down how long each would take to repair using a biro from the other pocket in Douglas’ jacket.

Most were past repair and Douglas insisted that the lesser the better; it increased the value of the ones they chose to take away with them.

As the sun began to set, the contents of the third floor had been completely split apart and analysed. There was a bloody crimson streak of sunlight through the room which stung their eyes as they left. Both were covered in webs, dust and dead insects and something brown lined the nail of Fionn’s forefinger.

He sat at the dingy table on the bottom floor picking at it. With the darkening light, he missed the filth completely and ripped at his skin.

Lamorna rooted through the cupboards and discovered several battery-powered lanterns. The darkening evening was made more comfortable with a warm yellow glow lighting up the room.

Douglas scribbled his signature along a series of papers Lamorna spread before them. She had her hands curled around a cup of black coffee and was shivering slightly from the draught which blew through cracks in the windows. A groan echoed from the rotting timber ceiling and floor.

“I hate this place,” Douglas dejected, shoving his phone back in his jacket. “Once I get a good signal, I’ll call the removal company and we can let this place sink into the ground, Fionn.”

With the signing of the papers complete, Lamorna realised she wouldn’t have to come back to the lighthouse again. The council would finalise the decision to privatise the building and she would be free to move onto an inland home.

“One with a swimming pool, I hope,” she idly dreamed, digging through the contents of her satchel. She revealed a bottle of red wine and raised it joyously. “To this terrible place.”

“You really think it’s terrible?” Fionn glanced at her.

 “In our town, Woolstock Lighthouse isn’t a place to be messed with. It’s so lonely and empty here; we had no choice but to let it rot.”

“Good. Now, pour me a glass.” Douglas ran a finger over the rim of his mug and shot Fionn a glare. “You can’t have a drink, fool.”. You’re driving us back to Oxford as soon as we’re ready. I’ll sleep off the wine in the passenger seat.”  

“We’ll end up sleeping here if the storm gets any worse,” Fionn glanced at the room. “It’s like a crypt.”

“A crypt means I won’t be disturbed, and I can rest without your tedious voice nagging me.”

Fionn huffed and sipped his coffee, relishing in the sour tang. He took a seat beside the window, staring out across the ocean as Lamorna began a game of Don with a stack of playing cards.

“Do you keep everything in that little satchel?” Douglas judged her openly. “I’ve never heard of this game.”

“Don is a Welsh card game. It means trick.”

“You can’t play this, Fionn. Leave it to those with brain cells.”

Fionn leaned against the window. “You can’t just keep disrespecting me like this, Doug. One day, I’ll get you back… maybe hit you with a car or push you in front of a bus.”

“What are you muttering about, fool?” he cackled, shuffling several cards in his hands.

Lamorna hid her cards from view. “What are our stakes?”

“If you lose then I get to open the basement,” he bartered.

“I want to have a snoop too,” she said.

“Okay, fine. If I win, I go and have a look first. If you win then you do it first.”

Rain dribbled down the pane, refracting the smooth waves into jagged phantoms. Fionn frowned. “I always thought the waves in a storm looked like people,” he said quietly. “Don’t you think?”

“I think they’re like ghosts,” Lamorna smirked. “Bet the Keeper and Carer are still here; dancing on the sea.”

Douglas stacked his cards. “How cheery.”

Fionn held a battery-powered lantern up to the window. The warmth kissed his cheek. With the sun gone from their company, he could see his jarring reflection of the window. His taut skin looked as if someone had put hooks in his jaw and pulled his face back. Clearly, the sea salt no longer agreed with him.  

“When I first visited after the carer died… There was the foulest stench in here,” Lamorna said. “Like something rotting.”

Scraping his chair against the floor, Douglas leaned on the table. “Do you think an animal got in? We’ve seen a rat. Sometimes they get tangled up in the pipes in my flat in Oxford.”

“No, I figured it was just the lighthouse. The plumbing or stagnant water maybe.”

“I hope it’s not the building,” Douglas laughed.

“Wouldn’t be surprised,” she said. “Feels like its decomposing. If I didn’t want to sell it to the highest bidder, I’d probably hire a bulldozer and knock it down.”

Fionn barely heard their exchange. He was pressed against the window, watching a shadow squeeze out of the dirt. It jittered and scuttled like a creature to the edge of the cliff and disappeared.

“Fionn,” someone called his name. “Fionn!”

Snapping his head to Douglas, he heard his own heartbeat drumming in his ears. “Look like you’ve seen a ghost, boy.”

“There’s something out there.”

“The storm’s shadows?” Lamorna shrugged.

“Come on, boy,” Douglas said. “If we win, we get to see this place’s innards.”

Paling, he shook his head. “I’m going to go for a walk. It might just be because the sea reminds me of home.”

“You’re a melancholy fool,” Douglas watched him amusedly. “Don’t follow the Keeper’s footsteps. I won’t come in after you.”  

Feeling stranded and compelled in the, now, alien environment, Fionn stumbled out of the lighthouse. The moon sat on the edge of the horizon, casting a white glow over him as he headed toward a slender set of carved stairs in the cliff. One of the surveyors must have strung a rope through metal rings tapped into the stone. He clung to it with his free hand and used the other to light the way. In his uncomfortable formalwear, he haphazardly hit the shore with a stumble.

Lowering the lantern, he stared at the moon. He knew it could play devilish tricks on the sea; it controlled the tide, why not the very core of its being?

His neck ached when he looked back up at the lighthouse. It hung over him like the claw of a buried monster. His eyes traversed down the jagged face of the cliff; the arches and lines of erosion. When he reached the hollow opening of the cave, he remembered Lamorna’s words and felt spurned by them. 

Heading off the sand, he clambered onto the rock and followed the rigid path round the side of the shore. The waves splashed up, soaking his shoes and trousers. When he reached a flat, broader outcropping of rock he stared up at the mouth of the cave. It was circular, like an artery cut in half. The tip of the lighthouse poked out above.

He looked down and picked up an empty mollusc. Its amber-red shell curled into buttermilk and it shone beneath the moon in a manner it couldn’t on the ocean floor. He pulled an arm back and threw it into the rolling waves before turning on his heel and entering the cave. The whistle of the sea accompanied him. As did the glow of the moon and his lantern so the rocks shone with slime and seaweed.

Nervously, he pushed through the narrowing tunnel until he was climbing up a steep embankment. When he held the lantern aloft, he cried out in alarm. The ceiling was bright red and pulsating. It shuddered above him as living flesh. In the middle of the horror was an oak trapdoor.

Fionn quivered and reached for the latch. He wrenched back the clasp and wet sludge pooled out, spewing over him. With a gag, he spluttered: “that’s bloody disgusting.” His utterance evoked a response from the flesh. It trembled dramatically and began to reach for him. Fionn took an uneven step backward. “I’m, uh, sorry. I’m sorry.” He trod again and slipped; the brogues unsuited for that jagged kingdom. When his temple smacked the rock, he grunted and fell into a pained unconsciousness.

It was like a dream, a vision existing alongside reality. He was slipping beneath the surface of the sea and the light of the moon followed him there. Salt bled into his throat and he swam through the gloom of Dawlish waters like a crustacean. His arm reached forwards, fingers splaying through the white light. As he drew closer, the light transformed into the jaws of an angler and tore his fingers apart.

Fionn awoke groaning, his ribs aching. He stumbled to his feet and stared up. The flesh had reconfigured itself against the ceiling like a soft and swaying canopy of crimson silk.

With the trapdoor hanging open, Fionn’s heart leapt to his throat. He hobbled out of the cave and up the stairway, barrelling into the living room where Douglas was leaning into a hole in the floor.

“What do you mean there’s nothing in there?” he guffawed.  

“It’s wet down here!” a voice called. Lamorna. “I think there’s a leak. Throw me one of those lanterns, I think there’s an animal in here!”

Fionn grabbed Douglas’s shoulder, startling him. When he turned, he cried out at the sight of him. “You’re covered in…” he choked. The man’s understatement did not make him feel better. The apprentice was slathered in hot, thick crimson slime. It matted his curls down his cheeks and neck, even staining the white irises with red.

“You have to see this.” Fionn ignored Douglas’s horrified expression. “There’s something underneath this place.”

“Jesus, you smell… Where did you go? The only thing under here is this grotty basement. It’s foul. You should go and wash in the sea.”

“No.” Shaking his head, Fionn clasped Douglas’s shoulders, pressing red liquid over the expensive jacket. “There’s a cave. And I know there’s something in there – something which heard me.”

Douglas shot a momentary glance back at the hole in the ground. “I’ll only be a moment, Lamorna,” he shot and then the two men hurried into the night. Douglas had more wit about him than Fionn, who tripped and stumbled down the rocks until his palms began to bleed.

“What do you mean it heard you?” he questioned the apprentice. “Like a person? The Keeper?” Fionn’s lantern swung in his hand as he reached the cave.

Douglas’s body felt prickled by sea-spray. He nervously pushed his back against the rock, staring intensely at Fionn’s head so he wouldn’t shake with fear.

Beneath his feet, moss squelched, and weeds grew from the cracks in the ground; blooming without sunlight. “Jesus.” Douglas muttered. “Smells like something’s d…” The word disappeared in a breath, vanishing air now slathered in ominous dread.

Douglas coughed into his arm, his eyes watering. He swore loudly. In the darkness, a swollen call cried out to them.

Douglas flashed the torch against Fionn’s cheek. Spidery veins flashed across his vision. “You first.”

Hoisting himself up, he gripped something mushy and wet but managed to help Douglas to his feet. They both gagged and shivered as the light lit up the room. It was circular with wooden walls. The planks appeared