The Loop of Light

I never told anyone the full story of what happened in the old lighthouse. Some things are better left unsaid, but I feel I owe it to the living to warn them, if not for their sake, then for my own sanity. You see, I used to believe in the rational, in the explicable, until the winter of 2019, when my friend Lila came to stay.

I had been living in that coastal town for three years, in a converted keeper’s cottage that hugged the base of a decommissioned lighthouse. I’d bought it cheap, drawn to its isolation and the way the sea whispered against the rocks at night. I’d never believed in ghosts, not really. But after a year, I started to notice things. A persistent cold spot in the corner of my bedroom, no matter how high I cranked the heater. A faint, rhythmic tapping on the windows, even when the sea was calm. And the smell of brine and old wood smoke that would come and go without a source.

I told myself it was the house settling, the wind, my imagination. But then I found the journal. It was wedged behind a loose plank in the attic, wrapped in oilskin. It belonged to a previous keeper, a man named Elias, who had died in the 1920s. His writing was frantic, almost illegible. He spoke of a ‘loop of light’ that would appear in the lamp room during the witching hours, a light that would show him things—things he couldn’t unsee. He wrote of a woman he called ‘the Drowned Mistress,’ who would beckon him to the sea, and of a bell that would ring without being struck, a bell that seemed to call the light itself.

I tried to dismiss it as ramblings of a lonely man. But soon, I started to see the loop of light. It was subtle at first—a flicker in the corner of my eye, a shimmer on the wall like heat rising. But one night, I woke to find the room bathed in a sickly, green glow, and in the center of my floor, a perfect circle of light, spinning slowly. Inside that circle, I saw the reflection of a face—not mine, but a woman’s, with hollow eyes and a mouth open in a silent scream. I blinked, and it was gone.

That was the beginning. After that, I couldn’t stop seeing her. She would appear at the foot of my bed, dripping wet, her hair plastered to her skull. She never spoke, but she would point to the lighthouse, her arm trembling, as if pleading. And in the distance, I would hear the bell—a deep, resonant tone that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere.

I tried to tell my friends, but they laughed it off. They said it was the stress of my new book, my isolation. So I stopped mentioning it. I stopped going into the lighthouse altogether. I just wanted to live my life in peace, watching the tourists come and go in the summer, pretending I didn’t feel the cold spots or hear the tapping at night.

When Lila called to say her house was being renovated and she needed a place to stay, I hesitated. I didn’t want her to see what I saw. But she insisted, and I finally agreed, making her promise to sleep in the spare room that I had converted into a guest bedroom. I told her the lounge was too cold, that the drafts would keep her awake. She didn’t argue.

That first night, she came into the kitchen looking pale. ‘Mara,’ she said, her voice thin, ‘I heard a bell. At three in the morning. And the lighthouse—I saw a light moving in the lamp room, like someone was up there.’ My heart sank. I tried to soothe her, told her it was probably the coast guard’s drone or something, but she wasn’t convinced. She asked if I had ever seen anything strange. I denied it, but my hand trembled as I poured the tea.

The next night, she slept in my room, because she said the spare bed felt weird—like someone was sitting on it. I didn’t have the heart to refuse. But at 3am, we both woke to the sound of the bell, clearer than ever, coming from the lighthouse. Lila gripped my arm. ‘What is that?’ she whispered. I told her I didn’t know. But in that moment, the room grew cold, and the green light began to seep through the window, forming a loop on the wall. The face appeared again, not a reflection this time, but a hazy figure in the corner—the Drowned Mistress. She pointed to the lighthouse, and this time, her mouth moved. I could barely hear it, but I caught the words: ‘Come. End it.’

Lila saw it too. She gasped and scrambled backward, knocking over a lamp. ‘Mara, what is that?’ she cried. I couldn’t answer. I was frozen, watching the figure as it slowly dissolved, leaving only the loop of light spinning on the wall. When it finally vanished, the bell stopped, replaced by the sound of waves.

After that, Lila packed her things and left, refusing to stay another night. I didn’t blame her. But as she drove away, I saw her expression in the rearview mirror—she was looking back at the lighthouse, and her face was locked in a silent scream.

I haven’t seen her since. But last week, I received a letter with no return address. Inside were two photographs. The first was of the lighthouse, taken from the sea, with a light glowing in the lamp room. The second was a portrait of a woman—the Drowned Mistress—and on the back, in shaky handwriting, was my name. There was no message else. Just my name.

I’ve spent the last few nights trying to piece together Elias’s journal. He wrote about a ritual, a way to quiet the light—a bell that had to be rung at the exact moment the loop met the horizon, and only then would the mistress be laid to rest. But he died before he could try. I think he was called to the sea.

Tonight, I’m going to do it. I’ve found the bell in the lamp room, tarnished but intact. I’ve read the words. I’ve prepared myself. But as I walk up the spiral stairs, I can feel her presence behind me, like a cold tide. And I can hear, in the distance, the sound of the loop of light, humming with a frequency that seems to be coming from inside my head. I don’t know if I’ll survive this. But if you’re reading this, if anyone ever finds this account, know that the light is patient. It doesn’t forget. And it will call to you, too, if you’re not careful.

I just hope I can ring the bell in time.