Lighthouse Horror Podcast - I Took a STRANGE Job Near CANDLE COVE. This is My Story

Episode Date: February 14, 2026

Join Lighthouse Horror on Patreon: Lighthouse Horror | PatreonShop at the Lighthouse Horror Giftshop: https://hauntedstuff.com/Art & Credits: ninerioartsMusic by Lucas King, Myuu, Kevin MacLeod & Darren CurtisOriginal YouTube link: I Took a STRANGE Job Near CANDLE COVE. This is My Story.     Copyright © 2025 Lighthouse Horror. All rights reservedThank you for listening to this scary story! If you enjoyed this story, please check out some of my other horror stories. We'll be uploading new episodes every week, featuring ghost stories, haunted encounters, mysteries, true stories, creepypasta, and anything supernatural and paranormal. Don't miss out on the thrill and suspense that await you in each episode!

My name is George Calder, and I've spent most of my life on the water. I wasn't born in anything special. My old man fished because his old man fished, and I followed them both because there wasn't much else to do in a town where the sea touched everything. I learned early how to mend a net, how to keep a hook sharp, and how to tell when the clouds meant trouble. Most people learn their letters in school. I learned the way weather changes its mind.

I worked the boats from the time I was big enough to coil a row. rope without tripping over it. It wasn't a romantic life. Anyone he tells you otherwise hasn't spent a dawn with cold spray hitting the cuts on their hands. But it was a life that made sense. You work, you sweat, you eat, you sleep. You pull something from the sea, and the sea lets you keep it. I never stayed in one place for too long. Some ports were friendly, some warrant. Some crews talked too much, some barely at all. I kept mostly to my myself. For a while I worked the long-line boats out on the cold open routes. Hard men. Longer days. The kind of work that shakes the bones loose in your back if you stand wrong. After that

I tried the smaller charters, the kind where tourists want pictures of the fish more than the fish themselves. They paid well enough, but that life made me feel, I don't know, like a prop. I wanted real work, not to smile for a bunch of strangers. So when I saw an angling job posted in a regional paper, I didn't think twice. It was straightforward. A small fishing community off the coast, steady pay, a need for experienced hands. I figured I'd take it for a year, maybe two, build some savings and I don't know, see what came next. I pack light, few shirts, one jacket, my knife, the habits of a man who expects to keep moving.

The trip out wasn't supposed to be complicated. The weather that week looked clean in the charts. I left the mainland with supplies, a patched-up boat of my own, and enough fuel to reach the island with time to spare. For most of the day, the weather was calm. Few sea birds overhead. Normal winds. Nothing strange at all. The storm rolled in faster than anything I'd seen.

One moment the horizon was clear. the next it was gone behind a curtain of rain. In my line of work, you get used to sudden turns in the weather, but this one hit like it'd been waiting for me. The waves lifted my boat higher than felt reasonable. Each impact rattled the boards under my boots. I kept the wheel steady and tried to ride it out, but the light was failing and the rocks around the coast

weren't marked on any chart I carried. When the hull struck something solid, The sound went straight through the boat. It wasn't a scrape or even a split. It was a single violent impact that knocked me off balance. Cold water surged in before I had time to brace myself. I tried to check the damage, but another wave came down hard and the world tipped sideways. I remember the taste of salt, the weight of wet clothes, my hands reaching for anything that would float.

and then nothing for a long while. Waking up later in a place I didn't recognize wasn't part of the plan. Neither was losing my boat or finding out something had taken a chunk clean out of it. But life rarely asks what you're prepared for. It just hands you the next situation and waits to see what you'll do with it. That's why I ended up here, on Redstone Isle, with only my name, my skills, and the whole I hoped that steady work might still be waiting somewhere on the docks. I didn't arrive clean or proud or ready.

I arrived because the sea decided to spit me out instead of swallowing me whole. And that's where everything truly began. My first days on Redstone Isle were slow, mostly because no one explained anything outright. People here speak in pieces, like they expect you to already know how things work. I learned most of it by listening and asking the same question twice until somebody finally gave me a full answer. The island, it's got two towns, Big Red and Little Red. They sit close to each other, separated by a short stretch of water that looks harmless until the weather changes. Big Red is where I ended up.

It feels like time stopped moving somewhere around the early 1900s. The buildings are old wood. The roads are dirt and gravel Horses pull supply cards Generators run on coal There's radios, but they only pick up a few stations Cell phones don't work here at all You can bring one, but it'll stay in your pocket

The entire time has dead weight Big Red sits on the docks And most people here work with boats In one way or another Some fish, some repair engines, Some haul crates Everything depends on the sea Little Red is quieter, mostly homes and a few storage yards, along with a small fish processing station.

It takes an hour to get there by ferry, or about half that if your boat has a good engine. The mayor of Big Red is Charles Rupert. He looks like a man who keeps polite habits. Clean clothes, steady voice, always watching the person he's speaking to, making sure to looky in the eye. He stepped into power, after the former mayor, mysteriously and disappeared. Yeah, people still talk about that. They say the old mayor was, for lack of a better word, a nut job.

No one's told me the full story yet, and Charles doesn't bring it up. People here seem all too willing to let the past sit at the bottom of the water. Charles is the one who gave me my current boat. Used to belong to the town fisherman who also disappeared. No one wanted to claim it, so we passed it to me with a condition. that I would pay off the cost through fishing work. Let's just say it's not a small debt, and it forced me to stay put. Couldn't exactly argue with him, considering the fact that him and his men had to literally

fish me out of the water. I was lucky he wasn't charging me for my medical bills. Then there's Julian. He runs the bar near the dogs. He's small, keeps mostly to himself, and speaks in short sentences. these good friends with a dockmaster, which means he hears things before most people do. When my boat gets tugged in after a long day or after some part gives out, Julianne always has a cold beer waiting.

Never ask me a lot of questions, which is exactly why I get along with him. My work here is nothing complicated. I fish, bring whatever I catch back into Big Red, and take the odd delivery over to Little Red when someone needs a box or a box, a crate moved. I sleep in my boat because there's not much housing to go around, and I've learned to make do. Mornings on the dock are noisy, nights are quiet, and most of my time is spent fixing whatever decides to stop working that week. I pay my debt little by little, and I try to keep some kind of routine going. Most days pass without trouble. Some don't. Folks on this island

have been dealing with strange things long before I ever showed up. And after a year here, I have seen enough to understand why everyone keeps an eye on the water. The stories I've got now, aren't rumors or old sailor talk. They happen to me. And since I've been here over a year, I've collected more than a few stories. There are strange things in this town and stranger mysteries waiting under the surface. If you're willing to listen, I can tell you about him. Besides, the fog just rolled in.

You're not going anywhere for a while. Pull up a seat. Julian will serve you in a bit. Huh, so where should I start? I guess I ought to begin with that first week. That's really where everything started, even if I didn't know it back then. Now when I first came to, they kept me in a small clinic and a small clinic. in big red, just long enough to make sure I wasn't about to keel over. After that, they sent me

to the docks to meet the dockmaster and get settled into whatever job the mayor had lined up for me. I didn't own much anymore, not after the sea tore my old boat apart, so stepping onto a new deck, it felt strange, like walking into someone else's life. The boat they assigned me was old, but it wasn't falling apart. Apparently it had belonged to the fisherman before me, the ones that had gone missing years before. The boards were worn smooth from years of work, and the hall had patches where the paint had peeled away. Still, when I knocked on the wood with my knuckles,

sounded solid, sturdy in its own way. The motor coughed when I tested it, like it was trying to clear its throat after a long sleep. I remember thinking it was going to give up on me before I made one trip, but the dockmaster just waved a hand, and said it needed to warm up. I wasn't sure if that was true,

or if he just wanted the problem out of his sight. Anyway, he handed me a folded map right away, said it would help me learn the routes. The thing looked like had been scribbled on by three different people over three different years. Some areas were circled, some crossed out, some marked with thick letters that read no fish zone.

I asked what that meant, and he said it was for my own safety. Nothing more. He didn't explain why certain coves were blocked out, or why big red X's ran across places that looked like normal stretches of water. I didn't push him. At that point, I figured every fishing town had its own strange rules. When I moved into the boat that night,

I tried to make it feel like mine. I hung my jacket on a hook, set my old mug near the tiny stove, I've always had a habit of brewing a cup of coffee at midnight, no matter where I am. Started years ago, mostly out of stubbornness. So I found the kettle, filled it up with water, and set it to heat. While I waited, I noticed one of the floorboards near the bunk sitting a little crooked, not enough to trip on, just enough to be noticeable. I'm the type who fixes things as soon as I see him, so I crouched down and pressed on it.

It gave way under my hand, loose at one corner. I grabbed a rusted flat tool from a drawer and prided up. Underneath a board was a folded piece of paper, stiff at the edges from age. When I opened it, my eyebrows went up. It was the missing part of the map the dockmaster gave me earlier that morning. The torn edges matched perfectly, like there were two halves of one thing. Only this piece showed something new. There was a small island drawn about an hour east of redstone, a narrow shape labeled

Candle Cove. I'd never heard of Candle Cove, and no one had mentioned it to me. I held the two map pieces together, trying to picture why someone went through the trouble of ripping this section off, and why I hid it under a floorboard. I didn't have answers, so I taped them together the best I could and set the full map aside. I figured I'd take a look at Candle Cove once I had a free hour or two. Didn't seem dangerous, at least not on paper. Just another little island sitting off the main route.

That first week went by smoother than I expected. I took the boat out early each morning, and thankfully the motor worked well enough once it warmed. The lines held, the nets behaved, and the sea fell calm. I caught plenty of cod and blue mackerel, which were the lines held. the usual catches around here. Enough to start paying off the debt, the mayor talked about. The town fishmonger looked pleased every time I walked in with a crate over my shoulder. He introduced himself as Simon, someone who, like myself, had taken on the family business. On one of those days, the sun was just setting when I went back to the fishmonger. The place

smelled like salt and cold metal, the way every fish shop does. The old man was sorting through a sack of orders when he looked up at me. You, George, he asked, wiping his hands on a rag. Yeah, that's me, I said. Oh, good. Someone left a request for you. They're paying extra for squid delivered fresh by morning. He reached under the counter and pulled out a slip of paper. I raised an eyebrow at that. Squid wasn't part of my usual catch. that I didn't know the habits of the waters here yet.

Squid, huh? They run this close to the docks, I asked. He shook his head. Not during the day. They hide in the caves and the rocks when the sun's up. But they come out at night. You'll need to go out after dark if you want them. I should have thought longer before answering.

A smarter man might have asked. a few more questions. But I needed the money, and the job sounded simple, so I nodded. Yeah, sure, I'll take it, I said. He slipped me the paper. Good. Just bring in whatever you catch. Doesn't have to be much. They just want squid, and they want it by morning. I still remember walking out of that shop, thinking it would be an easy job, Maybe even an interesting one. I didn't know it yet, but that small decision changed the shape of my life on Redstone Isle. If I'd said no, maybe things would have gone differently.

Maybe not. Either way, that night run for Squid was the first step into everything that came after. When I headed out that night for Squid, the water was calm enough. The moon gave off a soft light, just enough. to see the rocks and darker stretches where the squid usually hid. I didn't know the good spots yet, so I drifted along the outer edges of big red, letting the boat move at a slow pace while I worked the lines.

Night fishing feels different from day fishing. During the day, you can see the way the sea changes. At night, you depend on sound and the way the boat moves under your feet. The squid came quick, more than I expected. I pulled them in one after another, neat little arrow squid with long tapered bodies. They were lively. Along with them, I snagged a couple of cod

that must have wandered close to where the squid were hiding. It was good money for one night. I remember thinking the fishmonger would be pleased and that maybe this extra job was going to be easier than I thought. For a long while, everything went smooth. I kept the lantern low and the bucket open. I settled into the rhythm of casting, pulling, sorting and moving along the rocks. It must have been past two in the morning when something

hit the line harder than anything else that night. The boat jerked just a little, enough to let me know it wasn't a small catch. I braced myself and pulled. Whatever was on the other end didn't fight like a cod or a regular squid. It felt uneven, as if it didn't know whether to resist or let itself be dragged in. What had finally broke the surface and flopped out of the dead. deck, I took a step back. It looked like an aerosquid, but only in the roughest sense. Its body was wider, shaped around a gelatin-like sack that shimmered in the lantern light. Inside the sack, a bright green core glowed in a steady pulse. Around it were smaller cores that didn't move, almost like seeds waiting for something. Long tentacles sprouted from the main body, twitching

in short burst, like they were trying to figure out what they were. It was glowing green, and I had never seen anything like it. The green light kept pulsing, slow but steady. I didn't want it crawling around my boat, and I didn't know if it was dangerous, so I grabbed the nearest thing I could use, my knife, and I stabbed the center of its body. The blade went in clean, and the creature let out a wet, heavy sound, as a thick black, ooze poured out. The green glow dimmed, then faded until the whole thing lay still. The tentacles stopped moving, and whatever life it had was gone. After a moment of quiet, I nudged it with my boot

to be sure. When it didn't react, I lifted it with both hands and dropped it into the bucket with the rest of the catch. I told myself it was still a squid, just a different kind, and if it wasn't dangerous now, maybe it wouldn't matter later. But I couldn't forget about how weird it looked, and I thought about it the entire way back. By the time I got back to Big Red, the sun hadn't come up yet. I hauled the catch into the fishmonger's shop. He was already awake, sorting trays. When he saw the bucket, he gave a short nod, but that changed when he reached in and

pulled out the mutated squid. His eyebrows rose. Well, now, don't see those often." You know what that is? I asked. He sliced the body open with a sharp knife, letting the last of the black ooze spill under the table. The town calls these aberrations.

They're just fish, or at least they used to be. Something out there in the dark changes them. We don't know how. We just know they fetch a higher price, he said. And he wasn't joking. He offered me more for that squid than the entire bucket of regular catches combined. If you find more like this, your debt will shrink real fast. Folks in Little Red pay good money for them.

They claim the meat has something special to it. I don't ask questions, he said. I looked at the cut-open creature. It still looked like something out of place. Like a mistake, the sea didn't bother to hide. The fishmonger kept talking. Be careful, though. Most of these turn up at night.

And once the fog rolls in, hard to keep your wits about you. More than a few boats have gone. missing because of it. Some people think the fog brings them in closer. Others think it hides something. He shrugged, as if losing boats was just something had happened. I carried my pay out of the shop, not knowing how to feel. On one hand, I needed the money. I needed to pay off that boat, so I could choose my own life again. On the other hand, catching things that glowed from the end, inside wasn't exactly part of my job description. But I told myself I'd take what came. If mutated fish were going to pay down my debt faster, then that is the work I would do.

I didn't have many choices at the time. When I got back to my boat that morning, the sun was just starting to color the town. The docks were empty. Everyone else was asleep or getting ready for the day. As I stepped out in my boat, something caught my eye. A soon, A small scrap of parchment was taped to the side of the hall. The edges were rough, torn from something older. In the middle was a circle drawn around Candle Cove, the little island I'd seen on the hidden map piece. Under the circle someone had written, Don't Fish Here After Dark.

It was signed with just one letter, M. I didn't know anyone named M. I didn't know why they left a note, or how they knew I had a reason to look toward Candle Cove. But I stood there for a long minute, holding that note. Wondering who was watching me. Everything that happened stayed in my mind for days, even when I tried not to think about it. But work doesn't stop because something feels strange and I had a debt to pay. The next few days turned into long nights on the water.

The squid job had brought in good money, so I figured I'd keep going out after dark. I wasn't sure if it was wise, but the fishmonger made it clear that these things they called aberrations would pay off my boat faster than anything else. And once you get a taste of progress, it's hard to let it go. So I kept fishing. Some nights were quiet. Others were not. I started catching more mutated fish without even trying.

At first, it was just wondering. Two mixed in with normal fish. Then the numbers went up, little by little, until pulling up something strange didn't shock me as much as it should have. That bothered me, but I shrugged it off. Since no one in town kept detailed records, I decided to do it myself. I bought a small notebook from the general store and turned it into my own fishing journal. I wrote down dates, weather conditions, and what route I took.

I made notes about each strange fish I caught, and I sketched them the best I could. I'm not an artist, but I can draw shapes well enough to recognize them later. One night, I hauled in a cod that didn't look like any cod I'd ever seen. It had one large eye sitting dead in the center of its forehead, and the eye had grown so big that it pushed down on the mouth and stretched the head into a warped shape. I wrote it in my journal. All-seeing Cod has one cyclops like I, but not the mind to process what it sees. The next night I caught another strange thing, this time a mackerel with three heads.

All three moved at once, but never in harmony. When one tried to twist, the other two seemed to fight against it. I wrote, three-headed mackerel. Three heads struggle in unity. Listen. Looking back, I probably should have been more worried. It isn't normal for fish to grow extra heads or giant eyes or glowing cores, but here on Redstone Isle, normal didn't seem to matter much.

The people acted like this was just something the sea did from time to time. Most nights I fished from dusk until dawn. By the time I got back to the docks, the sky would be lightning and the town would be lightning and town would start waking up. I'd drop off my catch, clean myself up a little, and then wander into Julian's bar while everyone else was getting ready for their day. I'd sit on the same stool, half asleep, while he poured me a cold drink. You look worse every morning, he told me once. That's how you know I'm working, I said. He cracked a small smile. That was a big reaction for Julian. Over the next few days, I kept hearing bits and pieces about the disappearances around this island.

People didn't like talking about it, but every now and then I'd catch a ward or two. Someone's cousin never came back from a night run. A fisherman vanished outside Little Red. A crew went out, but only one man returned, and he refused to speak for a week. Finally, after hearing enough fragments, I decided to ask Julian directly, Why have people been going missing here? I've heard enough rumors to know something's wrong. I asked one early morning while he wiped down the counter.

He froze for a second, cloth and hand. Yeah, it's old business. Most people don't like bringing it up. I'm not most people, I said. He sighed and leaned on the bar. All right, fine. Don't say I didn't warn you. He told me about the former mayor, the one who came before Charles, a man named Rowan.

I never heard the name until that moment. According to Julian, Rowan wasn't a bad man, but he was curious. Too curious, some would say. One year after a storm dragged several boats toward the rocks near a candle cove, a salvage crew went out to see what they could recover. Most of the wreckage was ruined, but something survived. A book. That thing shouldn't have lasted a night in the scene.

But there was red and silver, not a tear on it, Julian said. He said the book bore the crest of the first settlers who lived on Redstone Isle, long before the town split into Big Red and Little Red. This symbol was old, older than anything still standing on the island, and that alone made people weary. Some of the fishermen begged Rowan to throw it back. Said it felt wrong. Said nothing good comes from pulling something like that out of a wreck, Julian said.

He said that after Rowan brought the book home, the disappearances began almost immediately. It started with the fog. Not the usual kind that drifts in from the sea and clears. when the sun rises. This one was different. Thick enough that you couldn't see past your own hand if you stretched it out in front of you. People said it settled over Redstone Isle like a blanket. Slow at first, then all at once.

Boat stopped venturing far because no one could trust their sense of direction. Even the lamps on the docks barely cut through it. And the worst part was that it didn't clear. Not the next day, not the day after. It stayed. Folks waited for a shift in the weather, but it never came. Days passed, and the fog became part of life, something you lived with, even when you didn't want to.

A few weeks later came the commotion at the old mayor's house. Julian said he remembered the shouting first. People ran out of their houses thinking someone was hurt, only to see Rowan standing on the balcony, the one that faced the ocean. He was throwing things over the railing, not small items either. He tossed out a chair first, then a framed painting, then boxes, then jewelry, anything he could drag outside. Some of the townsfolk tried to stop him, but he kept going, yelling the same thing over and over.

Give it back, give it back. His voice carried all the way down the street. Even people near the docks, said they heard him. No one knew who he was talking to or what he thought he'd lost, but no one forgot how he looked that day. Strained and wild-eyed, like a man who'd seen something he couldn't put into words. And a few days after that, Rowan disappeared. Nobody saw him pack or leave.

He was just gone. His family, a wife and a young son, left town the next morning. Some say they were frightened. Others say they knew more than they let on. Whatever the truth was, they never came back. Their house stayed empty for months until Charles eventually took over the mayor's duties. Julian leaned in when he told me the next part, even though the bar was empty that early in the morning. He said the disappearances didn't stop with Rowan. They grew worse. People vanished after dark. Children, especially.

which was why every door in big red and little red had heavy locks now. Along with the missing people came the first sightings of aberrations, strange fish washing up on the shore or caught in nets. Mutations no one could explain. Fish with too many eyes. Fish with none at all. Fish with twisted bones or bodies made of clear jelly. People became suspicious of the ocean, that of each other. No one said it aloud, but everyone acted differently once the fog settled in.

They watched the water like it could reach up and take something from them. They whispered about tides that didn't behave the way tides normally do. They didn't trust strangers. They didn't trust their neighbors. And yet everyone still depended on fishing to survive. And ever so slowly, the mutations got their own name, aberration, and started fetching a much higher price. than the regular fish.

That was the part that stuck with me. You think people would flee from a place where things kept going wrong. Instead, they adapted. They built routines. They followed unwritten rules. They looked for ways to keep themselves safe without leaving the island. Life didn't stop. It just changed.

When Julian finished talking, he was shining a cloudy glass with the eyes of a man who got too little sleep, and had too many thoughts. And that's how it's been for years now, he said. I sat there at the bar for a long moment, letting it settle. The fog, the missing children, the mutated fish, Rowan's breakdown, the abandoned house, candle cove, every part of the story pointed in the same direction, every thread led back to the same place.

And I kept thinking about that torn map, under my floorboard, and the note someone taped to my hall, and the letter M. By the time Julian stepped away to clean glasses, I'd already made up my mind. I'd been hearing the name Candle Cove ever since the day I arrived, in warnings and rumors, and half-finished sentences people didn't want to complete. If something had started there, then maybe it was time to see it for myself. I leaned back on the bar stool, finished the last sip in my glass, and told myself the decision was final. The next morning, I was heading to Candle Cove. Over the next day, I asked around as casually as I could. People didn't like talking about the Cove, but if you approach a topic from enough angles,

somewhat eventually slipped. From what I gathered, Candle Cove was always the last stop for the fisherman who went missing. They weren't supposed to fish thereafter dark, But even during the day, the place had a strange pole, something about the reefs or the old shipwrecks. Some said it was cursed. Some said it was blessed. Most just told me to stay clear of it and left it at that. The dockmaster never mentioned candle cove directly, but I noticed he kept routes drawn around it, as if the place were a hole in the map no one wanted to acknowledge.

That only made me more curious. I figured if I could map it myself or find something worth salvaging. Maybe I could trade the information for a big cut on my debt. The town used scavenged parts all the time. Shipwreck steel, driftwood, ropes that washed ashore. If Candle Cove really held pieces of old vessels, that could mean money. And then there was the note from M. Don't fish here after dark.

I didn't know who M was, but someone out there cared. enough to leave me a warning that made the cove feel even more important. If it was dangerous, I needed to see why, if it held answers about the mutations or about the last fishermen who owned my boat, then I wanted to understand what happened to him. As my ma used to say, I was just too curious for my own good. So the next morning I packed up my gear. I made sure my nets were in good condition. I checked the fuel. I double-checked the pack. matched map, and I told myself I wasn't doing anything reckless, I was just gathering information. It was past noon by the time I reached the cove. The sea was rougher than usual, pushing

the boat side to side as if trying to nudge me back toward Big Red. I kept going anyway, hands steady on the wheel. When Candle Cove finally came into view, I had to stop and take it in. It was beautiful. The water was crystal clear, almost glass-like, letting me see straight down to the reef. The reefs themselves glowed with different colors, bright blues, oranges, greens, like someone had scattered gemstones across the ocean floor. Floating bulbs drifted gently at the surface. At first I thought they were jellyfish, but they stayed strangely still, bobbing quietly as the waves passed. Mangrove trees grew high around the cove, their roots twisting in sharp curves,

reaching up in tangled shapes that looked almost like arches or old wooden frames. It didn't match the island's reputation at all. Nothing about its screen danger, if anything, it felt calm. I let out the net and began trawling slowly around the perimeter, letting the boat pull the line behind me. If the cove was responsible for the demonic fish I'd been pulling in lightly, then maybe the deeper parts held something unusual. Julian and mentioned wrecks lying somewhere near the entrance, and I wanted to see if I could find him. I made a slow pass along the outer wall of the cove, scanning the roots and rocks. The water was so clear that I could make out shapes on the bottom, broken planks, rusted metal, old ropes caught between rocks, pieces of a ship,

maybe several ships scattered across the floor like someone had emptied a storage chest underwater. I traced the curve of the shoreline until I reached a narrow inlet. It was the only place where docking made sense. The roots created natural post I could tie to, so I used the boat in and secured it the best I could. By then the sun had started dipping low. Candle Cove looked different in the late afternoon light, softer and more muted. The bright colors of the reef dimmed to a gentle glow. The floating bulbs drifted closer together, almost forming a path across the water. I reached for the small kettle I carried every worm, set it on the stove, and made my usual cup of midnight coffee.

It wasn't midnight, but habits don't always care about the clock. The familiar smell was good for me. I sat on the deck with a mug between my hands and watched the last light fade behind the mangroves. The cove grew darker by the minute, and the floating bulbs glowed faintly in the dim. I told myself I'd wait a little longer, just long enough to see what candle cove looked like at dusk. Maybe fish if I felt like it. By the time night settled in fully. The place felt different.

The sky above me was clearer than anything I'd seen in years. The stars looked sharp and bright, scattered across the dark like someone had tossed handfuls of salt into the air, with no towns nearby and no generators humming. The sky showed everything it had. It was one of those rare nights where the world feels untouched. I let myself relax a little. I leaned back on the deck, let out a slow breath, and looked straight up. For a moment it was peaceful.

I almost forgot about why I came here in the first place. The coat felt quiet, the boat felt steady, and the warm cup in my hands made the whole scene feel almost normal. Almost. After a minute, I lowered my gaze to the water. And that was when I noticed the reflection. At first I thought it was just the stars shining back at me. The surface was calm enough for that.

But something felt off. The pattern didn't match. I frowned and glanced upward again at the sky. Then back at the water, up and down. I must have done that five or six times before my mind finally caught up. The stars on the water were blinking, not shimmering or rippling with the waves, blinking, and they didn't match the sky above. A bulb floating near the surface of the water closed slowly.

Another opened near it. A cluster tightened as if reacting to the night air, adjusting themselves. I felt my entire body go still as realization washed through me. These weren't reflections. They were hundreds of eyes. They floated across the surface of the reef in a wide arc, forming a glowing ring around the cove, each one bright, round, and watching me. The same bulbs I saw drifting during the day, the ones I thought were jellyfish, weren't bulbs at all.

They'd been closed. and now they were open. I didn't move or speak or set my cup down. I just stared at the arc of blinking points, circling the waterline, shining softly in the night like lanterns, made for some purpose I didn't know. The cove was alive. Then the boat shifted. Just a small tilt under my feet.

Not enough to knock me off balance, but enough to let me. me know something had disturbed the water beneath me. I stayed perfectly still listening. And that was when I heard it. A low groan rising up from deep under the island. The kind of sound you feel more than hear. It wasn't a whale. I'd heard plenty of whales in my time. Wasn't rock or tectonics either. This sounded organic. Like something impossibly large was moving down. down there. Aware of me in a way no normal creature should be. The thought hit me hard. The thing didn't just have eyes. It had the mind to process what it sees. The thing was sentient and paying attention. And I was the thing it was paying attention to. I reached for the engine

with slow, careful movements. I turned the key just enough for the motor to hum. The noise came out soft, but even that tiny vibration sent a ripple through the ring of eyes. Every single one of them widened at once, zeroing in on me with a predator's focus. The groan beneath the island grew deeper. The sandbanks around the cove shifted in response, sending small ripples along the roots of the mangroves. Something rose from the water a few yards away, a long ridge breaking the surface, shaped too perfectly to be a random line of rock. It looked like a spine.

I didn't wait to get a better look. I pushed the throttle forward. The boat jerked ahead and cut across the water. I kept one hand on the wheel and one on the throttle, eyes on the coves exit. The engine wasn't built for speed, but I pushed it as much as I dared. Behind me, the glowing eyes didn't scott.

they didn't drift apart. They stayed fixed in their places, anchored to something below. A shadow rose and followed under the waves. It was massive, large enough to swallow a boat five times my size in a single bite. In the faint light, I caught a glimpse of patterns under the water. I saw a stretch of wide, dark scales, a ridge lined with glowing organs, and a jogging. line that extended farther than my lantern could reach. As I finally crossed the boundary of the cove, the eyes began to dim, one by one, then all at once, sinking beneath the water like a field of stars being pulled under. The shadow drifted back into the depths, disappearing just as quietly as it arrived. I didn't stop the boat until Candle Cove was a distant shape behind me.

Life went back to something close to normal after Candle Cove, though normal on Redstone Isle, isn't the same as anywhere else. I still work as a local fisherman, still bring in cod, mackerel, and the occasional aberration when it turns up in the nets. But I don't nightfish the way I used to. Not anymore. These days I keep my hours tight. I stay within the borders of Redstone Isle, never pass the farm markers, and I bring

the boat in before ten at night. I've got a few years left to pay off my debt, and I've accepted that. The sea gives what it gives, and the town takes what it takes. I earn my keep, I repair my boat, I sell what I catch. Some weeks are good, some are thin, but I know the pattern now, and I stick to it. Of course, even with routine, the mysteries don't go away. The fog still rolls in every night, night and every day, thick and heavy like it belongs to the island. People pretend it's just weather, but they watch it the way you watch a stranger at your door. No one knows why it never clears. The old mayor. Vanished? No trace. And if you ask around, you'll get ten different answers and none of them satisfying. As for the disappearances, well, everyone claims they're random. But

But people say a lot of things when they want to feel safe. Whether there's a pattern or not, I can't say, I don't go looking for trouble. And the mutations, the aberrations, those are still the strangest part. They show up more often than they used to. They sell fast. Someone always buys them at a higher price, though no one talks about who or why. I could ask more questions, but after what I saw at Candle Cove, I'm not sure I will want answers. Some things stay manageable, only because you don't shine a light on them. But you,

you look like someone curious. Someone new. Say you're just arriving in town, aren't you? Looking to get a job with a dockmaster, right? Folks like you show up every few months. Fresh face, big plans, thinking this place will be quiet and simple. Maybe you ought to rethink your choices. Maybe not. I have no idea why you're here, or what you think you need to prove. But mark my words, this island has strange stories, and even stranger things hiding out there in the fog. Keep your eyes open. Keep your routes close to shore.

And if anyone ever hands you a map with missing pieces, ask yourself why.