For twenty years Silas had tended the light at the edge of the world, a crumbling tower battered by endless storms. Companionship was a luxury he had forgotten. The radio crackled with nothing but static; the sea offered only wreckage.
Tonight the wreckage included a phone.
He found it wedged between the rocks at the base of the stairs, as if the tide had delivered it personally. Modern, sleek, utterly alien to his analog existence. As he lifted it, it rang.
The ringtone was a child's laughter, looping endlessly.
Silas answered, expecting a prank or a wrong number. "Who's there?"
The laughter stopped. A voice, young and terrified, whispered, "Don't let it in. It's already in the tower."
The phone went dead in his hand. Then it rang again, the same laughter now mixed with something else: the sound of footsteps on the spiral stairs above him.
Silas froze, looking up into the darkness.