“Thirty Days in the Dark”Day 3

 

                                   Day 3: The Keeper’s Journal

By the third day, Daniyal was no longer sure if he was awake or dreaming. His body ached from lack of sleep, and his mind felt heavy, clouded by the endless whispers that haunted him every night. But the morning sunlight gave him a little courage.

He decided to spend the day searching for answers. If the lighthouse was truly cursed, then perhaps something left behind could explain it.

He explored the lower levels he hadn’t checked yet. The air was colder there, the walls slick with seawater. In one chamber, he found old shelves filled with rotting books and tools. Most of the pages had turned to mush, but one leather-bound journal caught his eye. Unlike the others, it was strangely intact, as though the dampness hadn’t touched it.

He sat near the cracked window, sunlight barely filtering in, and began to read. The handwriting was shaky but desperate.

“Day 1: The sea calls at night. I hear them in the waves.”
“Day 5: They whisper my name. The mirror shows what is not me.”
“Day 12: I tried to leave. The boat never came.”
“Day 20: I saw her — the woman with wet hair. She waits by my bed.”
“Day 29: I am not alone in my body anymore.”

The last page was stained with what looked like dried blood.

Daniyal’s hands shook as he closed the book. Whoever had written it had gone through the same torment — and possibly worse. His chest tightened with dread. Would he survive all 30 days? Or would the lighthouse claim him too?

That night, things escalated.

As darkness swallowed the sea, Daniyal heard footsteps pacing above him. Heavy, slow, deliberate. He gathered his courage, held the Quran tightly, and climbed the spiral stairs.

The broken mirror stood waiting. But now, it reflected not just him — but the room around him differently. In the mirror, the walls were covered in water stains shaped like faces, mouths wide open in silent screams. And behind him stood a tall man in an old lighthouse keeper’s uniform, his face pale and bloated, as if drowned.

The figure raised a finger and pointed directly at Daniyal.

Then, from behind, he heard real footsteps. He spun around — nothing. But when he looked back at the mirror, the keeper’s drowned face was pressed against the glass, his lips moving. Daniyal leaned closer, trembling.

The whisper was faint, but he heard it:

“You are already one of us.”

The mirror shattered violently, shards flying across the floor. Daniyal fell back, clutching his bleeding hand where the glass had cut him. He scrambled down the stairs, heart pounding, and hid in the corner with his sleeping bag.

But the whispers didn’t stop that night. They grew louder, clearer. And now, for the first time, they called him not “Daniyal,” but “Keeper.”