Tales from the Universe
Everyone in Port Mercy knows the lighthouse still works.
That is what makes the problem strange.
Every night at exactly 8:17, its light goes out.
Not flickers.
Not dims.
Stops.
Exactly eleven minutes later, it returns.
The Coast Guard inspected the machinery.
Nothing wrong.
The electrician replaced half the wiring.
Nothing changed.
The town council installed a backup generator.
8:17.
Dark.
8:28.
Light.
After three weeks, people mostly stop talking about it.
Except thirteen-year-old Owen Vale.
Because from his bedroom window, Owen can see the lighthouse.
And when its light goes out—
another light appears farther out at sea.
Owen first notices it while doing homework.
The lighthouse beam sweeps across his window.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Then darkness.
He checks the clock.
8:17.
Far beyond the harbor, something flashes.
Once.
Pause.
Twice.
Pause.
Once.
Then nothing.
At 8:28, the lighthouse returns.
The next night Owen waits beside the window with binoculars.
8:17.
Darkness.
The distant light appears.
Once.
Twice.
Once.
Exactly the same.
The following night:
Twice.
Once.
Three times.
Now Owen gets a notebook.
His best friend Lina thinks he has discovered a ship.
“Ships have lights.”
“Excellent maritime knowledge.”
“Thank you.”
“But why does it only appear when the lighthouse goes dark?”
Lina considers this.
“Secret ship.”
“That was your second idea?”
“It was actually my first idea. I upgraded from ship.”
They begin recording the flashes.
Every night produces a different sequence.
1-2-1.
2-1-3.
3-3-1.
1-4-2.
Owen assumes it is a code.
For a week they try everything.
Letters.
Numbers.
Dates.
Coordinates.
Nothing.
Then Lina notices something.
“These aren’t messages.”
“What?”
She flips through the notebook.
“They’re directions.”
Port Mercy has a maritime museum.
It is mostly visited by tourists and school groups.
Owen’s grandfather volunteers there on Saturdays.
The children search old navigation books until they find a signaling system once used by ships approaching the harbor.
The flashes indicate bearings.
Not words.
Each sequence points toward a location.
They put the locations on a nautical chart.
Every point forms a path.
A path leading toward the lighthouse.
But not the current lighthouse.
The old one.
Port Mercy had another lighthouse before this one.
It stood on Gull Island.
A storm destroyed it in 1936.
Or that is what the town history says.
“Where’s Gull Island?” Lina asks.
Owen points at the chart.
There is only water.
“Right there.”
“There isn’t an island there.”
“I noticed.”
They ask Owen’s grandfather.
His answer comes too quickly.
“Gull Island washed away.”
“An entire island?”
“It was mostly rock.”
“Why did they build a lighthouse on something that could wash away?”
Grandpa Vale closes the book he has been cataloging.
“People built plenty of foolish things.”
Lina looks at Owen.
Owen looks at Lina.
Adults who genuinely don’t know something usually say:
“I don’t know.”
Adults who know something and don’t want children asking about it often give lectures about foolish people.
They keep investigating.
Old newspapers disagree about the storm.
One says the lighthouse collapsed.
Another says it was abandoned afterward.
A third reports that rescuers reached Gull Island the following morning and found the lighthouse empty.
Empty is not collapsed.
Then Owen finds a photograph.
Gull Island Lighthouse.
Seven lighthouse keepers and harbor workers stand outside.
One of them is Owen’s great-grandfather.
On the back, someone has written:
Last crew before the Mercy Light.
Not:
Last crew before the storm.
The Mercy Light.
That is the name of the current lighthouse.
Construction on it supposedly began in 1937.
Owen checks the records again.
The photograph is dated 1934.
Something is wrong with the town’s timeline.
They borrow a kayak.
This is an extremely bad idea.
Both children agree on that while continuing to do it.
They leave Saturday morning before sunrise.
The coordinates from the flashing light lead them several miles beyond the harbor.
Nothing.
Just water.
Lina checks the chart.
“This is it.”
“There has to be something.”
“There is. Ocean.”
Then the tide begins going out.
A black shape appears beneath the surface.
Stone.
Not an island.
A wall.
They paddle closer.
More stones emerge.
Steps.
Iron rings.
Foundations.
Gull Island did not wash away.
It sank.
Or part of it did.
And somebody built something underneath it.
They find the entrance during low tide.
Stone steps descend between two enormous rocks.
At the bottom is an iron door.
Above it is the symbol of Port Mercy.
Except one part is different.
The town seal shows a lighthouse surrounded by seven stars.
This version has eight.
The door is unlocked.
Inside is a narrow chamber.
Dry.
Impossible, considering it should be below sea level.
Shelves line the walls.
Logbooks.
Signal equipment.
Old lanterns.
Maps.
And one enormous brass mechanism connected to cables disappearing beneath the floor.
Owen opens the newest logbook.
The handwriting is fresh.
The last entry is from yesterday.
8:17 — Mercy extinguished.
Signal received.
Channel remains open.
Lina reads over his shoulder.
“Someone has been here.”
A sound comes from above them.
Metal scraping against stone.
The tide is still going out.
The door should not be closing.
It closes anyway.
Darkness.
Then somewhere deeper inside the structure—
a light flashes.
Once.
Pause.
Twice.
Pause.
Once.
Owen knows that sequence.
It was the first signal.
He takes out the notebook.
The first coordinate.
Not the lighthouse.
Not Gull Island.
He had plotted it wrong.
Because he assumed every direction began from the harbor.
The signal begins here.
Lina whispers:
“Where does it point?”
Owen turns the chart around.
Far beyond Port Mercy is another mark.
A tiny circle printed in faded ink.
No name.
No island.
Nothing around it.
Just a handwritten note beside the coordinates.
DO NOT ANSWER FROM SHORE.
Behind them, the brass machinery begins to move.
And somewhere out beyond the horizon—
something flashes back.
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