She lies in a dinghy, staring towards the night sky. There are no stars. The gentle rocking of the waves beneath her suddenly stops as her small craft pushes itself onto the gravelly coast of a small island. Above her looms an octagonal tower, crowned with a rapidly spinning light. Begrudgingly, she stumbles out of the dinghy and onto the rough shore. A set of old steps, slippery with algae, lead upwards to a pair of large wooden doors. They creak, dripping as they move.
She is met with a wood planked floor. In the center of the room, a square hole covered only by a metal grate reveals that the island is hollow, with a small cave beneath it. Within the cave, ocean water sits patiently. Carefully removing the grate, she climbs down an untrustworthy wooden ladder, until she is just above the water. Reaching down, she dips her hand in. It comes out red.
Climbing back up the ladder, she then turns to the spiral staircase set against the outer wall of the Lighthouse. Ascending to the highest point in the tower, she finds its rotating light overlooking a city of brick and lies. Canals of oil reach up to the third stories of some buildings, with streaks of blood staining their ghostly white surfaces.
She wakes up, cold and sweaty. Her hand, which has been hanging off her bed, rests calmly in a pool of liquid. Whale oil, dyed red, gently laps at her bed sheets.
