Whispers from the Forgotten Lighthouse

The cold wind howled through the dilapidated lighthouse, its once-robust structure now a mere shadow of its former self. The group of friends, four in all, had gathered to experience the thrill of the unknown. They had heard tales of the lighthouse's eerie history, but the allure of adventure was too strong to resist.

At the helm of this peculiar group was a young woman named Clara. She had a knack for the supernatural, or so she claimed. Her friends, however, were skeptical but intrigued. They had driven through the desolate stretch of road leading to the lighthouse, the landscape a tapestry of shadows and mist, when they finally arrived.

The lighthouse was a relic of a bygone era, its once-grand facade now a skeleton of its former self. The group exchanged nervous glances as they stepped inside, the creak of the wooden floorboards echoing through the vastness of the interior. They had brought with them a flashlight, a small radio, and a bottle of whiskey to keep their spirits high.

"Let's not waste time," Clara said, her voice steady despite the palpable unease. "Let's go to the top and see what all the fuss is about."

The ascent was treacherous, the steps worn down by time and countless visitors. The group moved cautiously, their flashlights casting eerie shadows against the walls. They reached the top just as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink.

From the top, they could see the vast expanse of the ocean, its surface calm and serene. Clara stepped closer to the edge, her eyes fixed on the horizon. "I can't believe this place is actually real," she whispered.

Suddenly, the radio crackled to life, the sound of static interrupting the silence. Clara reached for the radio, her fingers trembling slightly. "It's just static," she said, turning it off.

As they explored the lighthouse, they discovered a small room filled with old photographs and a large, ornate clock. The clock had stopped at the same time every day, 3:15 AM. Clara's eyes widened as she noticed a small, faded note tucked under the clock. It read, "The watchman will toll the drum at midnight. Do not leave the lighthouse."

The group exchanged worried glances. Midnight was approaching, and they still had no idea what the note meant. As the clock struck 12, they could hear a faint tolling sound, the sound of a drum. It was faint at first, but it grew louder with each passing second.

Clara's voice trembled as she spoke. "This is it, guys. The watchman is here."

The group turned to face the door, but it was too late. The door slammed shut, and they were trapped. The tolling drum continued, growing louder with each passing moment. Clara's flashlight flickered, and then went out. In the darkness, they could hear the sound of footsteps approaching.

One by one, the friends were seized by an invisible force. They were pulled away from the group, their cries muffled by the walls. Clara, the last one standing, watched in horror as her friends were taken. She felt a hand grasp her shoulder, and she was pulled into the darkness as well.

The next morning, the group was found on the beach, their clothes torn and their faces pale. They had no memory of the events that transpired. The lighthouse, once a beacon of hope, had become a place of terror.

Word of the incident spread quickly, and the lighthouse was sealed off. It remained abandoned, a silent witness to the horror that unfolded within its walls. Clara, however, never spoke of her experiences. She simply vanished, leaving behind a legacy of fear and the chilling tolling of the drum that echoed through the night.