One lone seagull perched on the upper railing around the lighthouse's lantern. Heather, in spite of or perhaps in order to detract from her nakedness, watched it with suspicion. Seagulls weren't out and about this time of night, typically. She was cold, and she was mortified, and she was weeping silently, but the seagull somehow helped, reminded her that the world was larger than this moment, and she'd had practice, hadn't she? In dissociating herself from what was going on.

She should've told Danny where she was going so that maybe he could've followed her here, could save her, now. He was good at that--stepping in at the right moment. But he wasn't going to show up, this time; in fact, she'd sneaked out her window in order to avoid his prying. Who would know she was out at the lighthouse?

Heather hadn't thought it'd go this way. She'd driven to the marina in the hope of retrieving whatever images they'd said they had of her. She'd come to the conclusion, after days of cowering at home, that maybe they'd just ask her to do a favor of some kind, like what she'd done for Danny, and while she definitely didn't want to do things like that to any of those people, the girl was desperate enough that she might have, if it were something she already knew how to do. When they'd grabbed her and pulled her onto a boat, Heather had even offered, and although they'd ignored her at first, she'd thought they'd changed their minds when they'd at length told her to take off her clothes. As she'd begun removing her sundress, slipping out of her underwear, though, the reality of doing any sexual favors had caused her to lean over the side of the boat and puke into the churning lake.

As some small mercy, they hadn't wanted anything intimate from her; she had no idea what they wanted, only that she stood at the lighthouse now, looking out over the water through the eyehole of a black ski mask, her bare skin pimpling like raw chicken. She'd known the moment they'd forced that balaclava over her head that something far worse than she'd anticipated was in store, and she despised herself for being foolish.

She'd been third to arrive. As the boat had docked and she'd been yanked from it, she'd seen a nude girl with a devil's mask, standing subdued with her back against one of the posts holding the thick metal chain. There'd been a scuffle taking place, as well--a shirtless boy was being held by two men while another beat him, quickly subdued him, and removed the rest of his clothing. They then tied his hands behind him and covered his face with a mask, as well--a horse, she thought it was--before leaving him prone on the concrete. Ascending the stairs, the metal lattice biting into her bare soles, Heather recognized the hair behind each of those masks--the whitish blond wild of Crystal and the long dark shag of Kevin. And she'd known, then, how stupid they all were. How they should've understood they'd been defeated from the moment they'd seen Igancio's death.

All was end, now.

Heather was directed to stand on the platform at some distance from the others, a trio of women watching her, making sure she didn't attempt to run, and it wasn't long before she heard the sound of another boat engine approaching. It had to be Jeremiah.

She was going to die. She was sure of it. They all were going to die. This was payback, probably--the resort were angry they'd found out its wicked secrets. Whatever had happened to Ryan's body and to Ignacio's body, it was going to happen to her. She'd be stabbed in the throat or eaten up by fish or cut into pieces or strangled, and why she was wearing the mask--she couldn't say. None of it made sense, and at the same time all of it made sense. She should never have listened to Danny about working at the resort; she should've lifeguarded at the pool, just like the other teens who enjoyed showing themselves off in a swimsuit. And the more she regretted, the more liquid ran from her eyes and nose, and the more the mask became damp and difficult to breathe in. Heather began to shiver so much that one of the women almost offered her a jacket, but another disallowed it.

The girl's eyes blurred against the encroaching fog; it rolled in as a spidery gray blanket, conveniently obscuring the resort and public beach and pier from their distance out at the fringe of the harbor. The boats afloat at the dock soon appeared to be hovering in clouds. Maybe the fog would rise, Heather thought, and cover her body, her humiliation, the others in their debasement; maybe it would restore their confidence slightly. Because Jeremiah had arrived, too, and she couldn't stand the way he whimpered as they brought him up, stood him close enough to her that she could hear him going on about something, and she couldn't make it out. Kevin was hardly moving at all, and she wondered how bad they'd actually hurt him. How horrible and strange to be here, with those three--she'd never known any of them, never cared about any of them, and she didn't really know or care about them now, beyond the terror and indecency that tethered them to one another. She'd thought herself strong and beautiful and smart, never struggled in school or with friends. And even though she'd never been hubristic enough to show it, she'd always known other girls envied her, wanted to look as good as she did, socialize in the circles she did. But what good had any of her superficial qualities done her? Who'd want to be her now?

Heather's legs shook so much as she cried that she nearly dropped to the ground, but one of the women nearby grabbed onto her and held her up. The sound of a fist making contact with a body, a grunted protest came from her side, and Heather knew someone had hit Kevin again. Jeremiah had begun to grow hysterical, too, and someone slapped him, for which Heather was almost grateful--she couldn't bear to hear him anymore. Only Crystal seemed at ease, standing still against that post, though her mask covered whatever expression she might've worn.

Suddenly, the adults gathered, moving into a clandestine huddle, leaving one or two with each teen. They murmured, their voices rising and falling, and Heather wished to God she could hear what they were saying. What were they going to do? Whatever it was, the girl just hoped it was quick. She didn't want to endure physical pain. She couldn't! But she didn't want to die, either! She was barely seventeen, and all she'd wanted was to get out of Port Killdeer and see Paris and get married and have kids and take them to Florida for spring break.

"These two, first," said a familiar voice, and Heather turned her head slightly so she could see who'd spoken. It was the boardwoman, Ms. Kensington. She was pointing Heather's direction, gripping that amulet on her necklace.

Before she could quite understand, the girl found herself being tugged toward the lighthouse. Heather twisted her arms, but she was too weak and nauseated to effectively struggle and could hardly spare attention from steadying her legs. Her bare feet scraped against the concrete; she knew the resorters' eager eyes were on her, felt they might as well have been using their hands. Mr. Lawson hurried to unlock the door of the building, a door which was at the end of a protruding entryway. Once he had it open, he held it for Ms. Kensington and another man, and then he followed them inside. Heather stood at the entrance, silently, her entire body numb with anticipation. Little sound reached her, so she had no understanding of what it was they were doing in there. Maybe they intended to throw her off the top of the lighthouse, onto the rocks. Or maybe they would lock them inside and let them starve. The possibilities seemed few, but Heather knew confusion was part of their game at this point.

"Please," she dared to mutter to the woman holding her, "please let me go! I won't tell anyone or go to the police. Please--"

An unmemorable person to her left abrasively hushed her, and then the unknown man who'd gone into the lighthouse came back out. He nodded tersely to the woman holding Heather, who pushed her quarry through the door and into the tunnel. Another set of hands took hold of her from there--Mr. Lawson--and though the girl tried to beg, thought at least he'd always seemed nice until everything had happened, he remained unmoved by her overtures. Her mask allowed for limited visibility, but Heather could make out in the blues and grays an empty circular room, the base of the lighthouse, and a hole that had been opened in the floor of it. It was to that gaping mouth that she was dragged.

As Mr. Lawson pushed her to the edge, Heather attempted to dig her heels into the ground but succeeded only in tearing her skin.

"It will be over soon enough--remember that," Ms. Kensington, who stood across from the void, mused. "I'm sorry for you, child, but you'll be back home soon enough."

Right before she was shoved over the edge, Heather was sure she saw a boy poking his head out from behind Ms. Kensington, his eyes running milk down his grinning face.

She was certain she screamed as she fell, but the atmosphere was such that she couldn't be sure of any sound nor of any time or distance passing. When Heather felt solid rock beneath her, she stood with difficulty and reached out a hand in attempt to steady herself against a wall, but there was nothing there, and she was forced to balance on her own. The minute she stood firm enough, she pulled off her mask and threw it aside. The darkness was so complete, so absolute, that it was as if she were in a space without stars, as if she were in the deepest ocean abyss, where the sunlight could not extend its lambent rays. This was no water, though, even if it felt and sounded different than the air above. The area around her was a sort of hollowness, an incalculable nothingness, and Heather sensed she stood merely at the edge of it, as if even in the darkness, she were gazing into an even deeper void beyond. Deep in the girl's heart, her very core, a coil began to unwind--the sensation was so visceral she was sure she could feel it back behind her ribs, its worming tread, its rapacious awakening mouth. Something within her knew something within this darkness, this emptiness, and everything in her shuddered.

"Who's there?"

A voice, a step behind her. It was Kevin! "Here!" Heather called to him, hardly recognizing her own voice. Fingertips brushed against her back and she turned, caught the hand that groped in the darkness before it could alight on any more of her. She'd never felt such relief in her life.

"What is this?" Kevin's voice asked, above her somewhere. Heather heard strain in it, as if he were only just able to move and speak after what they'd done to him.

"I don't know. Are we supposed to do something? Maybe we just stay here."

Silence for a moment, their breathing the only sound, echoing before being swallowed by the strange atmosphere. "We aren't alone," Kevin whispered with certainty.

Heather bit her knuckles, grateful at least that he couldn't see her naked anymore. "What do we do? What is it, Kevin? Is something going to eat us? A wild animal or--or maybe--"

"Do you see that?"

"See what?" Unwittingly, she clasped whatever part of his arm she could find.

"That light, there--or, not so much light, but . . . what is that?" He paused, then added, "Do you see it, or am I crazy?"

"I--I do see something, maybe, but . . . but it's like you said--not light."

Kevin stepped forward, with his hand took one of hers, and moved toward what they'd both somehow seen in the vacuum, both inexorably drawn toward a crimson gleam in the impenetrable dark.