By morning, Kondhwa was buzzing like a disturbed hive.

News of Meera Salvi's disappearance had spread fast. Her mother's cries echoed down the narrow alleys of their neighborhood as neighbors whispered behind drawn curtains, eyes flitting toward the coastline. The police had cordoned off the road leading to the lighthouse, but it hadn't stopped the curious - or the frightened - from gathering nearby.

Inspector Vikrant Joshi stood at the base of the trail, watching fog swirl above the trees like it had a mind of its own. The lighthouse loomed ahead, half-swallowed by mist. Time and weather had not been kind to it - its stonework was cracked, the railing along the cliff edge rusted through. No one had set foot inside in years.

Except maybe someone had.

"Sir," called Constable Ameya Gokhale, jogging up with a flashlight in one hand and a cloth-wrapped bundle in the other. "We found this on the path near the cliff. Looked like it was half-buried in the mud."

Joshi unwrapped the cloth. A silver anklet, slightly tarnished but unmistakably feminine, and a piece of cloth torn from a school uniform - blue and white checkered, stained with something darker than rain.

"That's hers?" Gokhale asked, lowering his voice.

Joshi didn't answer. He pocketed the anklet and looked toward the lighthouse, its blinking light now faintly visible through the fog. It pulsed slowly, like a heartbeat - steady and ominous.

He nodded toward the path. "We're going up."

The ascent was steep and slippery. Ferns clawed at their boots, and the old cobbled path had mostly eroded into loose gravel. Halfway up, Joshi paused. The air was thicker here, charged. Like walking into an invisible electric field.

Then he heard it.

A low hum - faint, mechanical - coming from inside the lighthouse.

It shouldn't have been possible. There was no generator, no solar panels, no power lines. And yet the light above flickered rhythmically, casting long shadows across the rocky cliffs.

At the entrance, the iron door hung slightly ajar. Deep gouges marked the frame, as if someone - or something - had forced it open.

Gokhale swallowed. "Should we call for backup?"

Joshi shook his head. "No time."

They stepped inside.

The air within was stale and damp, thick with the scent of salt and mold. Dust coated everything, but recent footprints marred the floor - bare feet, too small to be an adult's.

Joshi's flashlight landed on an old radio transmitter in the corner. It was on.

Crackling static hissed through the speaker.

Then a voice broke through.

"She's not gone. Just... hiding."

"It's safer in the fog."

Gokhale turned white. "Who the hell is that?"

Joshi stepped forward, heart thudding. He lifted the radio's mic.

"Who is this? Identify yourself."

Only silence answered.

And then, as they listened, a low, distant sound rose from the fog outside - a keening wail, like a foghorn bent through a dream. A sound no one in Kondhwa had heard in decades.

The lighthouse began to pulse faster.

Something had woken up.