The Veil Of Light

By Ethan Ross

The Veil of Light
by Ethan Ross

When Mara Whitaker returns to her family's crumbling cottage on the cliffs of Blackrock Cove, she discovers that the lighthouse's solitary beam is more than a guide for ships—it is the keystone of an ancient, living field known as the Veil. A promise made by her mother, a tragic loss that haunts her childhood, and the cryptic journals of a long‑dead keeper all converge as Mara, the pragmatic Eli, and the brilliant marine biologist Selma race to decode the lighthouse's hidden mechanisms.

Their quest uncovers copper coils, glowing quartz fragments, and a network of bioluminescent algae that together sustain a fragile balance between light and darkness. When a covert organization attempts to weaponize the Veil's power, the trio must confront a gaunt, otherworldly apparition that seeks to shatter the promise forever.

Through midnight tunnels, fog‑filled cliffs, and a hidden chamber beneath the lantern room, they forge a covenant that binds an entire town to the rhythm of a single, pure tone. As the tide turns, the true cost of keeping the light alive is revealed—one that demands vigilance, sacrifice, and the unbreakable strength of a shared promise.

Will the Veil hold, or will the darkness finally breach the light?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ethan Ross
• Release date: Jan 6, 2026
• ISBN: 9798233591914

Ethan Ross

Ethan Ross is a versatile and prolific author who refuses to be confined to a single genre. While he is acclaimed for his bone-chilling holiday horror, such as the terrifying Santa's Slay List and the short story collections like The December Dark, he demonstrates mastery across the literary spectrum. In addition to crafting relentless tales of winter dread and forgotten folklore, Ross also writes romance that explores the complexities of human connection, high-stakes thrillers that keep readers on the edge of their seats, and many other genres, proving his capacity to engage audiences with a wide array of narrative styles and emotional depths. His diverse body of work showcases a broad storytelling range that promises something for every type of reader.

Book preview

Prologue

The night was a slab of obsidian, smooth and unbroken, save for the thin, relentless sweep of a solitary beam. From the summit of Blackrock Lighthouse, the light cut across the angry sea, a white spear that seemed to pierce the very darkness itself. Below, the waves crashed against the basalt cliffs in a ceaseless roar, spraying salty foam onto the jagged rocks that rose like the teeth of some ancient beast.

Inside the lantern room, a lone figure stood hunched over a brass console, his hands trembling as they brushed the cold metal of the Fresnel lenses. The keeper’s coat hung loose on his gaunt frame, the fabric frayed at the cuffs from years of exposure to the brine-laden wind. His eyes, pale and unfocused, stared into the rotating glass, as if searching for something beyond the reach of ordinary sight.

A sudden gust slammed the shutters shut with a deafening bang, and the lighthouse shuddered. The keeper’s breath hitched; a thin line of frost formed on the rim of his mouth. He lifted his gaze to the horizon, where the beam disappeared into a veil of mist that clung to the water like a ghostly shroud. In that mist, a faint, phosphorescent glow flickered—an eerie, otherworldly luminescence that did not belong to any known sea creature.

For a heartbeat, the keeper felt a pull, a tug at the edge of his consciousness, as if an unseen hand brushed his thoughts. He tried to speak, but only a hoarse whisper escaped his lips:

Stay... stay...

The lighthouse’s mechanism clicked, and the great lens rotated once more, sending the beam sweeping across the black water. Yet the strange glow persisted, hovering just beyond the reach of the light, pulsing in time with the keeper’s own heartbeat.

He turned away, his fingers brushing the worn leather journal that lay open on the desk beside him. The pages were filled with frantic sketches of the lens, cryptic equations, and a single recurring symbol—a circle encasing an eye, surrounded by concentric rings. In the margin, written in a shaking hand, he had scrawled:

The Veil of Light will bind what lies beneath. It must not fail.

Outside, the storm intensified. Lightning split the sky, illuminating the cliffs in stark, fleeting flashes. The sea surged higher, hurling itself against the rock with a ferocity that seemed almost sentient. The keeper pressed his palm against the glass, feeling the vibration travel through the metal, a tremor that resonated deep within his bones.

A low, guttural moan rose from the depths, a sound that was neither wind nor wave, but something older, something that seemed to echo the very pulse of the earth. The keeper’s eyes widened, and for the first time since he had taken the post, fear crept into his veins.

He snapped the journal shut, the leather cover thudding against his palm. With a sudden, desperate resolve, he reached for the brass lantern hanging from the ceiling—a relic from an earlier era, its glass cracked but still faintly luminous. He lifted it, and as he did, the strange glow in the mist brightened, matching the lantern’s dim amber light.

The beam from the lighthouse intersected with the lantern’s glow, forming a thin column of light that cut through the fog like a blade. Within that column, a silhouette materialized—tall, gaunt, its features obscured, but its eyes reflected the same impossible hue as the lantern.

The keeper’s breath caught. The figure raised a hand, pointing toward the sea, toward the darkness that churned below. A cold wind blew through the lantern room, scattering the journal’s loose pages across the floor. One page fluttered open to a hastily drawn diagram of a cavern beneath the lighthouse, marked with an X and the words:

The heart of the Veil.

The keeper stared at the drawing, his mind racing. He knew, with a certainty that bordered on dread, that the lighthouse was no longer merely a beacon for ships—it was a prison, a sentinel holding back something that should never be released.

A final flash of lightning illuminated the room, and in that instant, the keeper saw his own reflection superimposed upon the figure’s face—a merging of two selves, one human, one something else entirely. The lantern’s light flickered, then steadied, as if acknowledging the pact that had been forged.

With a trembling hand, he placed the lantern back on its hook, its glow now synchronized with the lighthouse’s beam. The strange mist receded, but the memory of the figure’s pointed finger lingered in his mind, a warning etched into his very soul.

He turned back to the journal, his fingers tracing the inked symbols once more. The words on the last page read, in a hurried scrawl:

When the light falters, the Veil will rise. Guard it, or be consumed.

Outside, the storm began to wane, the sea’s fury diminishing to a mournful sigh. The lighthouse continued its endless rotation, its beam slicing through the night, a steadfast guard against the abyss.

And somewhere, deep beneath the cliffs, a faint, phosphorescent glow pulsed in rhythm with the keeper’s heart—waiting, patient, for the day when the Veil would fail.

Chapter 1 – The Light That Never Fades

Mara Whitaker eased the heavy oak door of the cliff-side cottage shut behind her, the wind snapping the latch with a metallic clang that reverberated through the empty hallway. The scent of damp timber and sea-salt mingled with the faint aroma of old incense that lingered from her mother’s last evenings there. She slipped off her boots, feeling the cold, uneven boards beneath her feet, and padded toward the narrow staircase that led to the attic.

The attic was a cramped space of sloping rafters, dusty trunks, and forgotten relics. Moonlight filtered through a cracked skylight, casting thin ribbons of silver across a pile of weathered newspapers. In the center of the room, perched atop a wooden crate, sat a brass lantern whose glass was fractured in a spider-like pattern. Though the bulb inside was long dead, the lantern emitted a faint, amber pulse that seemed to beat in time with the distant sweep of the lighthouse’s beam.

Mara’s breath caught as the lantern’s glow intensified for a heartbeat, then steadied. She reached out, fingertips grazing the cool metal, and the pulse quickened, matching the rhythm of her own heart. A low hum vibrated through the rafters, a sound she could not locate but felt resonating in her chest. She glanced toward the window, where the lighthouse’s rotating shaft of light cut across the night, a thin column of white that intersected the attic’s gloom like a surgeon’s scalpel.

As the beam passed, the lantern’s amber flare flared brighter, spilling a wash of gold across the dust motes that danced in the air. Shadows elongated, coalescing into the vague outline of a figure standing just beyond the far wall—a tall, gaunt silhouette, its head bowed, hands clasped around a weathered journal. The figure’s eyes, when they caught the lantern’s light, reflected a cold, bluish hue that seemed to draw the surrounding darkness inward.

Mara stumbled backward, her hand slamming against a stack of old fishing nets. The lantern’s glow dimmed suddenly, as if the presence had withdrawn. A soft, metallic clang echoed from the loft above, rhythmic and deliberate, like a hammer striking a forge far below the surface of the earth. The sound synced with the lighthouse’s sweep, each rotation accompanied by a faint, echoing tap.

She forced herself to breathe, the air thick with the taste of brine. It’s just the wind, she whispered to the empty room, though the words felt hollow. The attic door creaked open on its hinges, revealing a narrow hallway bathed in the lighthouse’s pale illumination. A cold draft slipped through, carrying with it the faint scent of ozone and something sweet, reminiscent of pine sap.

Mara followed the draft, stepping cautiously down the stairs. The hallway walls were lined with faded photographs: her mother smiling beside a young Mara in a red raincoat, a black-and-white portrait of a stern man in a uniform bearing the insignia of the lighthouse keeper, and a series of newspaper clippings announcing shipwrecks and rescues along Blackrock’s treacherous coast. She paused at a framed photograph of the lighthouse taken in 1919, its glass dome gleaming under a stormy sky. In the lower corner of the frame, handwritten in ink, someone had scrawled: The Veil holds.

A sudden gust slammed the hallway door shut, plunging the corridor into darkness except for the thin, rotating beam that traced a line across the floorboards. Mara felt a pressure at the base of her skull, as if an unseen hand were gently pressing. The lantern’s pulse, now faint and irregular, seemed to echo that pressure, each flicker a silent Morse code.

She turned toward the attic, determined to investigate the journal the phantom figure had been clutching. The attic door loomed ahead, its wood swollen with moisture. With a firm push, she opened it, and the smell of old paper and rust washed over her. The lantern lay on the crate, its amber light now a steady, low glow. Beside it, half hidden under a tattered blanket, rested a leather-bound journal, its cover cracked and mottled with age.

Mara knelt, lifted the journal, and felt the weight of decades settle in her hands. The first page bore a date: October 12, 1919. In spidery handwriting she read:

Tonight the light held longer than ever before. The prism sang, and I felt a presence beyond the glass, a whisper that promised safety if I can bind it. The Veil must be sealed.

She flipped the page, revealing a crude sketch of the lighthouse’s interior: a spiral staircase, a small chamber beneath the lantern room, and a series of concentric circles surrounding an eye-like symbol. Below the drawing, a note in a different ink read: The heart lies beneath. Do not let the light falter.

A sudden crash reverberated from the cliffs below—a massive wave smashing against the rock, sending spray high into the night. The lighthouse’s beam swung wider, its white sweep catching the crest of the wave and turning it into a fleeting, luminous ribbon. Mara’s eyes widened as the lantern’s amber glow surged, aligning perfectly with the beam, forming a single column of light that pierced the attic ceiling and seemed to reach down into the sea itself.

From within that column, a soft, melodic hum rose, low enough to be felt rather than heard. It resonated with the metallic clang she had heard earlier, each tap now sounding like a heartbeat in the stone. The journal’s pages fluttered as if caught in an invisible breeze, stopping on a page where the keeper had drawn a map of tunnels beneath the lighthouse, marked with an X and the words Heart of the Veil.

Mara’s pulse raced. She traced the X with her fingertip, feeling the paper’s texture, and imagined descending into darkness, chasing a promise made a century ago. The lantern’s amber light dimmed once more, leaving only the thin white column from the lighthouse. In that moment, a distant scream—half human, half wind—echoed across the cliffs, then faded into the night.

She closed the journal, the leather creaking softly, and slipped it into her coat pocket. The attic door slammed shut behind her, the sound reverberating through the cottage like a warning. Mara stood alone, the lighthouse’s beam sweeping inexorably across the sea, the phantom figure’s cold gaze still burning in her mind.

Outside, the storm had begun to subside, the ocean’s roar lowering to a mournful sigh. Yet the sense of something vast and unseen stirring beneath the cliffs remained, a pulse that matched the rhythm of the lantern, the lighthouse, and the beating heart of the keeper who had sworn to guard a secret that now threatened to awaken.

Mara tightened her coat around herself, the journal’s weight a reminder of the path she was about to tread. She descended the attic stairs, each step echoing like a drumbeat, and stepped onto the rain-slick porch. The lighthouse’s beam cut across the dark water, a thin line of white that seemed to lead directly to the heart of the Veil.

She turned toward the village, where the first hints of dawn were beginning to bleed into the sky, and resolved to uncover the truth hidden beneath Blackrock’s cliffs—no matter the cost.

Chapter 2 – Echoes of the Past

The rain had finally given way to a thin, silvery mist that clung to the cliffs like a shroud. Mara stood on the porch of the cottage, the wind tugging at the hem of her coat, and watched the sea roll in slow, mournful breaths. The lighthouse’s beam swept across the water in a steady, hypnotic rhythm, a lone finger pointing toward the horizon. It was the same light her mother had described in those bedtime stories—steady, comforting, and yet somehow aware.

She turned the key in the lock of the front door and stepped inside. The interior was dim, illuminated only by the amber glow of a single oil