Michael was standing in front of the lighthouse – as if he had exited the building via its basement. Now that he thought about it, the whole downward staircase and the tunnels were physically impossible, yet there was no way back: the wooden door was locked. This was confusing, since Michael did remember opening the door just a moment ago. Even more confusing was the weather: it was completely dark, as if day had shifted to night without warning. It wasn't snowing anymore, but raining instead. The lake had become nothing but a black, massive void – calm wind blew towards Michael and threw rain drops on his glasses; he got worried. It was apparent that things had taken turn for worse.

Michael pulled out the revolver and started walking along the pier. His attention was caught by a rusty metallic plate – it was bolted to two steel bars, which in turn were welded to the pier itself. A piece of white paper was attached to the plate – it was soaked by rain water. There was no text written on it, but instead, a colourful picture was imprinted in the middle. Michael stared at it, once again unable to understand what he was seeing: the picture depicted a young, beautiful woman sitting on a white couch. She was wearing a gray sweater and blue jeans – she was smiling, looking back at Michael. Her legs were crossed, yet still spreaded open, thus creating an intentionally arousing look. There was something very blatant about the picture – or rather nothing blatant, as it seemed like a visual for an advertisement.

Michael left the picture alone and continued – only to find another one. It was a different woman this time, yet once again she was wearing jeans and posing for the camera. There were several such pictures along the pier, each depicting women in more or less pretentious environment. Michael did have some ideas regarding the meaning of the pictures, but he tried concentrating on his own problems – surely enough these absurdities had nothing to do with him.

Michael reached the shoreline and passed the white parking hall – and its unnatural glow: there was a neon sign attached to the hall's corner. It's monochrome, strikingly blue light created a small isolated area in the middle of darkness. Turned out the sign was shaped in the form of a short word; its letters arranged vertically:

T

O

U

C

H

Michael stared at the sign, yet didn't get any wiser. He returned on the road and kept walking along Sandford Street. He passed another parking hall, and arrived at a short bridge. Some kind of distant light source was left there, emitting strong, red glow. Michael approached it, slowly realizing that another bulb-headed humanoid was sitting in the middle of the bridge. It tried touching the bulb with its hands, yet every attempt ended in muffled whining, as the hot glass burned its fingers. Michael had no reason to agitate the creature, so he walked slowly past it, ready to use his gun. Luckily the bridge was wide enough, and Michael made it to the other side.

There was an advertising sign next to the road, with the shape of a red arrow and a yellow plate above it: Haerbey Inn, stated the plate. Michael deduced that there was a motel nearby, which did make sense – in general, the amusement park, hotels and small businesses hinted towards active tourism. Michael kept walking, inspecting his phone – still no call from Beth. He had no idea where to look for her, and worse yet, he had no idea who (or what) he was actually looking for.

Michael arrived at the motel's entrance: driveway led to a parking lot, that in turn was surrounded by the rentable rooms. It seemed only one car was parked there, which made Michael a bit curious. Indeed, a black and familiar sedan was sitting in the corner – it belonged to the photographer whom Michael had met in the park. Next to the car was room number 1; warm light exited through its window. Michael tried peeking inside, but two blue curtains made such observing impossible. His previous meeting with the stranger hadn't ended too well, so it was probably best to stay away from him. Still, Michael couldn't help noticing that the door wasn't locked. He turned it carefully open; there was no one inside. Michael decided to do some investigation, so he stepped in.

The room was rather small, yet cozy: bed, green armchair, TV on a tiny wooden table plus a large drawer. Walls had this weird colouring; a combination of green and yellow, which created quite worn and shabby look. Interestingly enough, a black briefcase was left on the bed – it was wide open. It contained some photographs, a plastic bag with some kind of metallic components (maybe for camera) and a small red notebook. Michael got puzzled: first the photographer left his car unlocked, and now this – the man's appearance didn't suggest such reckless behaviour.

Michael picked up the notebook and started inspecting it. Short pieces of text were written there with very precise and tidy handwriting:

Asked about the town; some kind of fire is common element in stories.

People don't seem to know much, or just don't want to remember.

Found little bits of history; some disappearings and accidents.

Steamboat sank in the lake in 1918.

Religion was clear yet unique mix; lots of deities and tales taken from others.

Lake was sacred area for the natives; ceremonies were carried out here.

Easy to see why.

! Check the churches and hotel.

Carrying a gun is a bit morbid, but it turned out to be useful.

Looks like the absurd stories about this place weren't just folklore.

Saw a distant, white light on the lake;

it wasn't moving, couldn't hear any sounds.

Lasted for couple of seconds, then disappeared.

According to map, there is a small island in that direction.

Michael returned the book in the briefcase and tried to think – it seemed that the photographer was just travelling and taking notes along the way, so his experience really differed from that of Michael's. Other than the notebook, there was nothing interesting in the briefcase – the photos were just foggy pictures of the lake and some buildings.

As Michael had nothing else to do, he was about to return outside. However, there appeared to be something wrong with one of the photos: it depicted a facade of a bar – an orange banderole covered the front door, with title Annie's Bar written on it. Next to said door was a window (only partially in the frame), and behind the glass was standing someone – presumably a woman, with her back turned towards the camera. She was wearing a gray sweater and olive pants with thigh pockets; her hair was dark, though details were hard to make out, thanks to the windowpane. The picture was taken in daylight, through snowy cloud of fog.

Michael spent long minutes there, staring at the woman. Eventually he stuffed the photo in his pocket and stepped outside, determined to find this bar. According to the map, Annie's Bar was practically around the corner – Michael was certain this wasn't just good luck. A small recreational park appeared on his left, and it seemed like a proper shortcut: Michael passed some tidy ornamental bushes and trees; their leaves were dripping. A circular fountain was placed in the middle of the area, opposite the motel's backside. Michael slowed down as he found another neon sign – once again a vertically written word, yet this one emitted yellow light:

S

K

I

N

Michael watched as the electric yellow painted the nearby trees, highlighting every rain drop. He felt distant headache; a soft sound emerged. Michael turned around and stepped rapidly backwards: figure of a slim woman was standing in front of him. Her naked body was soaking wet and bruised – her arms were crossed, as if she was freezing. Her face couldn't be seen, as her head was covered by a crude metallic helmet. It was rusty, filled with dents and wounds, and had the shape of a circular cone.

Michael had pointed the gun towards this figure, yet it turned out such measure wasn't necessary: the woman turned around, walked meekly to a bench and sat down – rubbing slowly her shoulders. Michael stared at her; a naked woman walking in rainy night with metal helmet, reflecting the strong yellow glow of the neon sign. The situation was nonsensical to say the least, but Michael couldn't get too distracted: whatever was going on, finding Beth was his priority. Michael kept walking, until he exited the park. He took couple of steps north and arrived at the bar – its window was black; clearly there was no one inside. However, the door was left open. Michael took another glance at the picture – he didn't know what to think. Beth wasn't alive, this was certain. Even so, Michael had nothing left to lose, so he entered the bar.

Michael's flashlight swept over a bar counter, several colourful bottles, an ashtray and some leather-covered stools. There was a larger room on the right – it contained four pool tables, with the billiard balls gathered in the middle of each table. Some cues were leaning against the walls, yet Michael had no intentions of using them. He tried to find any kind of sign of Beth, but there was nothing unusual in the bar. Eventually, Michael entered a small back room, which was used as storage: some dusty cardboard boxes were stacked on a lonely shelf.

Michael stared at the back wall of the room – it contained a small, rectangular doorway. Behind it, a metallic staircase was spiralling downwards; just like in the lighthouse. Michael sighed and started descending, feeling already claustrophobic. The shaft was even more narrow than the previous one, yet not quite as deep: after few minutes or so Michael reached the bottom. He arrived in a tiny, dark room with some dusty boxes stacked on a lonely shelf. Michael stared at its back wall – it contained a small door. He turned it open, and entered a larger rectangular hall with dim, sleepy lighting – a small lamp was embedded in the corner, providing some visibility with its orange shine.

Michael looked around, wondering where the hell he had arrived: the room was made entirely out of gray concrete. Air was cold; it had a stale smell. There was no furniture – instead, some plastic female-shaped mannequins were stored in the corners. They were covered in dust and some spider webs; some of them were partially broken. Michael had no idea why a bar would store mannequins – clearly they hadn't been used recently.

There was a doorway in the opposite wall, which led to a long hallway. Michael stared at it for a while, since something was wrong – something about the hallway made him extremely nervous. It seemed that there were several light sources along it, emitting distant white glow. Michael approached the doorway, as he noticed an object left right in front of it – it was some kind of book. To be precise, it was a children's story book with colourful cover, depicting a yellow sun shining over a small town. Needless to say how sharp contrast the book created.

Michael's gaze travelled between the book and the hallway. Now that he got closer to it, he could see its nonsensical structure: just like the room, this hallway was made out of gray concrete. It was mostly pitch-black, yet the white light sources defined brighter spots, placed equally far away from each other. The corridor had no roof – or at least not a visible one: the walls just climbed towards darkness. Turned out there wasn't just one hallway, but several: on left and right from the doorway, two more passages emerged – again with light sources along them. It seemed that every spot with lighting marked a crossroads, so Michael was entering a rectangular grid. He tried to come up with valid reasons for such construction, but failed many times in a row.

Michael took a step backwards. Slowly, he picked up the book and turned it open – its pages were rigid, as if it hadn't been read in a long time. In addition to the text, some pictures were drawn in the book, depicting people of various professions. These drawings were surprisingly good – actually, some of them were extremely precise works of art. Michael started reading, getting more confused by each word:

In the Riverside Town,

a town where river runs,

sun was always shining; the Old Yellow

at night moon took her place; the Silver Fellow

to whom sun was happy to lend her shine

as he wasn't bright like lady sun in flames

yet much better at telling bedtime tales

A parade of cheerful people,

happy fellows under lady sun's flames

to name a few, start with The Mayor

important man not afraid of hard labor

to name another, we find The Smith

big man with a hammer and a gallon of grit

When trouble arrives, no need to worry

fellows of Riverside Town will help through it

in illness, ask The Doctor

wise man in white coat will make you better

trouble with hair, ask The Barber,

man of elegance, an artist with scissors

Michael started getting ideas regarding what was going on – at least on some level. He jumped over several pages, until he found a drawing of the barber and his client. Following paragraphs were written next to the picture:

It was a sunny day

when lady in blue entered the salon of Barber Clippers

the elegant gentleman

speechless he was in front of her beauty

"only half shall you pay!", said Barber

"for not much can I do to make you any more pretty"

the lady laughed, blushed

"good Barber, do let me pay – full price for master and still happily I stay!"

said the lady in blue

"as you wish, but remember – no master without a muse"

So sat the lady on Barber's chair

"good Barber, I wish for somewhat shorter hair"

Barber took the scissors, ran his finger along the blade

"forgive me my lady but I have a request as well"

he pressed the metal against her neck

through shock, horror she would beg

"please don't"

blades ran lower and lower until too low

to breathing darkness

that's where her soul fell