A lighthouse keeper named Emilio lived alone near the cliffs of Punta Chanquín. For decades, he maintained the lamp that guided ships safely into the harbor, even during the wildest tempests.
He had one rule: never look down when the wind howled.
But on his sixty-fourth birthday, curiosity bested him.
That night, a terrible wind blew. Waves struck the cliffs with unnatural force. The rocks groaned and cracked as if something enormous moved beneath them.
Emilio stepped outside with a lantern, walking to the edge.
Far below, between two reefs, something moved. A great shadow with ridged scales and spiraling horns scraped against the cliffside. The Camahueto. It paused, as though sensing him.
It turned its face upward.
Emilio dropped the lantern.
The next morning, the lighthouse stood empty. The door was ajar, the table set for breakfast. But there was no sign of the keeper.
Only deep gouges in the stone wall—gouges made by claws sharper than knives, and a trail of wet hoofprints leading to the edge of the cliff.
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