Beacon

The lighthouse beacon swept over the bay, its regular rhythm a comfort to the town that huddled near its strong foundations, on the cliff. When the winds came bowling in from the northeast, the little bay at the base was the least safe place to be. Even boats were dragged so far back they were anchored in little caves carved very, very carefully into the base of the cliff. On the far side, away from the village. Just in case.

The other lighthouse - the little one - was stuck fast to the island outside the harbor. Well, as fast as they could make it. Those storms had a bad habit of mocking human efforts every winter, turning some structure or another into flinders as a reminder of what was more powerful here. The older houses all had deep cellars, enough to house a family or three if they got caught visiting when a little rain turned into another howler, courtesy of that north-and-west wind.

No trees in the village, though. They tucked the houses at the edge of the forest. Upwind. When trees were felled, they smashed everything in their path. The remnants of two barns were left there as a reminder of what could happen, with most of the trunk left in place in the stone cradle it created for itself.

The light was safe, sure, secure. Its clear white light guided ships right into the bay, and stood at the very top of the steps leading to the houses. Ropes and pulleys helped bring up any cargo, and was especially neat to watch nets full of fish come sweeping from below for a village's feast.

Have I painted an idyllic picture? Nature's dangers, and humanity's efforts to thwart them as much as possible?

Not much to fear, till a fog rolled in. Then, someone was sent to the bell window, halfway up the lighthouse. To watch, and wait, and pray.

The fog would take out the island's lighthouse first. It was just a little island, barely a sand bar peeping above water, situated on a granite outcrop. Just enough to break the waves, and a wind gust or two if it rolled towards the bay. Now, the foghorn was automatic, attached to small solar panels for that extra bit of warning.

When the fog rolled in, everyone dropped what they were doing, and ran for a cellar.

Because if the lighthouse light turned green, Things would emerge.

No, this isn't a Lovecraftian homage. The Things were different each time, some sort of bizarre sea creature mutated beyond belief. The octopus-like Things were well remembered, with their bundles of tentacles that seemed to be able to open all but the sturdiest locks. The walking fish, with piranha-like teeth, that ate anything in their way - plant, animal, even small rocks went down their gaping maws. Eel-like creatures that writhed like snakes, creeping up the cliff face.

Not all the creatures succeeded. The seaweed Thing got stuck in the bay; the jellyfish Things just created a mess at the high tide line. The plankton mass was taken as food by the regular fish, even if it looked like a red tide on steroids. Didn't seem to bother the fish at all, though no villager would eat them for months.

No, this isn't a Steven King homage either. Look, weird stuff happens up there. Maybe we're all getting our ideas from the same source.

But this time, with one poor lost soul ringing the bell for all they were worth, staring death in the face but hoping it would save everyone else, it was....lobsters.

Thousands of them. Huge - double, triple the side of a normal catch. Anything that had a rough surface, that they could stick the tip of a claw into, they would climb. And pick apart, if they could. It did not take long for every surface to be covered in clinging bodies, both the pair of crusher claws and the pair of pincer claws ripping apart everything in sight.

Wooden houses didn't stand a chance. Others would listen, huddling, as other strongholds were breached.

When half the lighthouse came crashing down from the weight of all the creatures hanging from the top. Bodies crushed in the rubble were picked clean by the ones coming after, or the ones that could ride down on the top side.

Barns stood no chance whatsoever.

Some fought back. Shovels and pitchforks worked somewhat to keep them at bay, hoes and rakes less well. Enough to fend them off for a time, to run into the woods, where there were many more obstacles to slow down their pursuers. Or attempt to reach neighbors, screaming their plans as they swung implements to clear a path. Some were more successful than others.

Some tried to defend themselves in a corner of ruined basements, creatures pouring in from trap doors that weren't thick enough.

Stone houses fared better, till the creatures found that glass is thin and fragile. Still, most families in those buildings could use smashing things to stack up bodies, which were fed upon by the rest. It slowed down the surge.

It seemed to last forever. When morning finally burned the fog away, it lay bare the sight of thousands of cracked giant lobsters where the town once stood. Of the dozens of people, only small double handfuls survived. The ones lucky enough to run for the woods returned, only long enough to bury the dead, collect their portable things, and leave forever. Far from the sea, and that smell, which would haunt them permanently.

It took two generations for people to finally return to that cliff and its ruined village. Powdery shells still covered the ground, making walking through the tangled grass difficult. The shattered lighthouse had collapsed in on itself in subsequent storms. Stone foundations were hard to find, covered with vines and new growth trees.

Rebuilding took time. And lots of rocks. And cement.

They left the lighthouse where it was. Modern instruments were better, they said, for predicting the weather.

Funnily enough, they were right. They were never again invaded by strange creatures from the deep.

Why? Oh, they never figured it out. They were thinking like humans, not deep sea creatures.

To something in the ocean, a lighthouse doesn't mean safety.

Light is a lure.