Whence the Sea They Come

October 11th, 1968

This morn I stood upon the precipice betwixt security and folly to watch them come in with the high tide. It was a precarious position, what with the mischievous wind that assaulted such ferocious intent to upend my perch, but it afforded the clearest view without exposing my existence. The sea from the south raged against the cliffs, sending torrents of monolithic short lived giants to dash themselves in self-destructive fits of fury upon the rocks, an age old battle of centuries waged in victories of millimeters.

To the north is where they would come, the sea of less wrath and distress, up out of the frigid depths to the calmer waters of the lough. How they do so and under what power compels them, I cannot say, for in the months of study I have not been able to ascertain rhyme or reason for their emergence.

They come before the light of day crests the horizon, always with the tide, their features and form hidden from the great equalizer, their movements a parody of life and humanity, but with a sense of natural fluidity that belie their true nature, whatever that may be.

I can theorize, and so I do, in the early morning hours whence the moon has begun her descent and the waters of the sea have fallen into slumber, I conjure images that would make the most stalwart of sailors aghast, pulling from lore and stories of which were told to me at my father’s knee. Always the tales of old, for nothing of this current world has the mysticism to explain such occurrences.

Behind me the teach solais, or lighthouse, as the Americans were wont to call it, stood silently sentinel, its commanding light extinguished for now. It was a derelict of duty for certain, but when its eye was open, my figure would be presented against the backdrop, and I was not quite ready for my presence to be noticed as of yet, if ever.

I pulled out my pocket watch and noted the time by the light of the stars. Any minute now my visitors would avail themselves to me. My eyes squinted into the lough roughly fifty meters vertical of my position, at the slightly ruffled surface of the waters, as if the lagun itself breathed in anticipation.

My cloak I gathered tighter around my frame. I had been keeper of this place for roughly half a year, and being a true lad of the land, the crisp wind of the sea did not endeavor me to seek the comfort of a fire nor set my teeth to chattering. I was born of the waters, bred to bathe in its salty breath, home to its ebb and flows like a newly born naionan in its rocking cot, but my body was always assailed by chill in expectation of my spectral callers. Such reaction can only be the natural response when the inexplicable meets the mundane.

And there, finally, I spied the disturbance of the water’s surface.

My breath I did hold, as the sea appeared to be sliced open with knife’s blade, a perfect incision that nonetheless disappeared almost as soon as it were created, like the closing of some ancient portal that no human sight could perceive but nonetheless was aware of at an instinctual level.

The first of them emerged from the water, and yet emerged denotes the supposition that they walked out. Rather, it was as if the sea parted around them in supplication, beholden to the will of these denizens of the deep.

The leader, if such could be called, was the first to arise from the water, a rather spindly figure that appeared permanently crooked to one side, as if it were cobbled together from the different parts of children's dolls. It moved in a way that spoke of unfamiliarity with its appendages, a jittery shamble that gave the semblance of the human gait but was more akin to the shuffle of wooden puppetry on invisible strings. It’s ungainly progression was almost painful to witness, an affront to the senses in every way.

I don’t know why, but I supposed it to be of male gender. There was no affirmation of this observation, other than the instinctual basis and the perceived presence of an alpha male superiority over its fellows, who were much slower to emerge and in doing so seemed of less inclination to walk the land.

Their emanation was almost hesitant, first the tops of their heads teasing the night air, and then ever so slowly, the rest of their bodies emerging in pauses. Perhaps the surface world was harmful to their forms and they needed periods of adjustment, or they were of lesser quality than the leader. Whichever explanation, they took a full minute before they stood on stilted limbs near the sandy beach of the lagun, a dozen of them in various throes of torture, their twisted bodies frozen in starlight. When they did move, it was with clicks and clacks like the chattering of teeth or the clash of two rocks against one another.

They never advanced far up the beach. Their crooked legs stayed rooted in the most shallow water like tethers, hiding the last of their mysterious forms.

What was the purpose of this routine? I could not explain it, and having witnessed it every morning for the last few months did little to illuminate this mystery. Was it some sort of star bathing, mayhaps to draw a type of nourishment from the wan light of celestial beings, or a form of ritual that went beyond the reasoning of humanity?

Either or, they would stand for no longer than a period of ten minutes on the dot, and then return to the cold embrace of the sea.

I took out my pocket watch. One minute left, and as my strange visitors took leave I would imbibe myself from the stash of whiskey that was left from the previous keeper and contemplate the meaning of my little island mystery.

Except, this time was different.

The seconds ticked down and passed the time of departure, and yet, my visitors did not turn and take their leave.

Glancing back down at the watch, I realized that another minute had passed, an anomaly to be certain, and the break from tradition filled me with a deep sense of unease. I stared down at them, that small troupe of otherworldly wraiths, taking no small measure of comfort in the knowledge that I was invisible against the dark backdrop of the lighthouse walls.

I licked my lips anxiously as another minute was added to the clock. I felt an almost insane desire to hurl myself from the parapet of rocky outcropping I had chosen as my perch, and only suppressed it with Herculean effort.

It was, however, this alien thought that caused a brief lapse in my otherwise stoic pose, a cowardly betrayal of mine own cautionary bearing. In short, my foot took a benign and illicit step back, dislodging a small pebble in the crevasse of the rocky landing I stood upon, which then sent said rock bouncing down the steep cliff face.

Such a tiny thing would never be noticeable amidst the cacophony of noise the sea provided, and yet the moment the pebble made its first perfunctory leap against its larger brethren, the leader of that nightly crew sharply looked up, the sudden movement like the winding of a clock spring snapping under too much force.

I dared not move. And though I had previously felt safe in the embrace of the gargantuan shadow cast by my pillar of safety, I now knew I was exposed. There was no darkness that those eyes, if it had eyes at all, could not pierce, no depths of shadow created by any light on this earth that could not be perused as easily as a child through their favorite picture book in the full glare of a midsummer sun.

If said moment had stretched any further, I am certain that I would have made some sort of irrevocable mistake. As it were, the leader abruptly turned away, and in those convulsive, unsure steps, made his way back into the sea, the others following suit.

Only when the last of them had disappeared into the depths of the waters, did I finally let go of my held breath, gasping and sucking in air like a nearly drowned man.

I vowed at that moment to forgo the next morning’s practice and to seek solitude and safety within the confines of my giant ward of brick and mortar.

October 12th, 1968

I awoke midday, long past the hour I usually found consciousness, my tongue thick and heavy with the night’s drink, of which I had more than was necessary. It had taken an extraordinary amount of whiskey to curb the fear and sense of doom that had clouded my thoughts. I was paying the price for my indulgence.

Such dreams I had could never be properly explained. How do I convey the nightmarish creations that no human being should ever conceive, the marriage of sea creatures with that of human anatomy? Monstrous creations I beheld, the bodies of man seamlessly molded with the limbs of octopi, heads that sprouted veil like appendages with probing fingers similar to thistles of a flower, teeth that fell in rows along mouths that stretched impossibly wide, and eyes…eyes embedded along every exposed surface, dotted hither and thither, constantly moving, darting back and forth hungrily in search of sustenance.

Would it had stopped with that. No, instead I was privy to their masters, their divinations of worship that they bowed to in the deepest depths where even light cast by the bottom dwellers could not fall upon such denizens without fear of retribution. Giant monoliths composed of elements, that which birthed the very planets at the beginning of creation, spread out along the sea floor, their girth equating to the mountains of the Alps. They moved with fluidic purpose, similar to the currents of the ocean beneath the surface, languidly flexing their titanic tentacles full of suckers that undulated and pulsed with insatiable hunger. Their bodies, of which were inflatable balloons, opened in large gaping mouths with descending rows of teeth the length of a man’s body, capable of engulfing a whole schooner in a single swallow.

As I went about my daily duties of cleaning the lens, trimming wicks, and oiling the gears of the mechanism that moved the all seeing eye, these impressions of dreams stayed with me, never dulled in the light of day as others before them. Instead, I was left with the growing apprehension that the following evening would bring about more terrors.

October 13th, 1968

True to my unspoken word, I did not dare to step foot beyond the threshold of my protective walls last night. I am not certain what would have awaited me had I done so, but my imagination was more than apt in providing unwanted scenarios.

Instead, I huddled in the glare of the furnace, whiskey in hand, listening to the unabated wind that threw itself with gusto against the thick oaken door, a pitiful barrier against the dark creatures of my dreams.

October 14th, 1968

Today, in the light of day, I perused the grounds. There is a steep path that meanders halfway around the island before making its way to the lagun, a dangerous slippery slope that I have never deigned to traverse, rocky steps weathered smooth by the breath of wind and time in which a single misstep could lead to disaster. This island, after all, is not accessible by any means but boat, and only in certain windows that weather permits. A hard fall, a broken limb, could easily mean death.

I followed the path to the lagun, dread weighing my footsteps down and making the journey much more laborious in terms of time. Once arriving, my dread was well founded, for the tracks made in the sand, a long sloughing drag with the heavy imprint of human digits at the end, exposed a horror I had conceived yet didn’t dare consider seriously.

They had made their way out of the water and onto the beach fully.

On the way back to the lighthouse I considered the implications of this new foray. I had changed the routine, and as such, their behavior had been altered.

What did this mean for me?

I could only surmise, but it was with foreboding that I eventually arrived at the obvious conclusion…that they had noticed my presence, and because of that, they were now drawing nigh. For what purpose was still clouded in mystery, but in my bones the answer was not so shrouded. They wanted me, whether to join their secret coven of bottom dwellers for worship of their unholy deity or the use of my flesh for whatever heathen rituals such monstrous gods demanded.

Escape? That was a laughable notion. The next boat to arrive with supplies would not be until the end of the month, a full three weeks away. I doubted this scenario would afford me that leeway.

That left only one option.

Barricade.

October 15th, 1968

From forage I have found a staple of wood to enforce the door of my dwelling. I have moved my cot down to the bottommost level of the lighthouse. This was not out of courage but of practicality. If those denizens of the deep were to break through this tepid defense, then I wanted to meet them with fit and fervor as was afforded me through preparation and drink. That last is most important, for despite the fact that I found an ancient hay fork and a presentable granghunna, I was not confident that the ammo was sufficiently preserved to afford anything but a loud hiss upon engagement. That left me with a pitchfork to fend off the cursed followers of an ancient evil that mankind had long forgotten.

I await the morn.

October 16th, 1968

I feel safe under the guise of our solar friend. Her ministrations thwart all that is cold and envious of life, that swarth of evil of which robs our sensibilities when we stroll through the cold grounds of a cemetery under the gaze of moonlight. She is my ward and protector, but alas she is only tapped for a duration half of which is needed.

Today, beneath her watchful eyes, I found the tracks of our mystical denizens on the slope leading up to the lighthouse, a mere thirty meters from my door…

October 17th, 1968

Safely ensconced…I had whiskey as my courage…the door is flimsy, even with its fortifications, but it holds…I hear…whispers…words I cannot discern but the meaning seems clearer with each passing hour…they are close now…just outside my door…the dreams make sense of a sorts…the devourer of worlds…he calls to me…

October 18th, 1968

I could hear their breathing on the other side of the door. It was unbearable…I am ashamed to admit I railed and blathered against that slight barricade, curses and epithets I hurled to no avail. I knew they moved not…they are waiting…but for what?

October 19th, 1968

Open the door…that is the mantra that goes through my mind…open the door…I dare not, and yet what strength have I to defy? I am but a shell of a man filled with the wind of the seas…she is my mistress and yet my doom…open the door…

October 20th, 1968

I have not strength left in me to rail…I will open the door tonight. I know not what will transpire after. I only know what is left in me as a man…I will fight what comes with whatever means I have, but I fear my defiance is a pittance against the coming storm…I fear the loss of my humanity, the loss of my individuality…but most of all I fear the loss of my soul.

May God have mercy upon me…

The final journal entry of Sean McMannis, the last steward of the Baily Lighthouse.