The lighthouse stood, not perfectly straight, on the very extreme of the craggy bluff. It leaned as men are known to lean when they want to catch sight of something at a better angle. The tall tower leaned over the white froth of the stormy Pacific, casting its bright beam over the unpeaceful waters.
It was a grey day, and the sand was hard because of the rain. The salty waves crashed against the lighthouse, bursting into a light spray. The seagulls fought over something that was dead and washed up upon the shore. It was black and unrecognizable, something from the deep which the tide had dredged up and cast into the grim light of our clouded heaven.
The old man shuddered when he saw it and crossed himself.
“Old man,” I said. “What do you know?”
He wove for me a tale, a dark tale, of things I’m not allowed to relate, of the truths behind the mysteries regarding certain local legends of the merpeoples. This, he told me, was a sign, a warning.
“Dark deeds have been done,” he said. “And are to be done.” He pointed to the tower. “But she still shines, she does, though she’s leaning more and more.”
Yesterday, I heard that the tower had finally fallen into the sea, and that the ocean had welcomed it into the ever twisting currents and soundless depths of her embrace. It happened in the night, and all that’s left are some of the bricks about its base. The old man had passed long before this, and I myself had moved inland a couple of years ago.
I believe the tale told to me by the old man who knew what that dark thing that had washed up upon the sandy shore was. I suspect there’s more to the local legends than a lure for tourists. Now that the light is gone, the darkness of the deep will surely rise.
Tale Told 