Strange, Peculiar, and Outright Weird Short Stories

The Lighthouse

There was a light.

It's gaze splayed out over the hills.

Over the mist, across the water, cold and sharp.

It's warm glow a beacon to all who come across it, but it's steady movement, steely and unfeeling.

It burns its way over burrows, blinding the critters inside. It scares away the fish from the night hunters, waiting stealthily in the dark. It draws all the insects to it, stealing the meals of many.

The light also saves thousands, every year, year after year. For centuries the lighthouse has stood, its constant unwavering gleam piercing all.

Ships, sworn to the sea, churning the ocean waters about them, come to the light of this house.

They know the way, a safe way. One not lined by jagged rocks, small coral coves, and sandy shores barely underwater. One that's free of floating debris, and other passing watchmen on the silent evening.

This lighthouse.

A house of light.

Casts a shadow.

When it's light passes, the darkness is darker that before.

It swallows you, engulfs you into it's depths.

You cannot escape.

You cannot hide.

For it is not the chaser, it is the crevice in which you crawl into willingly, it's the hole that you dive into. Ducking your head so as not to be seen by other things.

These things you believe to be worse than the dark.

Nothing is worse than the loss of light.

Not even the absence of light.

For to know light exists, but isn't present, is the worst torture. Than to think there's no such thing as light at all.

For you will find your own way to see.

A feeling that you can trace, it's waves lapping at your hull.

Chase the water back to it's original shores, so as to be home.

Without the need for a lighthouse.