The clouds above churned and howled, massive dark anvil clouds wept down thick blankets of harsh rain with enough force to strip away paint from steel. Fat droplets pelted the seas below creating a dull cacophonic roar, which drowned out any screams of horror from unfortunate souls, a sound familiar to Thomas Stern, who had grown accustomed to the noise. Sounds of rain comforted and soothed the keeper’s nerves, who would otherwise be awake at all hours. The storm provided white noise that would never sway nor grow silent. Crackles of lightning shoot across the sky in a lethal yet intimate dance to the rhythm of crashing waves and booming thunder. Yet with all the comforts of the weather and a soft bed, rest did not come easy that night, as with all nights.  

  Sounds of thudding much like footsteps echoed up from the lower floors of the lighthouse which caused Thomas to jolt from his attempt at rest. A quick glance around the room revealed nothing, all was in its proper place. Thomas let his eyes drift shut and assured himself that everything where he left it and tried to sleep once more. The peace did not last however, as a sound of metal clashing with metal, grinding and shrieking with a vindictive howl cut through the stagnant air of the bedroom. Thomas bolted to a sitting position on top of his moth-eaten bed, eyes scanning left to right across his bedroom. Short panting breaths of panic escaped from Thomas’ mouth as his heart crawled up into his throat, his attempts at self-assurance falling short of their goal. Nothing should have been able to get through the front door, but the sounds of clattering did not lie. Thomas’ spine clicked and popped as he rose from his bed, and his feet found purchase in his worn house slippers. Inching towards the stairs to the bottom floor, the keeper’s body winced with each creak and thud that came from the room below, Thomas reminded himself once more that nothing should be down there but his desk and his equipment, but that did little to soothe his strained nerves. One step at a time, the trembling keeper descended the stairs, a small oil lamp in hand. Upon reaching the foot of the stairs, braced for the worst, Thomas crept into his living room turned office.

  Cold darkness was all that met Thomas’ sweating face, slick from holding his lamp close, the need to stay in the safety of his light overwhelmed his discomfort. With a shaking hand, the oil lamp flickered and steamed in the frigid air of the pitch black room. All candles that had once lit up the room with a haunting orange glow long snuffed out. The familiar walls of the house were nowhere in sight, leaving the room feeling many times larger than it should have been. There was a distinct alien feeling to the place, it couldn’t be the lighthouse, yet it had the same decorations and furnishings, it was as if by some cosmic joke the entire house had rearranged itself. The room was dead silent save for the occasional banging noise off in the distance, clattering of metal and tumbling of heavy objects to the floor were the sole indicator of life. Outside, the storm raged on with all the intensity of a hurricane, with no promise of ever lessening. Many holes in the room’s ceiling poured out fresh rainwater and left through a metal grating that now covered haphazard patching of the floor, and yet no light peeked through the holes.

  Thomas’ head pounded as he tried to remember where everything should be in the room, his memory overtaken by the fear and paranoia brought on by this strange place. The many scientific instruments that surrounded the room were foreign, each one built in esoteric shapes that defied common logic. Large electrical chords covered the floor, along with slips of loose paper covered in indistinct writing that looked more like crude drawings than data. The thudding sounds of footsteps kept falling from somewhere in the maze of machinery, the booming sounds echoing across endless stacks of equipment. While Thomas’ own footsteps were soft, creaking the wood with care as to not punch a hole through the floor; the other sound was harsh and heavy, he shuddered with every footfall. A lump grew at the back of Thomas’ throat with the insistence he should turn around and go back to bed and hope that the intruder wouldn’t go upstairs. The path back to safety was simple to follow, a simple retracing of steps, and after what felt like hours of walking, Thomas came across the wall where his staircase should have been. 

  The flaked and faded paint still outlined where the aged set of stairs once sat, but the steps were absent. A thin film of viscous slime that stunk of rotten fish covered the area, which brought a gag that rolled up the back of Thomas’ throat. The disgusting stench permeated the area and giant wet footprints surrounded the base of the stairs, with no sign of the remains in sight. Thomas stood there, stunned at the sight and smell as his fingers tightened around his lamp in a white-knuckled grip; sweat ran down the back of his neck in rivers, his heart hammered away in his chest as if it were making an escape attempt. With hasty steps, the keeper backpedaled to flee from the smell and sight of the sludge, and to his dread, his foot caught on a wire connected to one of the many machines. Thomas’ trembling palm lost purchase on his oil lamp in the ensuing stumble, his frail fingers unable to hold on. The lamp clattered against the hardwood floor, and the sound echoed throughout the maze-like room.

  It was then that Thomas noticed that the other sounds of movement had stopped as if alarmed by the noise. A long silence followed that, as Thomas stood in place, frozen by his fear. Then, the thudding started again, much faster this time, and coming in his direction. The faint sound of dripping followed, like the sound of the saliva of a starving beast hitting the floor. Thomas’ heart fell out of the bottom of his stomach in panic, he had to hide from whatever that thing was, and fast. Turning heel on-the-spot Thomas made a desperate bid at running away from whatever lurked in the dark, his lungs screamed in agony from the sudden overuse. 

  Every pounding thud of the intruder sent a new wave of pain through Thomas’ already throbbing head. The beast drew close, so close that the smell of the room turned from the musty scent of books to a vile mix of day-old chum and rotten eggs. The light of the oil lamp did little to help make out the shape of the hulking figure, its silhouette far larger than any man Thomas had ever seen. The thing toppled a heavy pile of scrap and books without breaking pace in the slightest, guttural grunts of annoyance signaled just how little the thing cared for the obstructions. In a desperate act of survival, Thomas scrambled to the floor to hide, his head slamming against a low coffee table forcing out a strangled curse. Once again the lamp clattered against the wooden floor, this time though it flickered and coughed before dying out, which left the room in pitch black darkness. The thudding sound stopped short of Thomas’ hiding spot, what followed was what had to be the sound of a meaty fist colliding with a pile of books, which scattered them around the floor. The pounding continued as more piles fell, the sounds of destruction drew closer to Thomas with each passing second. His heart reached up to pound in his throat as his feet dug into the floor beneath, which slammed his head once more into the coffee table. A small yelp escaped his mouth before he had the chance to slap a hand over his mouth. The room went dead silent.

  The thudding sound came back, faster this time, it had found him. In a last-ditch effort, Thomas grabbed hold of the table and dragged himself underneath it. His heart skipped several beats as he curled up under the coffee table, his whole body trembling from fear of being caught. He could not tell whether it concealed him, other than his sense of touch he dared not use in the chance it made a noise. The stomping feet drew near, accompanied by the sound of wet rasping breaths. Thomas made his best attempt at staying still and prayed to whatever god would listen to make the thing ignore him and leave. 

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  The thudding stopped right next to the not so convenient hiding place, wet rasping breaths mixed with the sounds of gagging and sniffling. The horrid stench of dead fish invaded Thomas’ nose, which forced him to suppress his own gagging as the wet dripping sounds continued. The wooden boards of the table groaned as the thing examined Thomas’ hiding spot, the wood splintered under its touch. It took all of Thomas’ willpower to not scream and wet himself as sludge leaked from the cracks and dripped into his face, the urge to vomit clawed at his throat increased with each passing second. For a few tense seconds, nothing happened, which must have satisfied the reeking figure as it wandered off, feet trailing in that loud stomping gait it had taken before. 

  It was several minutes before Thomas felt safe enough to gag and cough; the smell had become too much for him to handle, the stinging sensation of bile in his throat brought tears to his eyes as he tried his best to recover. Thomas crawled on all fours out from his makeshift shelter and dared to relight his lamp with as low a flame as possible, the resounding click of the ignitor made him recoil at the thought the intruder might have heard. With strained ears the keeper searched and listened for the telltale stomping sound, it must have wondered further away as he couldn’t hear anything other than his own gasping breaths. With tentative steps, Thomas wandered further into the dark abyss before him. The pounding headache had lessened by then, enough for the frail man to see shapes in the thick darkness of the room. The crushing darkness that covered the room seemed to swallow all light that attempted to make headway as if the void were a living beast insulted by it. With careful steps Thomas crept piles of books and strange metal machines, taking great care to not disturb anything, lest he attract unwanted attention. An idea occurred to Thomas, accompanied by a nervous sense of hope, the front door. If he could make it through the front door he could wait out whatever happened to his house in a sturdy shelter, the drop-off supply shed came to mind, with new resolve, he pushed onward. After what felt like hours of walking, he had little progress in finding the front door; it was as if the house itself refused to let him escape. Thomas found himself in the same place several times, he had walked in a giant circle in the maze, a muttered curse was his only reply to the absurdity. 

  Creaking floorboards and the incessant ticking of an old clock were welcome sounds, the smell of old parchment guided his way to a place he recognized. Thomas had found his desk by sheer luck, which sat in a small alcove of machinery and moth-eaten portraits. With a tremendous sigh of relief at such a familiar sight, he laid a hand on the old stained oak, just to be sure it wasn’t some paranoid delusion. All of his notes and folders were all in place, except for one odd exception. An ancient looking leather book sat in the center of his desk, locked shut by a padlock and leather bindings. There was no label on the spine of the book, nor any notable demarcations that could tell Thomas what on earth it could be. Whatever this book was, it must have been important for it to sit on the one familiar sight he could find in this damned maze. Thomas held tight to the book to his chest and looked over the rest of his desk hoping to find the missing key. It was because of this newfound distractedness he made a fatal error while running his hands across his desktop in the poor light; he heard a sound that made his heart stop. The shattering of glass on the floor. He looked to the source to see that in his frantic search he’d knocked his inkwell to the floor, where it now lied in pieces. What little color remained on his face vanished as the sound of stomping came from deep in the maze, much faster and more assured than before. Thomas dared to look in the sound’s direction and held his lamp high, all that he could see were two glowing eyes that seemed to pierce through his soul that stench of rotted fish once again assailing his senses. It had found him, and there wasn’t a chance to hide this time.

  It was the intruder that took the initiative, storming forth in a mad frenzy; however, Thomas had already turned tail and ran, he didn’t dare stop to look behind. His breaths turned to a harsh and heaving pant, it had been years since he had run with such urgency. The sound of metal clashing against the wooden floor as it tossed machinery to the side gave an indication of the intruder’s sheer strength as it followed. Guttural gagging came from the beast in its pursuit, along with wet splattering across the floor, the sharp stench of vomit now filling the air as it pursued Thomas. A mere moment of disorientation from the smell was all it took to have Thomas’ trip on a book that laid haphazardly on the floor, oil lamp flying from his hands and clattered out of arm’s reach. With the beast hot on his tail, he abandoned the source of light for the sake of speed. A blind charge forward was his best option, even as his limbs slammed into the harsh metal around him which sent burning pain through his frail body. The adrenaline that pumped through his veins was the sole thing that kept him on his feet during his mad dash. A sharp pain raced across his back as the beast lashed out, which shredded the back of his nightshirt to pieces, with blood now soaking into the remains of his shirt from shallow gashes. Thomas held back tears as his pained scream echoed through the halls, his hope had dwindled, yet he kept his pace. The strained muscles in his legs screamed, demanding that Thomas stop to take a break, an option that would guarantee his demise. He bit back wrenching sobs and bile that worked their way back up his throat and worked through the pain until his mad sprint met an abrupt end. Thomas’ face met harsh oak wood as he slammed into a flat surface, one that felt different from the rest of the walls he had come across, his front door. 

  He had done it, the front door laid in front of him, while a ravenous beast was right behind. Thomas gripped the doorknob and pulled with all his might, stopped short by the metal bars that held the door in place against the winds outside. He could feel the hot breath of the beast behind him, as it latched onto his shoulder with a malformed and bloated hand, skin stretched tight across rotten muscle. Desperate for survival, Thomas did the first thing that came to mind, he pried the metal bar from its holdings and slammed the blunted end into what he assumed was the thing’s face. The beast recoiled with a deafening roar and clutched at its shrouded face, stumbling back and landing on a pile of old magazines. Thomas didn’t dare look back for more than a second as he threw the door open and leaped forward onto the gravel path leading to the docks, the book still in hand. 

  Thomas scrambled to his feet and ran, the harsh gravel dug into his exposed feet, he must have lost his slippers during the chase. The sound of the beast’s wails grew more distant with each lurching stride, while its pursuit may have slowed, Thomas was not willing to take any chances as he fled. The aged docks came into sight, along with the dilapidated old shed that supplies would sit in at the first of each month. The door was not in its original state though, as a large rusted padlock had sealed the cabin tight, something that Thomas had never done in the past. A chill shot up his spine as his clumsy hands fumbled with the lock, in a desperate hope it would give way, the old leather book dropped to his feet, forgotten at the moment. 

  It was the sound of the crashing waves that tore his attention away from the shed, rather; it was the lack of sound. The water was still and silent; it was a crushing silence that deafened him. Thomas turned his head, his whole body shaking, to look upon the waters. The seas that surrounded the island had vanished, and the seafloor lied exposed in its entirety. With a dry and painful gulp, Thomas’ eyes traced their way up to the horizon to see a wall of water. A giant wave, so large it blotted out half of the night’s sky barreled towards his home at speeds that the keeper couldn’t believe. Great water spouts shot up into the looming clouds above as if the sky was feeding the wave as the huge torrents flowed. 

  Thomas fell to his knees at the sight, his heart sunk to the pit of his stomach at the sight of the impending disaster. He looked back, wondering if he might use his home as a shelter. His eyes widened to see that his home had disappeared, everything had vanished, not even the hut remained. His eyes darted back to the tsunami which now loomed overhead, the wall of water mere seconds from crushing his frail body. All he could remember was the feeling of aged leather on his fingers as the wave crashed down upon him. 

  And then there was crushing darkness.