For Sonya’s Three Line Tales photo prompt.
Photo ©William Bout
“They’re coming! Run, to the lighthouse,” they cry, so we run, along the narrow causeway above the angry waves towards the light that sweeps every ten seconds across our terrified faces.
We count, ten, fifteen, twenty, thirty, sixty, but the light is dead, the night dark as a whale’s gullet, and the lighthouse a single pale tooth against the starless sky.
Hearts pounding in fear, we listen to the darkness, straining against the wind and the crashing of the waves, until we hear it, up ahead, the sound of screaming.