Harboring Cthulhu
Ashe
The first rule of lighthouse keeping is simple: expect the unexpected. Drunk tourists, freak storms, the occasional lost seal finding its way into the gift shop—I’ve handled it all with the kind of practical efficiency that would make my father proud.
But standing here in my rain-soaked boots, staring at an enormous injured cthulhu sprawled across my boathouse floor… I’m pretty sure we’ve sailed right past “unexpected” into “are you freakingkiddingme?”
Lightning strobes through the broken windows, illuminating the scene in sharp bursts. Fishing nets crisscross his massive form like a web, cutting deep wherever they’ve twisted tight. The blood pooling beneath him is darker than human blood, almost black against the weathered boards. Each labored breath makes the whole structure creak, and I find myself counting the seconds between those breaths, the way I count the seconds between lightning and thunder during a storm.
I should have turned and made a run for it the second I saw him. Any sane person would be halfway to town by now, screaming about cthulhus in the boathouse.
But I’m rooted in place, my narrow flashlight beam catching on details I can’t quite process: the way his skin shifts color like deep water in sunlight, the delicate patterns that seem to pulse with his breathing, the raw intelligence in his gaze that brings into question every horror story I’ve ever heard about sea creatures.
Monsters live among us. The Great Unveiling had taught us that. And many monsters have a place in society.
But certain monsters still have a mystique to them. Certain monsters have yet to integrate.
Because, to them, humans are beneath them.
To them, humans are prey.
The creature groans, a low, desperate sound that resonates in my bones. It’s a sound of pain, not anger, and it cuts through my paralysis.
I step forward, the floorboards creaking under my boots.
His eyes track me, their alien pupils dilating in the dim light. The tentacles around his mouth writhe and twitch as if tasting the air between us. I stop just out of reach, close enough to smell the coppery tang of blood and the salt of the sea, but not close enough to be caught in his grasp. At least, not if he’s as injured as he seems.
“I’m Ashe,” I say, and somehow my voice doesn’t shake. “What should I call you?”
He blinks, his eyes narrowing in what might be surprise or suspicion. Then, slowly, he opens his mouth, revealing rows of sharp teeth. “R-Roark.”
His voice is like nothing I’ve ever heard, a deep, sonorous rumble that seems to come from everywhere and nowhere. I swallow hard and force myself to meet his gaze. I’m not sure if he even answered my question or if that was another croak of pain, but I’m going to go with it.
“Nice to meet you, Roark.” I try to keep my tone light, friendly. “I’m the keeper of the lighthouse just up the cliff. You seem to have gotten yourself into a bit of a mess. Would you allow me to help you?”
He stares at me, unblinking. His tentacled mouth twitches again, and this time I can see the muscles in his jaw working as he tries to form words. Finally, he manages a single syllable: “Yesss.” The sibilant hiss lingers in the air, and for a moment, it sounds almost like a threat, a demand. My heart is a caged bird thrashing inside my ribs.
“Okay.” I swallow again. My fingers clench and unclench, and I feel as though the world is shifting around me like the deck of a ship in heavy weather.
It strikes me suddenly, horribly, how this feels. Like some Choose Your Own Adventure book where I’m the idiot who picks the option that leads to me being eaten.
Except here I can’t cheat and turn the pages back.
I take a deep breath and try to steady myself. “I’m going to need you to hold still. Can you do that for me?”
He grunts again, and this time it sounds like assent.
I move carefully, setting my flashlight on a nearby crate so that its beam illuminates the tangle of tentacles and nets. The boathouse is stuffed with fishing gear and old tools, and I thankmy lucky stars that I’m a compulsive organizer. Everything has its place, and I know exactly where to find what I need.
First, a pair of wire cutters. They’re heavy-duty, designed for cutting through steel cables, and they feel reassuringly solid in my hands. I dig further to find the first aid kid, which yields materials to clean and patch up wounds.
I approach him again, setting up the light so I can actually see what I’m dealing with. The netting is a nightmare—twisted and embedded in places, with darker patches that must be blood.
“I’m going to start with this section here,” I say, not sure how much he understands or if he can even respond. That grunt earlier might have been a word, or might have just been pain. His mouth—framed by those smaller tentacles—seems to struggle with forming sounds.
But those eyes are tracking my every move with clear intelligence, so I press on. “Listen, I need to know if I’m causing too much pain. Since talking seems difficult, maybe you could tap once for yes, twice for no?”
He responds by lifting one clawed hand—seemingly the only limb not caught up in netting—and tapping it against the floor. Once. Clear and deliberate.
