Clara stumbled backward, her lantern clattering to the floor of the lighthouse tower. The flame danced wildly, illuminating the walls in a kaleidoscope of madness. Her pulse raced as the voice echoed in her skull, filling her head with words she did not understand, yet somehow felt. Words that dripped of fathomless eons, of monstrous dreams, of eternal sleep broken.
Through the lighthouse window, she watched the massive entity rise higher from the depths. The monster's body was a grotesque mixture of scales, pulsing veins, and strange bioluminescent patterns that shimmered hypnotically. Each movement of its massive limbs churned the sea into a vortex of destruction. Its eyes—those terrible, luminous orbs—focused on the village below, and Clara could almost see reality warping in their unholy glare.
Desperation overtook her. Clara scrambled to the great beacon of the lighthouse, her hands trembling. If she could make the light brighter, perhaps, just perhaps, she could warn the other villages, or even ward off the beast. She fed the flame, the fire roaring up fiercely. The beam sliced through the dark and illuminated the horror in its fullest form: a god of the deep, impossibly ancient, and hideously alive.
The great creature's gaze snapped upward, its eyes locking onto the light—and onto Clara. She had attracted its attention, and the whispering grew deafening, a roar of impossible, soul-shattering knowledge.