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Fog hung thick and heavy, clinging to Alastor’s hair and dampening his nightclothes. The grass was wet between his bare toes, but he wasn’t cold: if anything, he felt too hot, his sweat making his hair stick to the back of his neck and hang limp across his forehead.
He looked around, but the scenery was unfamiliar to him. Spindly trees that resembled grasping hands reached through the fog. The grass reached halfway up his calves, unshorn for several weeks at least, if ever. Alastor picked his way across the landscape carefully, cautious of branches and brambles that loomed out of the twilight like so many searching fingers.
The smell of salt was high in the air; he was near the sea, he realized. Distantly, he could hear the waves crashing against shore, but the sound was far-off and unimportant.
He stumbled forward, soft earth yielding beneath his feet. He should have been fearful, he knew: he was in a strange place, far from home with no recollection of how he had gotten there. Instead, he was oddly calm. He knew where he was going, despite having never visited before. There was something guiding him, calling to him, an unheard voice leading him through the fog.
He was not at all surprised when he came upon a path in the grass. It was nothing more than a narrow dirt track, carved by feet rather than horse or cart. It veered to the left, leading straight over the edge of the cliff. Alastor followed it dreamily, unfeeling of the rocks and pebbles that pricked his bare feet.
The path was even narrower where it clung to the edge of the cliff, nothing more than a glorified goat’s trail. Alastor, who had been afraid of heights since being pushed from a bridge into the water below by his childhood bully at the tender age of nine years old, scaled the trail with not so much as a twitch of discomfort.
It should have taken hours to traverse the hundred foot drop, but somehow, his feet were landing in the sea-smoothed rocks of the beach only seconds later. He was not fatigued; if anything, reaching the beach had only energized him. He took off at a brisk pace, the stones clicking as they tumbled together beneath his heels. To his right, he could sense the sea, vast and endless in the twilight. To his left, the cliff. He knew that without the path, it would be impossible to scale - he also knew that if he were to turn and look, the path would be gone, vanished without a trace. He was trapped on the beach, for better or worse. That knowledge did not scare him.
His breath was coming in pants as he struggled across the rocky shore, nearly losing his footing more than once. The stones were slippery, slimy with some sort of algae and the spray of the sea, but he did not stop. If anything, he pushed himself faster, jogging across the rough terrain and clawing himself to his feet when he stumbled.
It felt like an eternity, but eventually he reached the end of the beach. The cliff loomed ahead of him, cutting him off at a ninety degree angle and jutting out into the sea like an immense broken dagger. Alastor approached, feeling the enormity of the bedrock before him like a living thing. He was tiny in comparison, no more significant than an ant being crushed by the boot of a giant.
And yet.
Something wanted him here. Something had called to him - for him - and had enticed him onto the beach. Perhaps he was insignificant when compared to the jagged jut of the cliff or roar of the ocean, but not so to whatever had summoned him.
Absently, he turned and faced the sea. Waves were rolling across the beach, snatching up small stones and stray debris and sucking it out into the wake, only to regurgitate it back up moments later. An endless cycle of push and pull, and for a moment Alastor was transfixed by the sight.
Come to me, something whispered in his mind. No, not whispered - transmitted. It was not speaking, or at least not in any language he knew, and yet, he could feel its cajoling eagerness pulling at his skin; his flesh; the very marrow of his bones, coaxing him towards the sea. Come to me.
Alastor started forward, walking towards the surf in a trance. The water was chilly when it touched his bare toes, but he hardly felt it. He continued out into the water, the undertow pulling at his clothes as his feet sank into the gritty sand. Step by step, he submerged himself, until he was chest-deep in the frigid wake.
Only then did he turn to regard the sharp jetty of the cliff, wary for the first time. The rock was as black as obsidian in the dark of the moonless night, the damp air making the stone shine oily black.
The current surged around him, gently pushing him towards the rocks. He stumbled forward, almost falling into the water, but managed to catch himself. He righted himself shakily and followed the flow of the current as it tugged at his legs and torso, swirling his nightclothes around him beneath the water. After a few moments he could make out an irregularity in the rock: a darker crevice hidden amongst the shadowy crags and crannies, barely perceptible in the fog.
Alastor allowed himself to be led towards it. A moment later, his feet were touching stone instead of sand, and he was rising out of the water and up onto the rocks. He was soaked to the bone, but somehow unchilled. He scaled the jagged rocks carefully, mindful of their sharp edges against his hands and feet. He was so absorbed in the task that he didn’t realize he had made it to the cave entrance until he was standing just inside of it.
He looked into the cave, and for the first time, a prickle of fear whispered across the back of his neck. The fine hairs there stood on end, dragging his skin into a ripple of goosebumps. He shivered, but not from the cold: there was something in that cave, something that made every mammalian instinct he possessed want to flee, want to cower and hide and hope that it would be enough to save his meager scrap of a life.
Alastor stepped back on instinct, disquiet rising within him. His eyes could make out nothing but darkness before him, a deep black pit threatening to swallow him whole.
Come to me, something murmured from within the pit. Come to me.
Alastor’s heart leapt in his throat, hammering so hard he could feel his pulse on the back of his tongue. A breeze was rising from the cave, whispering across his skin and ruffling his hair. Something was coming, coming for him, and he knew it would not stop until it got its due.
He wanted to run, but he was frozen on the spot as the sensations around him crescendoed. As quickly as it started, it all stopped: the breeze cut off abruptly, and with startling clarity, Alastor realized that whatever occupied the cave was standing right in front of him. He squeezed his eyes shut, and waited for whatever came next.
Come to me.
•
Alastor awoke with a start.
He gasped and sat upright in his bed, his heart slamming against his ribs painfully. His hair and nightshirt were plastered to his body with sweat, sticking to his skin uncomfortably. His vision was blurry, his glasses still in their usual nightly spot on the side table. Distantly, a ship’s horn blared, reminding him of where he was and grounding him back in reality with a soul-shaking thud.
With shaking fingers, he reached across his bed to his nightstand and lit his oil lamp. Soft light jumped across the walls, illuminating his barren living quarters. He glanced at the window, and saw that dawn was only just beginning to grace the horizon. The sky was a deep twilight blue, not yet streaked with the first vestiges of pink and gold.
Alastor shivered, his sweat beginning to dry on his skin. He tossed aside his quilt and stood from his bed, ignoring the way that the dancing shadows on the walls sent a wave of uneasiness through him. It had been a nightmare, that was all: he was no longer a foolish boy that could be scared by such things. Even now, as he crossed his room to the dresser where a chipped basin filled with cold water sat, the memories of the dream were fading away.
Despite his assurances to himself, and the firm acknowledgement that he was being foolish (if not entirely juvenile), he made haste in washing his face and wetting his hair. He dried his face with his small towel in two quick strokes, unwilling to allow his eyes to be closed for more than those few seconds, sure that when he opened them again, some horrid creature would be standing before him, ready to wrest his head from his shoulders, to tear into him and slake its appetite upon his flesh…
Enough.
He shook his head, clearing it of his horrible imaginings, and tossed the towel aside. Fourteen men had died by his hand, and yet, here he was, trembling like a boy because of a bad dream. He raked a hand through his hair and walked over to the window, plucking up his glasses as he went.
Alastor looked out over the sea, observing the waves that reflected the lightening blue of the sky. In a few moments, the sun would crest the horizon, turning the world into a glory of pink and gold and violet, but for now, all was calm. The ever-revolving three hundred pound Fresnel lens on the floor above him sent out its bright pulse of light at five second intervals, as it was designed to. In an hour or so, he would need to rewind the mechanism that rotated it, but for now, he could allow himself to slowly relax as the burgeoning daylight chased away the demons of his dreams.
Sighing, Alastor turned away from the window. He dressed quickly and exited his bedroom onto the narrow landing just outside his door. Above, he could hear the soft whoosh-whoosh-whoosh of the lighthouse’s lens turning in its vat of mercury. He glanced over the railing, noting that the pulleys were almost in position to rewind. Still, he had time for his morning coffee, and quickly descended the spiral staircase mounted into the brick and plaster that made up the hollow shaft of the lighthouse.
The lighthouse was over fifty feet tall, with five floors: the living quarters, storage, and kitchen, as well as the watch room and lantern room above. Though there was room enough for two or even three keepers, Alastor was the only resident, which suited him just as well. When he was given the keys to the lighthouse, the owner had apologetically explained that he was trying to find another keeper, but Alastor had waved him off, assuring the man that he preferred solitude. It allowed him to work, he explained, though he was quite sure that the owner assumed that Alastor’s “work” was writing a novel, or perhaps tinkering with his radios.
The old man never could have guessed that his employee was a cannibalistic serial killer, who had selected the rough waters below as his newest burial ground.
Alastor hummed merrily to himself as he made his way down the spiral staircase to the kitchen below. He brewed his coffee and made himself some toast, then headed back upstairs, all the way up to the watch room. He watched the sun rise as he nibbled his toast and sipped his coffee, the last remnants of uneasiness melting away as if they had never been there at all.
By the time he reset the pulleys to start the light spinning again, he had forgotten all about his dream.
•
Thunder crashed and the wind howled, a summer storm raging across the coastline that Alastor now called home.
Alastor dozed in the rocking chair he had moved up into the watch room, a book clutched loosely in his hand. He doubted he would be able to see any ships in the driving rain, but it was still his job (however much of a cover for his more… self-indulgent activities it may have been) and he was determined to do it. His radio droned on in the corner, the broadcaster announcing that the storm that raged outside the walls of the lighthouse would continue to terrorize the coast for the next two days.
That should be me, Alastor thought as he rocked and dozed, dozed and rocked. In fact, it had been him, once upon a time. He had been one of the most prolific radio hosts in New Orleans, made all the more popular by the stock market crash of ‘29. People were starved for more than just food - they needed entertainment, and Alastor was happy to provide. He had risen from a humble three-hour show host to being the most popular man on the network dazzlingly fast, but, with fame came intrigue, and soon enough he had more eyes on him than he had cared for. When the police began to truly crack down on the ‘Bayou Butcher’ case, he had known it was time to leave.
So, he had packed his bags and left, skirting along the eastern coast for nearly three weeks before coming across the job posting at the lighthouse. It had been as good a place as any to wait out the investigation, until he could return to Louisiana and make a name for himself once more. Soon enough he would be able to set his sights towards home.
Alastor’s thoughts grew hazy as he contemplated it, his doze turning towards true sleep. The book slipped through his fingers and fell to the floor with a soft, unheard thunk. Slowly, the rocking chair came to a halt, the gentle creaking of the wood silenced as he fell into his dreams.
They were confusing, muddled things, filled with shadows and whispers in the dark. An intense longing filled him, a feeling more profound than anything he had ever known. Something was calling for him - reaching for him - and he wanted nothing more than to reach back, every fiber of his being urging him to seek out whatever desired him so.
Though still lost to his dreams, his eyes opened, and he sat up in his chair.
His dreams coalesced, and suddenly, he found himself running through shadows (or was he swimming?), his heart beating faster and faster the closer he got to his destination. Something was encouraging him, praising him for his vigour and earnestness.
Alastor’s sleeping body stood up and turned towards the door, and the stairs that lay just beyond. He shuffled forward and pushed open the door listlessly, then began to descend, his footfalls silent on the metal grating.
In his dream, whatever being that was compelling him led him through the soupy fog, its excitement palpable. Alastor found himself grinning along, pleased to be pleasing.
He did not wake as he opened the main door of the lighthouse and stepped forth into the driving rain. His skin immediately erupted into goosebumps, but he didn’t feel the icy deluge, nor the wet grass beneath his feet as he made his way across the hilltop. His eyes were open, pupils blown wide with sleep, but still, he did not see.
As the creature seducing him frolicked with him through the fog in his dreams, Alastor’s sleeping body approached the cliff’s edge, and the treacherous footpath that would lead him down to the water below. He traversed it without hesitation, heedless of the hundred foot drop and the ripping winds as he picked his way down the side of the cliff.
The smooth stones that made up the beach at the bottom were slick with rain and seawater. The surf pounded against the shore, seaspray arching twenty feet high as it hit the jetty of rock jutting out into the water. Alastor dreamily meandered across the beach, his bare, muddy feet causing him to slip and stumble more than once. When he reached the water, he stepped into it without hesitation, the waves swelling around his body and tugging him out to sea like an eager lover.
Within his dream, he stopped and turned, cocking his head as if hearing a distant noise. The creature called to him, urging him to it, but he pulled away, suddenly disgruntled. He was drifting up into consciousness, the fog receding around him as he began to wake.
With a gasp, he jolted into awareness and found himself chest-deep in the turbulent surf. He cried out and stumbled, almost losing his footing in the loose sand. His arm flew out and he caught himself on the rough rocks before him. God, what was he doing?
Alastor glanced around wildly, and saw that he was far out from shore, the beach nothing more than a hazy strip of black that he could barely see through the rain. He was at the jetty, the great jut of bedrock rising above him.
Sleepwalking, I was sleepwalking, he thought, just before a wave suddenly slammed into his side, driving him against the rocks. He had to get back to shore and out of the water, had to somehow make his way up to the lighthouse where he could get warm and dry. He was soaked to the bone, shivering from the cold, his hair plastered to his face and his glasses fogged.
He turned, intent on picking his way along the rockface back to shore, but something stopped him in his tracks. The back of his neck tingled, the shaven hair there rising. Slowly, he turned to look over his shoulder, uneasiness rising within him.
There, half-hidden among the rocks, was the entrance to what looked to be a cave. Perhaps he could hole up there for a while, at least until the storm passed, then he could-
Alastor shook his head at his own foolishness, surprised that the thought had even crossed his mind. He needed to get back to the lighthouse, where it was warm and he could change into some dry clothes.
Where it’s safe.
He started forward once more, then stopped. Indecision seized him. The lighthouse, or the cave? He knew it was absurd to even consider choosing the cave, but part of him wanted to go in there. Why, he didn’t know, but something was stirring deep in his subconscious, urging him to retreat into the crevice in the rock.
Regardless, he needed to get out of the water, and soon. Against his better judgement, he started forward, clawing his way up the side of the jetty. The jagged rocks were murder on his bare feet, but he managed, dragging himself up out of the water and onto shore.
He stumbled, the wind and rain throwing him off balance, but was able to make his way over to the entrance in the rock. With one last glance towards the beach (and one last brief thought of ‘what on earth am I doing?’) he turned and stepped into the blackness of the cavern.
Surprisingly, the air of the cave was humid and warm, entirely unlike the chilled wind howling outside. Alastor’s arms rashed with goosebumps nonetheless, his wet skin crawling as he slowly crept forward. There was something about this place; something dark and incomprehensible. Every rational thought he had urged him to turn and flee, but rationality was slowly losing its grip - something else was taking over, clouding his mind and making the desire to venture further root deep within him.
He continued on, ignoring how his heart crawled into his throat and settled there.
The walls of the cave were dripping with condensation, creating slick patches of scum that Alastor tried not to think about as his fingers slipped through them. Beneath his feet was much the same: his bare toes squelched as he stepped through unseen puddles of muck and slime. He grimaced as his feet slipped across the rock, sending him teetering into an ankle-deep pool of stagnant water. He could only pray that there was nothing venomous lurking within the puddles, waiting to bite or sting him and send him to an agonizing death.
Why the hell am I doing this? He thought more than once as he traversed deeper. Nothing about his actions was logical, or even sane, but every time he hesitated, the urge to turn back rising within him, something reached out, petting along his subconscious and compelling him forward. Something wanted him here, and despite his better instincts and the fear dancing along his spine, he was unable to resist the call.
Alastor lost all sense of time as he wandered through the cave, his feet sore and back aching from where he had needed to stoop in places to pass beneath the low ceiling. The deeper he went, the more reality slipped from him. He swore he heard voices whispering in the unforgiving darkness, and tittering laughter amongst the constant dripping water.
Twice he foundered, tripping over unseen rocks in the dark. The second time, he reached his wits end, ready to brave the icy sea outside and make his way back to the lighthouse.
I cannot go further, he thought, fear and frustration gripping him. To hell with this.
He splayed his arms wide and began to turn, pivoting as he tried to feel for the cave wall to find his way back, when his feet suddenly flew out from under him.
His shriek of surprise and terror rang through the cave, echoing off the walls and reverberating around him as he landed hard on his side and began to slide. Alastor’s hands flew out, grasping desperately for purchase, but the cave floor was too slick, the rock too smooth.
In the endless darkness, he had not realized that the stone beneath him had started to slope downwards. He was being carried helplessly along it, like some hellish slip-n’-slide. The smell of stagnant saltwater, rotting aquatic plants and decay was stronger on the ground, making him gag as he flipped onto his belly and tried to slow his momentum. His shirt rucked up to his chest, and he couldn’t help but let out a shout of disgust as slippery algae coated his front.
His shout pitched into a shrill shriek as his legs suddenly dropped into open air, his torso being dragged behind. The breath was punched from his lungs as his diaphragm struck the side of the ledge. His fingers scrabbled madly across the floor of the cave, but there was nothing he could do: he had a brief vision of his own body laying crumpled and broken at the bottom of some pit, never to be found except by the creatures that came to feast upon his remains.
The thought was cut off abruptly as he came to a jarring halt. His teeth clacked over his tongue and the taste of copper flooded his mouth. His foot struck something hard, sending pain lancing up his calf, and his belly and back seared from the abrasions that the rough rock had left behind. As quickly as he had begun falling, he stopped, stuck fast in what seemed to be a hole in the rock.
Alastor wheezed out a breath, hot blood spilling down his chin. He took a moment to assess, trying to get his wits about him. His left leg was dangling, hanging into whatever abyss lay below. His right was folded upwards, his foot firmly wedged between two rocks and aching fiercely. His ass was just barely perched on a small ledge of rock, blessedly taking the weight off of his injured ankle (sprained, he hoped, and not broken). His shoulders, arms, and head were above ground, his chest and back firmly wedged into whatever hole he had fallen into, the stone pressing against him from all sides.
Claustrophobia rose within him, and Alastor tried to set it aside. Now was not the time to panic. He had a foothold, and the hole was narrow: if he could fall in, surely he could climb out.
He reached out, flexing his fingers across the ground in search of something he could grasp. His hand curled around a rounded piece of stone sticking up from the cave floor. He gave it a firm tug, ensuring that it was indeed secure, then pulled, trying to drag himself up over the ledge.
The lacerations across his chest screamed in protest, but still, Alastor persisted, flexing his right foot and trying to find purchase between the rocks despite the pain. He tried to leverage himself upwards, wiggling and squirming, huffing in the dank, humid air. If he could just find a little more anchorage, or perhaps swing his other leg up to-
He froze, his heart stalling in his chest. Every hair on his body stood on end, and despite his inability to see, his eyes went wide, bugging out of his head in terror.
Something had touched him.
Something had brushed his ankle that was hanging in the open air, just barely ghosting across his skin.
Rock, I must have touched the rock without realizing, he told himself. His heart hammered in his chest, his breath coming in wheezy, shrill little puffs that he found he couldn't control.
Yes, it must have been the rock. Only, it hadn’t felt like rock: it had been smooth, spongy, warm…
Get a fucking grip. There’s nothing here but you. As much as he tried to reassure himself, Alastor was still trembling, his pulse racing rabbit-fast.
He took a breath and began to struggle with renewed fervor, wriggling and twisting to try to dislodge himself from the tight squeeze of the stone around him. He made it up a few inches, the widest part of his chest just beginning to slip through…
Something touched his ankle again, but this time it did not whisper against his skin - it seized him, wrapping around his leg in a crushing embrace and yanking him back down to where he started.
Alastor screamed, the sound deafening as it ricocheted back into his own ears. Blind animal panic overtook him and he writhed, his nails catching across the stone of the cave floor as he tried to claw his way back out of the hole. Whatever had him was dragging him down, rucking his shirt up around his ears as he was forced into the too-tight space.
Realizing that his mad scrambling was fruitless, Alastor locked his elbows against the lip of the hole, spreading them wide on either side of his chest in an effort to make himself too large to fit through. He groaned as whatever had latched onto his ankle gave a tug, the pain of his overwrought muscles burning all the way up to his hip. An image rose unbidden to his mind: the alligators from the bayous back home, death rolling until the limbs of their victims popped neatly off at the joint.
No, please God, please God, please.
For several tense seconds it seemed as if whatever had him was going to win - his arms were trembling, the pain in his shoulders and left leg so immense that white sparks popped in his vision. Then, as suddenly as it had come, the pressure on his ankle ceased.
A pulse of something flowed through the cave. Calm, warming energy overtook him, halting his fruitless struggles. Alastor panted, his own sweat stinging as it trickled down his lacerated back. Blood was tacky on his chin, and every muscle he possessed was tense and cramping painfully.
Calm yourself, something seemed to urge, but it wasn’t truly speaking - or, at least, not in any comprehensible way that Alastor could understand. It was more of a sensation, an emotion, piercing deep into his psyche and willing his stuttering heart to slow, and his straining, jittery limbs to relax.
Whatever surrounded him pushed its understanding onto Alastor, making him realize that it had underestimated his fragility, and had been overeager in its introduction. It was not apologetic or regretful; only acknowledging its mistake. Alastor squirmed, the bizarre sensation of being looked into and having something else’s emotions and rationality deposited in his head giving him a dizzying sense of vertigo.
He didn’t bother attempting to mask his sob of fear and despair, wanting this terrible nightmare to end. He wished more than anything to be back in his bed - his real bed, in the bayou, a million miles away from the lighthouse and the cave and whatever unimaginable horror was holding him hostage.
Please, Alastor prayed, his trembling lips unable to form the words. He didn’t know what he was pleading to: God, or the creature that had him in its clutches. Please.
Whatever had gripped his ankle before now returned, tentatively brushing against him. Alastor flinched, trying to retract his leg, but it held fast. Its grip wasn’t demanding as it had been before; only curious as it crept up his calf, prodding gently as it scoped him out. The sensation was like that of a snake slithering over his skin, and he shivered hard.
Like the tentacle of an octopus.
Whatever was with him continued to send out pulses of calm and comfort, though there was curiosity interlaced as well. A second… whatever the limbs were joined the first, tweaking at his toes and tickling along the underside of his bare foot, making him jump. It was smaller than the original appendage, wriggling and warm as it dipped between his toes, making them flex involuntarily.
The first, larger tentacle was at his knee, coiled along the length of his leg like an unyielding stretch of rope. The entirety of it squeezed, clamping down momentarily on his leg, as if testing the give of the muscle, sinew and bone beneath. Alastor sucked in a breath, sure that it was about to crush his leg and leave him lame (and unable to get away, his mind unhelpfully supplied), but the tendril released the sudden pressure and moved on, the wide, blunt tip of it nudging curiously against his thigh.
Something tapped the back of his hand where it was still balled into a trembling fist. A guttural sound flew past Alastor’s lips - not quite a yell - and his heart leapt, but it was only another tendril, brushing against his knuckles before coiling around his wrist. Reassuring, almost. Or trying to be, anyway: Alastor was still shaking badly, his heart hammering in his chest.
The creature, whatever it was, continued on, several more appendages manifesting from seemingly nowhere to stroke and poke along his skin. His shoulders, his arms, his legs; the smaller ones even wriggled into the spaces between the rock, skimming across his back and chest, dipping down the curve of his spine. One ruffled through his hair, and another tentatively traced the frame of his glasses, before deftly plucking them from his face. Alastor made a protesting sound at that, but the creature paid him to mind.
The first tendril that had touched him was still the largest, and was now wound around his torso. As thick as a python, it curled up and around his belly and back, the blunt head of it resting between his pectorals, directly over the fluttering beat of his heart. It shifted, and Alastor released a strangled gasp when it brushed against his nipple.
At the sound, all the tentacles simultaneously froze. Then, as if assuring itself that what it heard was correct, the appendage laying across his chest moved once more, stroking across his nipple like an overlarge thumb. Alastor shivered, horrified by his own sensitivity. He had heard the jokes and crass stories - men at the docks and pubs laughing loudly about women’s breasts, and their nipples in particular - but he never imagined that his may be the same.
The creature seemed to revel in his reactions. It flicked across his nipple more insistently, tweaking the rapidly-hardening bud as Alastor squirmed and weakly protested. The other tendrils joined in with renewed vigour, exploring his body with an excited air that he didn’t know if he should be relieved by or fearful of.
Alastor was overwhelmed, panting into the muggy blackness of the cave. He no longer thought that the creature wished to do him harm - or, at least, not at that exact moment - but he wasn’t exactly comfortable. A piece of rock was digging into his lower back harshly, and the foot that was dangling was beginning to grow numb. His shoulders and arms were weak and wobbly with overuse. He could only pray that the creature would eventually explore its fill, and retract back into the darkness so that he could escape.
He refused to contemplate the other possibilities of what could happen when the being eventually grew bored of him.
For now though, it seemed to be excited; elated, even. Tendrils skimmed beneath the cuffs of his sleeping pants, tearing the fabric with a loud ripping noise and making Alastor wince. The one wound in his hair gathered up a thick lock and tugged, making him gasp out loud and sending sparks zipping down his spine. Everything was too much all at once: too much stimulation, too many confused emotions and sensations, and Alastor’s head was spinning, his body trembling as he was stroked and touched and plucked at.
The thick tendril at his chest swapped to the other side, scrubbing over his untouched nipple demandingly. Something dangerously close to a whimper fell from Alastor’s lips. His mouth hung open as he sucked in the dense air of the cavern, and he startled when a small tentacle gently flicked across his bottom lip.
He snapped his mouth shut, a small wave of revulsion sweeping through him. He had no idea what these things were - what if they were dirty, or noxious, or disgusting? Poisonous, even? He tried to turn his head away as the tip of the tendril prodded at the seam of his lips insistently, the unknown force around him cooing reassurance. The tendril in his hair held him still, and from one second to the next, the slim tip of the appendage at his lips slipped inside.
Alastor reared back, bracing himself for a foul taste, but when the tentacle touched his tongue, it was surprisingly… sweet. Earthy and tart, yes, but there was a lingering saccharine taste, like honey fresh from the comb. Without even realizing what he was doing, Alastor gave a curious suck, trying to place the odd flavour. The tendril flexed in his mouth, pushing in deeper, and he could feel the creature’s pleased purr surround him.
A blot of wetness spurted across his tongue, startling him. The substance was sweeter than the tentacle itself; viscous and warm, coating the back of his throat as he instinctively swallowed. The creature gave another pleased rumble, its tentacles undulating across Alastor’s body.
There were so many, it was hard to keep track of them all. They were warm and smooth, stimulating Alastor to the point of overwhelm, caressing his arms and legs and throat; smoothing across his chest and back; wrapping around his wrists and ankles. A second had joined the first at his nipples, drawing the buds into sharp peaks and stroking and tweaking them to the point of soreness. He flinched as two small tendrils wound between the toes of each foot, the ticklishness making him squirm. He could feel a large, thick tentacle creeping up his thigh, and another across his hip, and with a gasp he realized he was hard, his cock tenting the front of his pyjama pants in a way that made him blush helplessly.
Alastor’s moan of shocked pleasure was humiliatingly loud in the stifling, confined space of the cave. It reverberated off the rocks and rang in his own ears as a tentacle pressed itself to the bottom of his shaft and shifted upwards, tracing across his clothed cock curiously. He tried to press his hips back and away, but he was trapped by the rock at his back, a sharp shard digging into his tailbone painfully. He was forced to simply sit there, panting and flustered, as the creature mapped out his cock through his trousers.
Around him, he could sense the creature growing excited. More than simply curious, it was now enthused as it played him like a fiddle, delighting in each reaction it drew from Alastor’s body.
He shuddered at the thought, though not entirely in revulsion.
He choked on the tentacle in his mouth as the one at his cock reached the tip, circling it through his pants with firm pressure that sent sparks skittering up his spine. The one in his mouth flexed in response, the tip flicking upwards against his teeth and the inside of his cheek. A tendril came up to stroke the side of his throat, an almost tender gesture, before gently wrapping around it and tipping his head back. He moaned again, quieter now, as the one at his cock flicked against the spongy head, drawing out a thick bead of precum that dampened his pyjama bottoms.
Two of the smooth appendages circled around his waist and over his hips, dipping beneath the cotton fabric of his pants before splaying outwards, tearing them off of his body with a startling ripping noise. Alastor jumped, pulled from the haze that seemed to be clouding his mind, but just as he started to squirm another blurt of honeyed fluid poured from the tentacle in his mouth.
He swallowed it down, his eyes crossing and fluttering shut as pleasure filled his veins. Why was he trying to fight it? He was warm, and safe - the creature was purring approvingly all around him, filling his head with a pleased buzz.
He moaned around the tentacle in his mouth as the one that had been exploring his cock dove back in, eagerly flicking over every inch of exposed skin it could find. It wrapped around the length of his shaft, three coils that covered him completely, and undulated: not quite pumping his cock, but flexing and writhing around it. Alastor thrashed, his hips bucking forward into the stimulation instinctively.
Two longer tendrils coiled down Alastor’s arms in a similar fashion. They curled over his shoulders to wrap around them from bicep to wrist, leaving no part of him bereft. Without warning, his arms were yanked above his head, the blessed relief of pressure from his shoulders and elbows enough to make him cry out. The creature hoisted him up - not enough to lift him entirely from the hole he had fallen into, but enough to stretch his body into one long curve, showing off his heaving chest and flexing abdomen. His shirt was still rucked up beneath his chin, leaving the sweat-soaked skin of his torso bare for the creature to fondle at its leisure.
The tendril continued to work his cock all the while, shifting and writhing in rhythmless waves. The appendage was becoming slippery with Alastor’s precum, creating a wet glide that made him whimper helplessly. Despite being unable to see, Alastor squeezed his eyes tightly shut. He brought his knees up and spread them as much as he was able, notching them against the rock to gain enough leverage to rock his hips up into the slick coils wrapped around his cock.
His orgasm was sudden and blinding, making him cry out in surprise as much as pleasure. His head lolled back, cradled by the tendril caressing his throat as he rode out wave after wave of pleasure, thick strands of cum coating the dexterous appendage working over his cock.
Alastor shuddered in overstimulation as the creature continued to stroke him, thrashing against the tendrils holding him. Luckily, the creature seemed to understand, the tentacle unwinding from his softening shaft with a lewd, wet noise that made him blush. He sighed in relief, slumping against the creature’s embrace. He could feel its satisfaction thrumming through the air around him, harmonizing perfectly with his own. Surely now it would let him go, and-
He yelped when the tentacle, slick with his spend and warm with the blood of his arousal, suddenly brushed over him once more. It caressed his soft cock, fondling it for a moment before moving lower, down over Alastor’s balls and to his perineum. Alastor gasped around the tendril still in his mouth, his eyes flying open wide and unseeing as he realized the destination.
The first stroke over his asshole had him flinching away and gurgling out a nervous sound. It wasn’t right - wasn’t decent, he thought wildly as the tentacle retreated, only to return a moment later with renewed vigour. He knew what sorts of activities people got up to - he wasn’t that naive - and knew that this was something some people enjoyed, but he had never dared to try it.
The tentacle stroked over his hole tentatively, and around him, he could feel the creature’s hesitation. It seemed to be contemplating, and Alastor held his breath as he awaited the verdict. Whatever the creature decided to do with him, he would have little say in the matter. He could only hope it would be gentle, and that when it was through with its explorations, it would not simply tear him apart (or, heaven forbid, eat him).
The creature seemed to make up its mind, for the drag of the tentacle across his rim grew more confident. Not forceful, but assertive, and Alastor couldn’t help but warble out a moan at the sensation. The creature was obviously pleased by his reaction. Every tentacle touching his body constricted lightly, giving him an affirming squeeze. The one in his mouth surged, and a gush of thick fluid spewed across Alastor’s tongue. Instinctively, he swallowed it down, and almost instantaneously he was floating once more, his head filling with soft cotton and his eyes drifting closed.
Soft, slick noises were emanating from between his legs, and he hazily realized that the tentacle there was also producing some sort of fluid. He wasn’t sure if it was the same as that in his mouth, but he didn’t much care; he relaxed into the embrace of the creature around him, allowing it to do as it pleased.
The tendril continued to rub at his hole for a few more moments, spreading the lubricious liquid that leaked from its tip. Then, slowly, it nudged against the furled opening, teasing its way inside. Alastor’s brow furrowed with pleasure and he thrashed, the slick back and forth tug at his rim making him whimper. He was so sensitive there, more so than he ever realized, and with startling clarity he suddenly knew that he wanted the tentacle inside, wanted to feel it stretch him out and fill him to the brim, wanted it to fuck him filthy and rough in a way that no man would never be able to match.
As if reading his thoughts, the feeling of the creature’s amusement surged around him. It cooed wordlessly into his mind, promising him all that he desired and more. It was trying to tell Alastor something, trying to make him understand, but he didn’t know what. In apology, he let out a plaintive whine and rocked his hips as much as he was able, welcoming the creature inside him.
The creature accepted the invitation with enthusiasm. The tentacle that had been playing with his rim began to push inside, slow and steady. It was tapered at the head, allowing Alastor to get used to the stretch as it slid in inch by inch, until he thought he would burst from the fullness within him.
Alastor had no sense of time or reality - he could only heave for breath as the creature pushed inside, a relentless pressure unlike anything he had ever felt filling him to the brim, making tears prick at the corners of his eyes. The pleasure was overwhelming, cusped by the slightest twinge of pain that made his toes curl and back arch. Just when he thought he couldn’t take any more, the tentacle stilled within him, all movement across his body halting.
The tentacle in Alastor’s mouth slowly retreated, leaving him gulping greedy lungfuls of air once it departed. He hung like that, suspended in the creature’s many-limbed grip, his ass stuffed to the brim as he waited for whatever came next.
Please, he begged in his mind, his tongue unable to find the words. Need… I need…
There came a low rumble - a real rumble, not just the echo of one in his head - and the tentacle in his ass began to withdraw. Alastor panicked, squirming in the creature’s hold. He hadn’t meant to offend it, he had only wanted it to move, he didn’t mean to-
He cried out, loud and unencumbered as the tentacle in his ass suddenly punched forward, drilling into him and sending him rocking upwards. It withdrew again, just long enough for Alastor to attempt to get his wits about him, before repeating the motion. It set a quick, brutal pace, fucking into him with single-minded determination as Alastor moaned and writhed, his voice ringing from the rocks in a symphony of debauchery.
He knew he ought to be embarrassed by the whorish noises spilling past his lips, but he couldn’t find it within himself to care. Nothing mattered but the tentacle fucking into him, and the creature all around him, purring out its satisfaction into the very marrow of Alastor’s bones.
The slick drag of the tendril over his prostate was enough to have his cock filling out again, the flesh sensitive to the point of pain. He sobbed, hot tears spilling down his cheeks as a smaller appendage coiled around it, giving his throbbing prick a languid tug.
The creature cooed into his mind again, but whatever message it was trying to send was lost on him. Alastor ignored it, too lost in his pleasure to think of anything other than the thick limb drilling into him with sloppy enthusiasm, or the delicious friction against his aching cock. Another orgasm was building hot in his belly, sending an inferno roaring through his veins. He was going to come on the makeshift cock in his ass, he could feel it, he was so close -
Something wide and round pressed to his hole, and Alastor froze. His breath stuttered in his chest, and he opened his eyes, trying to look down between his legs despite being unable to see in the surrounding darkness. There was something in the tentacle, something that was making it bulge slightly. It was pressing insistently at his hole, trying to bully its way past his taut rim.
Alastor made a confused noise, trying to shift away from whatever bizarre thing was about to happen, but the creature held him fast. It purred to him, assuring him of his safety as it caressed him with its many limbs. Warmth and unbridled affection seeping into his psyche through whatever strange bond the creature had formed with him, serving to calm his frazzled nerves, if only marginally.
Alastor gasped, then moaned long and loud as whatever was pressing against him slipped inside. It moved through the cock within him, providing an aching, delicious stretch that sent him keening. He sobbed as the pressure rolled over his prostate, the touch fleeting but enough to make him rock his hips, straining for more.
He choked on air as the orb-like object popped out of the tentacle and settled inside him. It felt like… like…
Like an egg.
Alastor’s cock twitched hard, dribbling precum onto the tentacle coiled around it. It was so filthy, so utterly debauched, but he loved it.
More, more, he chanted in his mind as he hiccuped and sobbed helplessly. The creature rumbled with approval and granted him his request, the swell of the second egg against his ass making Alastor shiver.
After the second, the rest came in quick succession, rolling against Alastor’s prostate and settling into the soft swell of his belly, now rounded into a barely-perceptible convex as his body strained around the tentacle and eggs within him. There were five, he thought, or perhaps six: it was hard to keep track with the pleasure that crashed over him each time another egg was gently pumped inside.
When it was done, the creature’s pleasure and approval was so strong Alastor could feel it down to his bones. Its tentacles stroked over him restlessly, petting across his swollen belly and stroking over his nipples, curving around his throat to hold him safe and secure.
Alastor was completely unmoored, his mind floating in a haze of pleasure. He was so full, impossibly so, but it was so good. When the tentacle in his ass began to move, gently rocking in and out, the moan he released was warbled and broken. He allowed his head to loll back and his body to sag as the creature fucked him, the tentacle around his cock squeezing in rhythmic pulses that made Alastor’s toes curl.
Alastor understood that the creature wanted him to come once more. He nodded blearily, arching his back to welcome the tentacle deeper inside. Despite some part of him wanting to draw out the sensations for as long as possible, he had little choice in the matter: his orgasm was building, the sensation sharp and immediate.
He screamed as his peak crested, his ass clenching hard onto the tentacle that continued to fuck him through it, jostling the eggs within him. His cock twitched hard in the smaller limb’s grip, spurting cum across his heaving belly and chest in thick, pearly ropes.
Tentacles wrapped around Alastor’s torso as he came down from his high, his mind a muddy soup of sensation and half-formed thought. They slid through the spend covering him, spreading it across his body as they stroked over his skin reverently, paying particular attention to where his belly was taut and rounded by the clutch nestled inside him.
There was a word being chanted into his mind, one that took him several moments to decipher. When he did, strong shivers cascaded down his spine, the hair on his arms standing on end.
Mine.
Yes, he thought hazily. Yours.
The creature was pleased. It continued to pet at him, tendrils ruffling his hair and skating across his skin with adoring wonder as Alastor’s eyes slipped closed, sleep rising up to claim him.
•
Two weeks later, the owner of the lighthouse trundled up the lane in his rusted Ford Model A. Alastor met him at the door, and signed the proffered paper that would extend his contract as lighthouse keeper into the autumn and winter with a flourish. The owner tipped his hat and went on his way.
Alastor shut and locked the door behind him, then strode up the iron stairs to his bedroom. He hummed to himself as he walked over to his night table and set his copy of the contract into the top drawer.
Behind him, there came the sound of a splash.
Alastor smiled. He closed the drawer with a snap and turned, making his way over to the ensuite bathroom where the door hung slightly ajar. He peeked in, his smile widening as he caught sight of what lay squirming in his bathtub.
They were nothing more than shadowy amorphous blobs, writhing about in the saltwater he had filled his tub with the night he had birthed them. Seven in total, more than he had assumed from the night they were laid within him. Though possessing no obvious mouth, they were ravenous little beasts, and far more efficient at disposing of Alastor’s prey than dumping the bodies in the water below.
In the back of his mind, the creature cooed its approval.