The lighthouse in the distance flickered like the old tapes his grandmother played on her projector, twitching in and out of reality like a child playing with a lightswitch. Every time it came back it seemed to alter a little, gradually twisting into some deformed mockery of a building.
Parts of it jutted out like broken teeth lodged in an apple while others seemed to pulse in place as if something living was merging with brick and mortar. All he knew was that his children had gone inside and they might still be alive if he could find a way to cross the broken rocks and raging ocean where the road had been before all this chaos has begun.
Pulling his daughter's telescope from his pocket, he tried to catch a glimpse of something - anything - that would suggest he wasn't too late to save them. Every window was full of pale hands frantically beating at the glass but none of them were his children.
The figures running around the blaring light at the top weren't even human.
And so he had to concede, either they were dead, trapped inside or they'd now changed beyond his recognition.
And in that moment it was hard to say which felt like a worse fate.
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