Slowly, the lighthouse keeper turned away from this awesome clash of elements, back to the shadowy doorway of his house. Pausing at the threshold, he cautiously gave a sweeping glance at the rocky, forested expanse surrounding his bastion of civilization.

A cold wind passed over him like the hand of a ghost, causing him to shudder. His reverie broken, he swiftly entered the cottage, closing the door quickly, yet carefully enough not to make a sound. Once inside, he began to brew a pot of tea and picked out an Agatha Christie novel he had been meaning to finish. The fire crackling contentedly, the lighthouse keeper sank into his favorite armchair, a book in one hand and a cup of hot tea in the other.

Outside, the trees swayed as if rustled together by a giant, invisible hand. There was something in the air, and the forest had not felt its presence in a long, long time. The trees almost seemed to move, and for a moment, if one watched closely, the forest looked more like an orchard with all the trees in neat lines than a deep, dark forest. The sky flashed as jagged streaks of lightning crackled from the heavens. The window panes in the houses and shops of a nearby village rattled from the thunder, rumbling like distant artillery fire. High above the thick storm clouds, the air churned and swirled above the village—ancient forces were on the move. In front of his fire, the lighthouse keeper smiled: they wouldn’t find it tonight.