flexibeast.space - fiction

'Tis the season

She always found this time of year tedious. The non-stop media coverage of the Old Ones rising from the depths, towering over the rigs, their long calls just above and below the infrasonic threshold conveying a sense of imminent apocalypse .... And then the expressions of confusion, the staccato sounds, and the withdrawal that somehow felt timid.

When it first happened, those present passed rapidly from disbelief to terror to shock, as the surges of adrenalin ended up having nothing to do. There was no global apocalypse, no local horrors - indeed, no destruction at all. The Old Ones simply sunk beneath the waves again without a trace. Subsequent geological investigations of the area showed no significant changes, nothing that might hint at where they had come from, and returned to.

Nobody expected it to happen again at the same time the next year.

The year following that, the region was swarming with military and scientific and tourist operations. The expectation was that there would be something to suggest where the Old Ones might be coming from, but no: they were only present in audiovisual streams and recordings, and after a certain point even that data became rapidly garbled, before becoming mere noise. Those stationed underwater experienced the sensory equivalent, their eyes suddenly having increasing difficulty focusing properly.

That was almost a decade ago.

Now, it was a seasonal phenomenon no more important to most people than any other regular events in the natural world. Of course there were various parties organised each year, and of course there were now religious groups for whom this was the focus of their year, and of course governments kept a wary eye on proceedings, but, overall ...

She sighed, and got up to make another cup of tea.

Fiction Home