based on this post
There is a new rumor, whispered quietly amongst friends and neighbors. A new song sung by the children on the playground. A hushed dare by the teenagers to chase each other onto the beach on stormy evenings.
The first time the large driftwood washes upon the shore, the locals went to take pictures. Amazed by the way such massive trees could be left behind by the waves, dwarfing full grown men into ants. The kids play among the roots and the older teens scrambling to the top.
It vanishes the next storm to show up further down the coast.
Old man Wilbur, who owns the house up on the hill overlooking the beach, swears up and down that he saw a boy tossing the tree back into black expanse of stormy sea. Washing up again moments later to be tossed once more.
It can't be a boy, surely, they say.
But it was smaller than the ant of a man to the tree, says old man Wilbur.
With the next storm, the large tree has been split in half with half a mile of sand between. Crushed almost, but not quiet. Had to be strong to split the tree the way it did.
No one comments on the way the wood looks scorched in places. Or speckled with perfectly circular rings.
Old man Wilbur won't leave the house now.
Little Betsy, the friendly old dame who keeps the lighthouse running, tells the tale of green and white lightning that night. Of horrendous screeching and terrible laughter.
The children all had terrible nightmares that night. Waking in tears to befuddled parents. It's not till later, much later that the gathered parents are able to discuss and find that all their little ones shared the same dream.
It can't be the same, surely it's just a strange coincidence with odd similarities, they say.
The children know, and whisper to each other on the playground.
They all know the song. The one that filled their dreams that night. The children sing, a haunting playground rhyme.
The next time a heavy storm begins to brew, the teenagers dare each other to the beach to see. Something stops them, parents and curfew, well meaning neighbors sending them home, beloved pets demanding attention. A few do make it though.
A boy and two girls. Kim, Beck and Palla, friends since diapers with parents thicker than thieves. They have a camera, to see if they can record the strange happenings of the oversized driftwood.
They leave with a recording of rain and waves, soaked to the bone and not an inkling of how they got home.
They're quiet after that night.
Little Betsy says she saw the teenagers on the beach. Had tried to get a call out to get them off the beach in such terrible weather. They should've known better, living so long on the ocean's shore.
But she remembers four, not three. Two boys, two girls.
She remembers wrong, surely, they say.
There's a new piece of driftwood on the beach. Twice the size of the first. Knotted brambles of roots entwined into something akin to the size of a moderate house. Large branches are still stuck to the trunk and sticking straight up into the air.
Old man Wilbur has decided to move. Says that the ocean isn't safe no more. That the boy is trying to bring something out of the depths.
The children sing their song.
It's two weeks till the next storm. An anxious lull has seeped into the town.
The three teens have regained some of their energy the night of the storm. They disappear with the first roll of thunder, despite the vigilance of their respective parents.
It's not till later that they're found. Sleeping inside the husk of the driftwood that's now several miles up the coast. Uninjured but confused, the three return home with only a dream to their name.
A dream of a boy wanting to play fetch of all things.
Of a song that sounds hauntingly familiar to the one the children sing.
Of a promise they made to something deep beneath the waves.
Don't go to the shore in the storm
Else you'll make a promise you can't keep
The price of mind far too steep
The Deep Ones wish to Play
Let their King keep them at Bay
