There once was a lighthouse built from white stone. It was looked after by an old woman with raisined skin. In the morning she trimmed the wick, refilled the oil when needed, and polished the windows so that the light would shine through. At night she made a fire in the upstairs room where she lived. On occasion she made conversation with the hearth. Isn’t it cozy? she would say. Yes, it is, the hearth would reply. She had dreams often. She dreamt of her granddaughter climbing a tree. She dreamt of the opera, though she had never been. One morning, she looked out and saw great plumes of smoke over the inland town. The smoke was drifting out toward the sea and soon it engulfed the lighthouse. In the smoke the old woman saw the face of a rhino charging with horn borne down to kill. And there was killing. The townsfolk had killed many townsfolk. It had started with a stolen pocket watch. Soon, the mob would arrive at the lighthouse, slashing at each other’s throats while climbing the winding stone steps. They’d step into their blood. They’d leave messages on the walls with their palms. They’d climb and climb.