A Cottage by the Sea
by Mark West
From where he sat, ‘Tea House’ cottage looked perfect.
It was made from reclaimed timber and looked rough around the edges, but somebody had obviously put a lot of time and effort into building it. The roof, grey slate mined locally, looked almost shiny in the sunshine.
Daniel Farris turned from the cottage. His wife, Kris, was wading out into the water, only visible from the chest up. He watched her and smiled.
The trip had been a last minute thing. She’d rung him at work on Tuesday, saying that her meeting on Friday had been cancelled and - if he could get the time off - did he want to go somewhere? They’d spent an hour or so on the Net in the evening, found the cottage and booked it.
The drive hadn’t been too bad - they’d waited until after the rush hour before leaving Gaffney and had cruised by Birmingham on the M6 with barely a hold-up. Finding the cottage had been a bit more difficult.
The directions on the Net had said that it was a couple of miles from Caernarvon, on the northern Wales coast, but had been quite liberal with the truth. He clocked it as twenty-three miles and four of those were on narrow, winding country roads, where wild hedges hung into the road, sheep crossed without regard to safety and the only people they saw were ruddy faced farmers, working in the fields.
Baron’s Cove was at the end of a single track road, the median of which was overgrown with weeds. A small sign was tacked to a fence-post and he almost missed it. But the trek was worth it.
The inlet was affected by the Gulf Stream, meaning that it was warm and so was the water. As they got nearer to the cottage, he spotted several palm trees waving in the breeze. The lane opened into a turning circle, spotted in places with engine oil and the cottage was before them, the sea a shimmering blue haze behind it.
“We’re here,” he said.
Kris smiled and rubbed his leg, her touch cool and soft against his bare skin. “Come on, let’s get sorted. I want to see if the water’s as warm as they say it is.”
“You’re going into the sea?”
“I’m going for a swim.”
As they’d been promised by email, the key was under a mat that said ‘Welcome’. Whilst Kris opened up, Daniel got the holdall out of the boot and carried it into the cottage.
“It’s lovely,” she said, as he closed the door.
And it was. The lounge took up the entire left wing, a small window looking out over the driveway and patio doors looking out to the sea. A wooden deck, made from the same recycled timber, had a patio set and railings. The small kitchen was at the back, a picture window showing the sea. The bathroom and bedroom took up the other side of the cottage, the timber stained dark but still cosy looking.
“Not bad,” he said, after a quick look around.
Kris hugged him and kissed his face repeatedly. “It’s lovely, Daniel, so lovely. We’re going to have a wonderful weekend.”
Their kisses became slower and his hands stroked her back. She pushed gently on his shoulders, smiling. “Come on, I’m really hot and sweaty after the drive. Let’s go into the water.”
“Fair enough,” he said and took the holdall into the bedroom.
He took off his shorts and put on trunks, though he had no intention of swimming - gulf stream or no gulf stream - and watched as Kris stripped off her T-shirt and shorts and pulled on her swimming costume. The sunlight, washing through the window, was coloured by the timber and seeing her naked was almost like looking at someone else, captured forever in a sepia-tint photograph. The light highlighted her breasts, casting part of her belly into shadow.
When she was done, she got a towel and he picked up a paperback and they went out through the patio doors.
The beach was flat, as far as they could see to their right. Three or four cottages were spaced out that way, far enough towards Caernarvon that it was unlikely they’d ever see the occupants.
To the left, the ground rose sharply to a ridge that overlooked the sea, reeds and long grass waving in the slight breeze.
“This is gorgeous, Danny, absolutely gorgeous.”
Daniel looked at his wife, bunching her hair up to put into a scrunchy. “And so are you.”
She laughed and handed him her towel. “I’ll be back,” she said, kissed him and began to pick her way through the pebbles. The tide was in and, even from where he stood, Daniel could see that the water was almost clear - nothing like the sea on the east coast of Britain.
Kris walked to the waters edge and dipped her toes in. She hugged herself and turned to him, laughing. “It’s bloody freezing!” she yelled.
“We’re in Wales, Kris, it’s supposed to be bloody freezing.”
“But what about the gulf stream?”
He held up his paperback. “Why do you think I’m holding this?”
She waved a dismissive hand at him and waded into the water, her arms out for balance and he could hear - even over the waves - her sharp intakes of breath and occasional “fuck, it’s cold,” curses.
He sat on a large rock, laid her towel across his lap and opened his book.
Kris looked into the water. It was incredibly clear here - almost like being in a foreign ocean - and she could see the bed, lumps of rock and the drifting sea-weed. And the occasional crab that moved as it felt the vibrations of her feet.
The water had been cold at first, but now that it was up to her chest she was getting used to it. It was refreshing and the sun felt good, beating down, glittering on the surface, the small whitecaps capturing the light and carrying it towards her.
She turned to the beach, shading her eyes with her hand. Daniel, his book on his lap, waved. She waved back and watched her shadow do the same, the V of her arm rippling and dappled with sunlight.
Then there was another shadow, that looked like a person, moving towards her from her right. Panicked, her heart thudding, she glanced around, certain that no-one had been swimming towards her before.
There was nobody there. She wiped her face and eyes and turned back to the beach, hers the only shadow on the water now.
What had it been? Perhaps a seagull, sweeping in low, that she hadn’t seen or some kind of optical illusion from the sun beating on her head? Maybe she’d just been confused.
She waited for her heartbeat to settle and lowered herself completely into the water, kicking off from the bottom and swimming parallel to the beach.
It was gorgeous out here. There was no road or people noise and all she could hear was her own breathing, the splashing of her arms and legs pushing her on and the gentle shush of the waves. She took a deep breath, dipped her head under and began to crawl.
As soon as her head was immersed in the alien environment, with its heavily muted sounds, she could tell that something was wrong. She risked opening her eyes and just caught a shadow, moving below her, which darted out of the way. It seemed to be about six foot long and moving very quickly.
Fear and panic overtook her and she pulled her head out of the water, coughing and trying to get her footings. She was facing away from the beach, the only thing between her and the horizon a soft blue layer. And God knew what, under the water.
She turned and pushed off, kicking into the crawl, trying to cover the two or three hundred yards between her and the beach as quickly as she could. It got closer, but slowly and with every stroke she was waiting for something to brush against her arms or legs.
What was it? The UK didn’t have any sharks, as far as she knew and surely a dolphin would have broken surface before - where was it now? It could have been a person, but wouldn’t she have seen the bubbles from their aqua-lung?
Or maybe she hadn’t seen anything at all. Maybe the shadow on the surface and the one under water were the same thing, a kind of hallucination caused by the hot journey and the sun?
Although that seemed rational, she didn’t slow her stroke, watching the beach get closer with each pull of her arms. Daniel looked up and she saw the look of surprise on his face, at her speed. He stood up, brushed off the seat of his shorts and walked to the waters edge to meet her.
“Hey gorgeous,” he said, the water lapping gently at his shins, “you okay?”
“Power swim,” Kris gasped, trying to keep her breathing under control. She didn’t want to tell him anything, it would only worry him and that wouldn’t make the weekend go any better.
“You sound knackered.”
She stood up and clutched his shoulder and he slid an arm around her waist. “Been a while,” she said, trying to draw a breath, “since I did it.”
“Well, don’t kill yourself before the weekend even starts, will you?”
“No.” She wiped the salt water from her face. “Listen, if I go for a quick bath, shall we see about getting some grub?”
“Yes, of course,” he said and, holding her hand, they began to pick their way through the pebbles.
As they neared the cottage, she looked up and saw someone standing on the ridge. She shielded her eyes but still couldn’t see the person clearly.
Daniel raised his hand in greeting and the person stepped back, out of sight.
“Friendly natives,” he grumbled and pulled open the patio doors for her.
Whilst Kris ran a bath, Daniel made them both a cup of tea. He put hers on the rim of the bath and stood, with his, by the patio doors. The sun was lower, painting the sea in broad, orange brushstrokes and he could see the faint outline of the moon above the ridge.
A gull swooped down into the piles of kelp near the waters edge, stood for a while and then lunged for its evening meal, before taking off again.
He turned to look around the lounge. It was simply furnished, with a sofa, two chairs, a coffee table and a portable TV on a little stand next to the window. Three framed pictures were on the wall, across the chimney breast that held no fire. He stood in front of them - one was a colour print of the Canuris range and another was of a gathering of women dressed in traditional Welsh costume, all of them looking tired and irritable. The centre picture was a woodcut of a schooner, with intricate detail on the masts. Under the picture was a small wooden tablet, the writing tiny and he had to stand on tiptoe to get closer to read it.
‘The schooner Teagus, one of the great ships that carried freight to the Americas, lost off these shores in 1852’.
He frowned. He didn’t know much about shipping or Wales in general, but he would have assumed that most freight was handled out of Cardiff, at the southern tip of the country.
“Are we eating?” Kris called.
He took a sip of tea, examined the ship again and then went into the bathroom. Kris was lying back, a line of bubbles across her belly, a rolled-up flannel functioning as a make-shift pillow. Her red hair, tied back, was damp and strands stuck to her forehead.
He knelt beside the bath and kissed her, dipping his fingers into the water to stroke her belly. “You know, I will never get tired of seeing you naked in a bath.”
She laughed, the sound loud in the wood-panelled room. “You really are a pervert, you know that?”
“It’s one of my defining characteristics,” he said, letting his fingers trail lower in the warm water.
“So you keep saying. But what about eating, what are we going to do?”
He slid his hand out of the water. “I saw a pub on the way down and there’s a load of pamphlets on the coffee table, so perhaps we could see if there’s a local restaurant or something close to the beach.”
“What time is it?”
He looked at his watch. “Just before seven. Why?”
“Why don’t we cook something here? We picked up the stuff for breakfast, why don’t we have some of it now?”
“We can do whatever you want to do, my gorgeous wife.”
“Excellent. I’ll finish up in here and you make a start and then we’ll eat on the patio.”
“Okay. Do you want me to rub your back.”
She tapped the back of his hand lightly. “No, you can’t. We’re going to eat.”
“It never hurts to try, does it?”
She laughed again. “Go on, make a start.”
By the time Daniel had finished up, Kris was sitting on the patio in her dressing gown. The sun was on the horizon, burnishing the sky copper and painting the underside of the few clouds dark pink.
He had somehow managed to time everything to perfection, so he carried two plates with sausages, strips of bacon and sunny-side up eggs out to the patio. Kris had moved the coffee table, set up their drinks on it and a plate with bread.
“This is the life, isn’t it?” she asked, as she ladled one of her bacon strips into a make-shift bacon sandwich.
“It is,” he said, juggling a hot piece of sausage with his tongue. “Coming here was a great idea.”
“We’ll eat this and then go for a wander along the beach, if you want.”
They finished dinner and Kris got dressed while he put the dirty dishes in to soak. He locked the patio doors and they walked down onto the beach. The sun was gone now, taking most of the redness out of the sky, but the full-moon was beginning to glow and the sky was several shades of blue, turquoise moving to navy that faded into black.
They went to the left, keeping at the base of the ridge, on the assumption that since there was no kelp or debris that far up, the tide didn’t reach that far and couldn’t cut them off.
As the late evening turned into night, everything was peaceful. Gulls called to one another, the sea continued its relentless swish against the shore and, occasionally, there was the heavy drone of an aeroplane. Other than that, the only sounds were their conversation and footsteps.
The ridge ran for four or five hundred yards before slipping back down into the fields at road level. There, the beach opened up into a large expanse and at the very limit of Daniel’s vision, he could see headlights on a road and the soft glow of house lights.
Kris took his hand and cuddled against his shoulder, kissing him gently on the neck. “Let’s head back, eh?”
“You getting chilly?”
She rubbed his chest, smiling. “No, but I don’t really want that late a night.”
He kissed her. “Good idea, we can explore more along here tomorrow.”
He looked up and saw someone standing next to the ridge, not moving. He tried to focus on them but, with the glow of the moon and the dark shadow cast by the ridge, he couldn’t. He didn’t know why - it could have been someone from one of the cabins further up the beach - but something seemed odd and out of place about them. Perhaps it was the fact that they were standing still and seemed to be alone.
He and Kris started back the way they’d come. It didn’t seem as if she’d seen the person yet, so he didn’t say anything, but kept his eyes on them as they got closer.
Five steps later and the person stepped back into the ridge’s shadow and he couldn’t see them anymore.
Now what? Did he mention anything or keep quiet? Would the person be waiting for them - to mug or attack - or was it simply another holidaymaker, who didn’t want to see anybody? Anyway, why would a potential mugger be hanging around on a virtually deserted beach? It was hardly an opportunist crime area, was it?
He decided to keep quiet, as they reached the rocks and clambered over them.
The moonlight painted the beach a grey-white and picked out small waves on the sea. The ridge face was cast in shadow, black against the rest of the grey. He couldn’t see anything clearly and certainly couldn’t see anyone, so they walked with Kris on the sea side of the beach.
The last two hundred yards felt, to him, like a half mile as he waited for the person to appear, or for the sound of following footsteps to reach his ears. But nothing happened and soon he could see the faint outline of their cottage.
He didn’t breathe easier until he’d opened the patio door. He closed it firmly once Kris was inside and locked it, clicking on the magnetic locks at the top and bottom of the frame.
“Expecting visitors?” said Kris.
“Not that I’m aware of,” he said and put the keys on the coffee table.
“We’re not in Gaffney now, you know.”
He heard a faint tinge of worry in her voice and wanted to get rid of it, quickly. “No, but it’s better to be safe than sorry, isn’t it?”
“It is,” she said and hugged him. “Hey, Daniel Farris, did I ever tell you how much I love you?”
“Not recently, I don’t think.”
She cupped his buttocks. “Well would you rather I told you, or showed you?”
“Show me, I reckon.”
She kissed him, loudly. “I was so hoping that you were going to say that.”
And he let his wife lead him into the bedroom, enjoyed the look of her body as they undressed and the warmth of it as they entwined on the bed. As their love-making went on, his worries over the person on the beach slipped from his mind.
Daniel woke up.
It took him a while to work out where he was, since the room didn’t look at all familiar. But Kris was sleeping soundly beside him, a hand trailed across his stomach, her left leg over his.
He held his arm up and activated the glowing face of his watch. It was three forty and pale light was coming through a gap in the curtains, painting the bedroom grey.
Gently sliding Kris’ hand off him, he sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing the back of his head and looked around the room. The far wall was bathed in shadow, the wardrobe only barely visible. Then something moved. At first, he wasn’t quite sure what he’d seen, but part of the shadow next to the wardrobe seemed to bulge, as if a person was standing there and had moved their arms or taken a step forward.
He kept watching the same spot but nothing else happened. Imagination, that’s all it was - maybe he had been having a weird dream and it was all coming together now, as some kind of waking night terror.
He got up and left the bedroom, heading for the bathroom.
The smell stopped him.
A bitter, sour smell, like sun baked kelp and rotting fish, that almost made him gag.
Holding his nose, he stepped back into the bedroom and saw the shadow next to the wardrobe bulge again. His fingers groped along the wall and flicked the light switch.
Nothing.
He flicked the switch several more times, hearing the connecting click, but no light came on.
“Shit,” he said, quietly. The fuses blowing was all he needed.
A floorboard creaked and there was a faint slap, like wet flesh pressing against wood. He immediately knew what it was and fear pulled his scalp tight. Someone was in the cottage, at the end of the hall, either in the bathroom or the kitchen.
He leaned against the jamb, looking around in the weak light, trying to remember where everything was. Could he use anything for a weapon? He saw his Timberland boots, lying in front of the wardrobe and steadily made his way over to them. Grabbing one, he worked his way back to the door jamb.
Another floorboard creaked, as if the person was making their way from the kitchen towards the bedroom. Should he stay put and challenge the person when they reached him? That would seem the most logical, but the invader would be at the bedroom then and Kris was still sleeping, unaware of what was going on. If he couldn’t stop them, Kris would have no defence.
Another footstep and he went into the hall, his boot raised, his heart thumping in his chest. “Stop there,” he hissed.
Nothing.
The hall was a silvery grey, moonlight coming through the patio doors and the kitchen window, the right side draped in a shadow that stretched halfway across the floor. He couldn’t see anyone and waited for his heartbeat to return to normal, then cautiously walked to the bathroom door. It was shut, as he’d left it when he went to bed.
A floorboard creaked in the lounge. He whirled around, his back pressing against the wood panelling and he checked each end of the hall. Still, he was alone though the shadows seemed to be getting darker, growing across the floor as if reaching for him.
He licked his dry lips and hissed out a breath quietly, then crossed the hall in a stride. The lounge was deserted, the moonlight bright to his eyes, the sea lit a pale blue.
He wasn’t alone in here.
In the pale wash of moonlight, he could see his arms and the stupid Timberland boot that wasn’t going to do any good at all. The room was alive with shadows that clung to the walls and bulged, as if the whole place was breathing. They swelled against the window, gathered around the chimney breast, covered the sofa and the table - a black mass that shifted like a ship on the ocean.
“Who’s there?” he said.
There was no vocal answer, but he heard more damp footsteps and the smell seemed to rise, even as the shadows breathed towards him. His head was pounding and the muscles in his neck felt tight and pained.
He raised the boot. “Get out of here, get out now.”
The shadows shrunk back, clinging to the walls, leaving the table and sofa lit by the moon.
From the bedroom, he heard Kris stir, say something and roll over in the bed. The shadows pulled back, towards the patio doors, but the dank, dead smell seemed to get worse.
Within a few moments, the lounge was clear - the only shadows were where the moonlight didn’t reach, none of them breathing.
He let his arm drop and realised that it was throbbing with cramp, his fingers filled with pins and needles. He dropped the boot, the sound of its sole hitting the wooden floor loud in his ears.
There was no other sound, only his ragged breathing.
And then he felt a cold, leaden weight drop in his belly. Perhaps half a dozen people were gathered on the beach, in front of the cottage, arms by their sides. With their backs to the moon, he couldn’t see them clearly, but knew they were looking at him.
Slowly, with the horrible realisation that he couldn’t hide now, he walked towards the patio doors.
The people didn’t move and he cupped his hands against the glass, to see better. More people seemed to be coming from further down the beach. No, not from further down but actually from out of the water.
He heard the same, soft footstep behind him and turned quickly. The shadows were back in the room, pulsing and breathing in time with him and every nerve ending in his body seemed to shriek at the fear that was racing through his system.
Kris.
He had to get Kris, get them both out of here.
As he pushed away from the patio doors, the shadow by the coffee table reached for his feet, his own shadow lost in the depths of the darkness that was flowing towards him.
“Kris!” he yelled, “Kris, wake up!”
More wet footsteps, all around him now, closing in with every ebb of the shadows. He ran into the hall and into a shadow that was cast out of the bathroom. It grabbed his ankle - feeling like the slimy cling of kelp - and he went down, winding himself. As he gasped for air, the shadow released its grip and he crawled away, going into the bedroom on all fours.
Kris was by the wardrobe, her arms above her head, her wrists pinned together by a shadow that was distinctly an arm and hand. Another shadow hand covered her face.
In the pale light, he could see more shadow hands running across her body, pawing her legs, belly and breasts.
“Kris?”
With difficulty, she turned her head slightly to face him, her eyes wide with fear, tears brimming over her lower lids.
He heard more wet footsteps behind him and something grabbed his arms and threw him onto the bed. He bounced once and turned, but the shadows were over him, stinking of salt water and decay. Clammy hands pounded his belly and chest and more covered his face.
Kris screamed and he watched as her legs were lifted up. Though she kicked with all her might, she was easily carried out of the room by the shadow people.
Terrified, but angry, he began to fight with a fury, pushing against the shadows that pinned him down, his hands sinking into what felt like soaking wet cloth and kelp. It seemed hopeless, as if each time he managed to push one shadow away, another took its place. But he kept going, not willing to give up, not willing to let these things take his wife from him.
Finally, he pushed away the one that was trying to cover his face and rolled off the bed. He hit the floor and banged into the wardrobe, using the momentum to get to his feet and start to run. The shadows tried to block his way, but he barged forward, bouncing off them and the door jamb and falling into the hall. He kept moving, worried that they’d try to stop him and began to go towards the lounge, before he heard a splash in the bathroom.
He quickly changed direction and slid, in patches of water, through the bathroom door. As he entered, the shadows seemed to fade back into the walls, leaving him and Kris alone.
He dropped to his knees, covering his mouth with his foul smelling hands, a wordless howl running through his shocked throat.
Kris was laying in the bath, wearing a garland of kelp, her eyes wide and glassy, more kelp stuffed into her mouth. Her head was hanging over the end of the bath, her wet hair draped on the bath claw.
It wasn’t possible, this couldn’t happen.
He cradled her head, kissing her cheeks, trying to give her some of his life. He heard the footsteps behind him, felt the chill of the bodies, heard the distant murmur of the sea and the soft shush of the patio door sliding open.
And he wasn’t surprised when the hands touched his shoulder and back and hefted him up and into the bath, laying him on top of his wife and forcing his head under the water, where the brine burned his eyes and lungs and the kelp filled his mouth and throat.
As the sun began its slow rise, chasing away the moonlight, Tea House settled down, its long-term occupants currently sated as they waited for the next sacrifices.
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