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HORROR

ten year old girl with back turned to viewer in waterproof jacket and wellington boots, st

BY EMMA LOUGHRAN

 

I grew up by the sea, on a rugged, weather beaten strip of coastline along the West coast of Ireland. Everyone hears about the towns and mountains of the wild Atlantic way, teeming with thrill seeking tourists each year. But there are plenty of quieter, lesser known villages and hamlets peppered along the shoreline that barely make it onto a map.

This story begins and ends in one of those forgotten places.

 

My Mother died young and I have no memory of her. I only have a mild impression of smiles and the faint smell of Yarrow which, like many hardy wildflowers, grows in abundance in these parts. My father was a fisherman and lived in a small stone cottage atop a cliff by the beach on the outskirts of town. Fairly typical of the area; it had white lime-washed stone walls that were two foot deep and a simple red tin roof dripping with moss. Bordered by a low wrought iron fence, we were surrounded by acres of green fields to our front and nothing but the salty sea to our back.

From my bedroom window I could look out across the bay to the stone beach below and hear the angry waves as they pelted the coast. The bay was carved into the shoreline like a giant sea beast had taken a bite out of the cliff and left a stoney beach in its wake. With nothing between us and the Americas, it provided protection from the biggest of waves and an endless source of entertainment for myself.

 

Days were long and meant for exploring, and thanks to my Dad I was allowed all the freedoms of a child in rural Ireland. He had two simple rules; stay within shouting distance and don’t go into the sea without him. Thankfully his voice travelled surprisingly far when he needed it to. He’d bellow my name from the front door and it would reverberate all the way down the cliff face and across the bay.

 

Dressed in wellies and waterproof and armed with a small fishing net and a pocketful of banana sandwiches, I’d march out the door and down the well worn track towards the beach. I’d search the shore for special shells, rummage through the flotsam and jetsam or dig for pirate treasure. The water often licking at my heels and sucking the stones back into its’ watery depths.

Sometimes my Dad would bury little trinkets or leave messages in a glass bottle for me to find and write the instructions on a carefully drawn treasure map. I’d get so excited every time he’d produce a folded piece of paper from his pocket and hand it to me with a grin.

My Dad would sometimes come down to the beach with me to collect cockles or limpets clinging to the rocks. He had a special way of swiftly levering them off with his pretty shucking knife, the one with the mother of pearl handle. He’d pluck them off the rocks in one fell swoop and cook them up in a stew, later he’d give me the shells to paint. I had a shoebox full of brightly coloured shells under my bed from a hundred satisfying meals.

 

I’d use my little net to catch crabs but always let them go, or I’d try to catch the minnows and sticklebacks that flit amongst the larger pools, though they were often too sly for me. I once got a stickleback stuck in my thumb and ran squealing all the way up to the cottage waving my hand. My Dad had to carefully extract the still squirming fish as I tried and failed to stay still. He kissed my thumb to make it better but couldn’t stifle his chuckles at my comical situation, as they burst out of him like thunder in one of his booming belly laughs. It’s still one of my favourite memories of him. I wish I had more of them.

 

One summers day, equipped with my wee net and already squashed banana sandwiches, I marched down to the shore ready for adventure. From this far down my red capped cottage was no longer in sight, instead I faced the towering cliffs, a dark crag of black stone and dirt pitted with a series of small caves and alcoves that you could only access at low tide. Sometimes we’d find larger fish trapped in the rock-pools after the tidal shift and we’d take them home and roast them on the open fire.

 

Today I was determined to catch a fish for Dad, the tide was out and I had the caverns all to myself. The wet sand sucked at my boots as I entered the nearest cave, my squelching footsteps echoed around the slick walls, creating an offbeat rhythm with the constant beat of a dozen drips. The grey sky reflected off the surface of the rock pools, like puddles of mercury sparkling in the dark. I stared into the nearest one, my silhouette allowing a glimpse into the depths but nothing moved. I dipped my net in and waved it about as if stirring a cauldron but only fished out a clump of purple seaweed.

 

 

I moved deeper into the dark to the next silvery pool and stared in, this time I could see something moving, but it wasn’t a fish. Something swayed and shimmered at the bottom of the pool. I leaned closer for a better look. Was it a Sea Anemone? No they have long tentacles but these were much shorter and wider, and these glittered in the silver light. Maybe they were old coins washed up from an ancient sunken ship.

Excitement brewed in my belly as I scooped my net into the shallow pool and felt something heavy fill it. It was too heavy to lift. I dragged and pulled at the handle with all my might, and after more than a few tries and grunts I managed to dredge the puddle of its’ mysterious contents.

 

I stared down at my newfound bounty. It was the weirdest and most curious thing I’d ever encountered. Overflowing from my small net was a heaping pile of…something. It was as alien as it was beautiful. Now somewhat deflated by its’ exit from the rockpool, I pondered my nets contents. It looked like a pile of iridescent Elven armour, no, a luminous cloak for a queen, no, scales, that’s it. Dark gunmetal grey, mother of pearl scales. Just like Fathers knife. ‘Wait until he sees this, real treasure!’ I yelled triumphantly into the cave, my voice reverberating my excitement back to me in a harmony of echoes.

 

Picking up the handle in both hands, I dragged by plunder inch by inch out of the cave. The pebbles rolled and crashed underneath like marbles, easing my way back towards home. I knew I wouldn’t be able to carry it up the track on my own so I flew up the trail yelling “Dad’! ‘Hurry!’ A flushed and worried face appeared at the door as I shouted between breaths. ‘I found treasure!’ His expression relaxed into a smile as he strolled up the path towards me.

‘I couldn’t carry it because it was too heavy, but I caught it in my net and, and I left it at the bottom of the trail. Quick!’ I said all of this in one breath.

‘What’s all this about treasure’? He said enclosing my hand in his.

‘I found it in the cave! The one with the rock pools. It looks like pearls but they’re dark and flat…wait till you see!’ I leaned backwards and tugged at his hand but he didn’t move. His face had turned the same shade as the sky. Grey. I could see a storm brewing behind his eyes as he stared past me, out to sea. I rarely ever saw my father angry, once when my uncle Mick borrowed his car and returned it the next day with a huge dent in the door. The second was when we he was fixing our iron gate with a welder and he told me not to watch. I peaked out the windows anyway and of course he caught me. That was the only time he ever yelled  and I hoped it would be the last. He had a similar expression now, but this was worse.

 

‘Dad?’ I gave his hand another tug.

‘Huh? No, you stay here. I’ll go and get your net. Don’t move.’ He was using his deeper firm voice so I knew to take it seriously. I reluctantly released his hand and watched as he strode down the path and gradually out of sight. I was so confused. For what felt like an eternity I stood there amongst the wavering grasses and wildflowers, staring at the cliff path and wondering; what could be so terrible about finding treasure?

 

Eventually he reappeared on my horizon with an empty net and a grim expression. His broad shoulders were slumped and his knuckles were white as he gripped the handle tightly in both hands. I could feel tears burn the corners of my eyes as I stared at the now vacant fishing net.

‘Where did it go?’ I blinked back the tears in an effort to be brave.

‘I don’t know.’ He said finally.

‘Are you sure it was still in your net when you left it?’

‘Yes! I’m positive. Who could have taken it so quickly?’ I felt deflated and could barely hold back the tears any longer. The steeliness of my Dad wasn’t helping.

 

He noticed my quivering lip and straightened up. He dropped the net and scooped me up in an all encompassing bear hug. ‘Don’t you worry honey, there’s lots more treasure to be found out there and you’ve your whole life to discover it. Plus you have your old man here to help you out’. He gave me a squeeze and a kiss on the cheek. His moustache tickled my face and I could feel the tears dry right up. Maybe everything was going to be okay after all.

 

We spent the rest of the evening playing boardgames and eating popcorn, it was perfect.

That night after my Dad had tucked me snuggly into bed, I thought of the treasure once again. What was it? Where did it come from? And who would have stolen it? I finally fell into a fitful sleep. I dreamt of things moving in the night, of dark waves crashing against my bed. I felt unknown creatures slithering up the walls and across the ceiling. I dreamt of half a dozen silver, mercury eyes staring at me unblinkingly through the dark. I awake to the sounds of my Dad preparing breakfast in the kitchen next door.

The comforting sounds of water flowing, the kettle boiling, something spitting and frying in the pan, the smell of…fish? Dad never cooks fish for breakfast, every other meal but never breakfast.

I unpeeled my eyes and looked up from my bed, and screamed.

 

My room was full of bones. Fish bones to be exact. Thousands of tiny bones from who knows how many types of fish were arranged into an incredibly elaborate and disturbingly beautiful mosaic, covering every inch of my room from floor to ceiling. The complicated design reminded me of being in a cathedral, or maybe a crypt.

It was what some might call ornate, Baroque even. I was still staring in disbelief when my Dad came crashing into the room, his greasy spatula held high like a weapon. I would have laughed if I weren’t still so awe struck.

 

‘Wha?’ he mumbled, allowing the spatula to fall uselessly by his side.

He looked up at the ceiling and turned a full 360 degrees before looking down at me again.

‘I had bad dreams and when I woke up, it was like this’. I said nervously.

Even my window was intricately adorned, my view of the sea was obscured by a splayed fish skeleton haloed by shells and other tiny bones lined up like sunbeams.

‘Are you okay?’ Dad said, putting a hand reassuringly on my shoulder. I realised I was trembling.

‘I’m okay, I think.’

He did a slow lap of the room, opened and closed my door, checked the window locks, looked under my bed. Everything seemed secure.

‘Come into the kitchen and let’s have some breakfast, we’ll clean this up later.’

I did as I was told.

 

We ate breakfast in complete silence, I barely tasted the eggs and bacon and my Dad chewed each mouthful for about five minutes. Every once a while he’d rise abruptly, scraping his chair harshly on the floor and look into every room, tug at the locks on the doors or furtively glance out a window. He’d then return to his chair with a grunt and resume chewing.

‘You stay in here and play, I’ll go and sort this mess out.’ He said finally, striding into my room and slamming the door shut with a bang.

Dad was on edge for the rest of the day, he’d cycle between silent brooding and playful affection, overcompensating for his former mood. It was exhausting. By the time evening had come around I was overtired and anxious. Dad tucked me up tightly in his bed and sat in the armchair with a steaming cup of coffee.

‘Close your eyes honey, I’ll be here the whole time’. Without too much protesting and under his watchful eyes, I finally fell asleep.

 

I awoke shivering, why was it so cold in here?

Something didn’t feel right, where’s my blanket? Why are my feet wet? I opened my eyes and gasped.

I was standing alone in the water, the waves lapping gently at my ankles. I was in my pyjamas and bare feet, standing out in the surf, all on my own. The whole beach was bathed in hues of blue, turquoise and cyan, the sun was still on her commute to the skies and a storm was looming out at sea. A gull shrieked overhead and I jumped. I rubbed the rising goose pimples on my arms and looked around in bewilderment. Where’s Dad? How did I get here? I looked up towards our cottage for comfort, its red roof just visible above the tufts of grass. ‘Dad?’ I called out but the wind stole my words.

 

I heard a splash behind me, I swung my head around but couldn’t spot the culprit. Scanning the horizon I heard it again, a soft splash just beyond the waves and my line of sight. Probably just a diving gull or fish.’Splash, swish’ There it was again. My breath started to rev up into frantic short gulps. It was getting closer.

 

The water had risen to just above my knees and my numb feet were glued to the ocean floor. In the dim haze of predawn light I spotted a shimmer just ahead in the water. The shimmer began to expand as the waves all round me started to pulse and glow with an otherworldly blue light. I was mesmerised. I’d only seen it once before, plankton. Phosphorescent plankton. I ran my fingers across the waters surface and smiled at the glowing ripples they left behind. Bewitched by the ethereal glow, I forgot about my curious situation as the noise grew closer and closer.

 

‘Splash’ snapped out of my reverie I looked up and spotted a glimmer, a horrible, beautiful shimmer in the water ahead as a dark spiked fin began to rise out of the sea. Like my heart it began to pick up speed, ‘splash, swish’ cutting through the waves and heading straight for me.

Gunmetal grey scales flashed above the water, like a dark knife slicing through the luminous sea. The plankton seemed to sense its’ presence and began to pulse from bright to dark, I wasn’t sure if it was a warning or a celebration. With each brighter flash, the fin grew closer, picking up speed. My teeth started to chatter. The wind blew harder, whipping my hair into a frenzy as the plankton throbbed a drumbeat of doom.

 

Then, over the crest of a neon blue wave, bursting through the froth came the thing.

A long, slinking tentacle erupted from the wave and rose to an impossible height above me, blocking out the sky and fading stars. Inky rivulets ran down it’s sleek body and as horrified as I was, I still marvelled at its pearlescent beauty. Rising higher than the still pulsing waves, defying gravity it floated in the air. It had no head, no face, just an impossibly large spiked torso ending with a long elegant fish tale drifting lazily meer inches above the waters surface.

I stood there with mouth agog, not sure if I should scream or pray. Maybe both?

 

 

Without warning the thing began to writhe and squirm in the air. The tale kicking up froth in my face as it twisted this way and that as if in pain. The spiked scales began to open and close like gills struggling for air, thousands of tiny shining plates fluttering in unison. It made a sound like falling dominoes as the fluttering grew more desperate.

And with that it began to tear apart.

 

In an instant it split in two down the centre, like someone pulling on a loose thread. Strands of shining blue and grey viscera bisected and broke apart before me. It opened like a moist Sarcophagus, two sides hinged together by darkness. A huge gaping gullet like a whale, but instead of teeth it was just never-ending gloom. I stared into the gulf as it loomed over me before leaning down and swallowing me in an eternal embrace. I caught a faint whiff of Yarrow right before I was shrouded in night and life as I knew it, ceased to exist.

 

Dreams of the deep, of waves, of freedom. I swim around continents and through the deepest ravines. I witness the birth of islands and the fall of giants. I dream of bones, thousands of tiny fish bones in delicate patterns. The sounds of my Fathers voice in the distance, his sorrowful cries bleeding in with the wind. It tugs at me like the currents, but seems so distant as I float in the dark. Until one day, I awoke to the feeling of rain on my skin. A sensation that was both foreign and familiar. Welcome and disarming. I glanced around me, I was lying on the shore. On land. A fishing net and the glowing scaled mass were twisted around my bare legs. They were much longer now, The rest of me had aged too now I was fully grown.

 

 

I glanced around the familiar beach, my beach. The tides rolling the pebbles behind me, as the towering cliffs dominate the horizon to my front. My first thought was, Dad. I kicked the tangled mass from my feet and stood up on unsteady legs. I staggered towards the cliffs and clambered up the well worn trail, it was more overgrown now and I was so weak, it took much longer than expected to reach the top. Rocks scraped my bare feet and the rain beat hard on my back but I pushed myself forward. The thought of the welcoming fire and his booming laugh waiting for me at the summit was enough to fuel my desperate climb.

 

I reached the top and gasped. My knees buckled as I wailed into the growing storm. My beautiful red capped cottage was no more. The roof had buckled long ago, the door and windows were gone and a few rusted stakes were all that denoted our little iron fence. All that remained of our home together was the stone walls and my memories. I crawled to my feet in the muck and dragged myself to the now bare doorway and looked inside. Nature and time had taken over the cottage and vandals had broken the rest. The walls were green with moss and the once cosy furniture lay in pieces on the floor. I wept. Like I once rummaged through the flotsam and jetsam on the beach below,  I picked through my now broken memories and wept hot, briny tears.

 

Under a pile of wood and rotting fabric I found a bottle. It was green with mould but I recognised the cork top immediately. I uncorked the dainty vessel and plucked out a tiny note, tea stained by time. In his always careful handwriting I could decipher his last message to me before my vision blurred with tears and I could read no more.

‘I told you not to go into the sea without me. You’re just like your Mother my sweet girl. Finfolk.’

 

Clutching my precious treasure and numbed by cold and grief, I trudged down to the beach once more. The water lapped excitedly at my feet as the gulls cried warnings overhead. I gripped my little bottle and walked up the still gleaming gelatinous mass. I leaned down and embraced it in my arms. I wade into the shallows, allowing it to swallow me whole as it welcomed me back to the briny deep.