Emily Bell
Stories (1/0)
The Water’s Edge
Every night at dusk like clockwork, we would see him come out from the hidden interior of his island. He would leave the shelter of the ancient trees to stand by the water’s edge. Seemingly waiting for something. Sometimes, his eyes even met mine, even for just a second before he looked away again. His mouth was always moving, like he was yelling, or trying to tell us something, but no sound ever reached our ears. We thought he was crazy. For years this continued, we would stand on the shoreline and wait for him to step into the light of the setting sun, like a ritual. And for years we had no idea who he was or what he did until one fateful night when we came across a faded red canoe, docked near the sandy shore of the beach where we grew up. The paint was chipped in several places and the wood itself was rotting away. A cool autumn breeze swept across the field that we have always called home. The setting sun was blocked by an overcast sky well, that and the trees planted on the island that reached for the heavens. Small waves lapped up on the shore, our bare feet just out of reach from its icy grip, the waves extending like glass fingers reaching out for us. We had never seen this boat before. Our two families were the only ones who lived on this side of the lake. Our two little houses stood side by side, barely a few feet away from each other, like they were as good of friends as the families that lived inside them. There were no other houses, let alone any buildings, for miles and neither of us owned any sort of boat.
By Emily Bell5 years ago in Horror