Something about the inlet of water just down from my house. They call it our inland beach. In summer, it is a popular spot to have a quick dip. Come winter, no-one comes down. Mind you, it is winter and winter brings a cold change. Locals have said, for decades, something strange happens in winter. I have only lived in this house for six months so I don’t know if this strange occurrence is true, but according to locals close to the inlet, we’re in for a rude awakening.
One day, as the winds changed, and we were out reassigning the woodshed, our neighbour, Nate, whistled us over to the fence. He was a middle-age man, father of three, worked in construction. I trusted him. He seemed like he knew his stuff. He warned us of funny business. When we asked for an elaborate reason on this so-called “funny business,” he hesitated.
He looked from side to side then proceeded to lean on his spade, digging further into the ground and leant in. “People have gone for their morning walks and disappeared, once they got closer to the beachfront.”
“That sounds like a joke,” Barry, my older flatmate, joked.
“That’s what ol’ Betsy said too,” Nate said, gesturing to his neighbour. “Betsy was unconvinced like you lot, she went down there, as soon as the winds changed. She never came back.”
“Sounds like the Bermuda Triangle,” I said, with a toothy grin.
“Her Reebok shoes did come back,” Nate said, yanking the spade from out under the hard dirt. “They were found washed up on the beach, with black claw marks.”
“Why is it only winter these strange things happening?” I asked.
“Cooler, knows no-one will harass them,” Nate said. “Don’t go being like Betsy.”
Nate took his spade and walked off down to the side of the house. I watched him look back over his shoulder. He had a look in his eye that suggested he knew what we going to get up too.
We went back inside to get a drink. Barry stood at the end of the bench, left foot crossed over his right, glass of water in his hand. I knew what he was going to do. He was going to make a declaration. I know our other flatmate, Scott, sitting in the chair next to the window, cigarette hanging out of his gob, knew what was about to come out of Barry’s gob.
“I think we should go down,” Barry said.
“You heard what Nate said,” I whispered.
“You trying to say something to us?” Scott asked, turning his head to look at me. Smoke blanketed his presence.
“No,” I stuttered. I just didn’t want to end up like Betsy, somewhere out in the raging torrent of water, decomposing with some animal guarding her body.
“Well then?” Barry said, gulping down his water. “When did he say the winds changed? Winter?” Barry went over to the calendar and scanned it.
“Winter supposedly starts next week. If and when the winds begin, I dunno,” Scott said. “Are we really going to be like Betsy and check out the beachfront?”
“You guys are a bunch of wet blankets! “Barry said, disappearing out of the room.
I shrugged at Scott and shuffled over to the windows that overlooked the road. I could just see Nate in the garden over the fence. Upside to living in a two-story house, can peek onto the neighbours below. Nate looked suspicious. I’ve caught him three times going to the side of the house, peering into the cracks of the foundations of his house. I wonder what’s down there, that’s so important, he has to check up down there, every twenty minutes.
I shrugged off that thought and turned on my heel, disappearing out of the room, to my bedroom. Nate’s information he shared with us, got me thinking. What if the beachfront was a front for something sinister? If we walked out to the letterbox, we could see just the beginning of the beachfront. Trees separated us but listen closely, and you could hear the water entering the inlet from the raging river. The river was neurotic. Some days it was like a lazy river, couldn’t even hear it and you’d forget it even existed and then the other days, you’d hear it on the other side of the town. It was an up and down river. Maybe that’s why the mythical creature that took Betsy, lives in the inlet.
Well, it was about mid-afternoon on a lazy warm Sunday afternoon. The wind was blowing but it wasn’t winter yet, maybe this was the last summery/autumn blow before the action begins. Anyway, I thought why don’t I just go down to beachfront and get the feel of it before we actually do the deed. It was a good thought in my head.
I put my shoes on, told the boys I was heading out. I walked out the front door and stood on the landing while I adjusted the earbuds in my ears. I just happened to turn around when I saw Nate screaming at the side of the house. His favourite spade was snapped in half and one half of the handle had red smeared all over it. I climbed back up the stairs and hid behind the wall. Nate was in distressed and he kept swearing off his rocket. There was a break in the screaming fit. I could hear rustling of the grass underneath the fence and I knew he was standing there. How did he know I was outside?
“Bro, are you there?” he sounded sincere.
I showed my face.
“What are you doing?” his tone changed.
“I was going for a walk,” I said, trying to sound innocent.
“Don’t go to the beachfront,” Nate said, abruptly. “I will know.”
“What happened to your spade?” I changed the subject quickly.
“Little punk broke it,” he said, nervously. “Snapped it in half because he couldn’t get his own way.”
“Kids these days,” I said, as I jogged down the stairs. “Have a good day.”
Can people just stop holding me up? I just wanted to go and have a look at the beachfront, I was curious about why it was so mysterious. And my intuition was telling me that Nate wasn’t the full quid and he knew a lot more about the beachfront, more than what he was letting in on us.
It took me half an hour to get to the beachfront. I never took an interest to this place, even during Summer. Now I understand why. The place was creepy. There was no-one about. I stood on the footpath and there was only a piece of green grass, separating me from the rocky shore. The inlet was low today. The town had a very dry summer and there was a bit of a water shortage. I looked out at how parched the riverbed was. Then I saw something I probably shouldn’t have spotted. It looked like a spade handle. I went to go down the bank to retrieve it but something came out of nowhere and spear-tackled me.
“Don’t you dare touch that thing!”
A man of some sort was on top of me. I couldn’t breathe. He was fat.
“Your neighbour warned you not to come down here, and he meant it,” the man continued. “What gives you the right to obey such orders?”
I couldn’t respond.
“Do you want to end up like Betsy?”
Ah, yes. Betsy. I had a feeling about Betsy.
“I know she’s alive,” I struggled.
“She isn’t alive!” the man panicked.
“Then why does Nate keep going to the side of his house and talking through to the foundations? He’s keeping her hostage. That broken spade is similar to the one that he snapped before!” I struggled again.
He tried to punch me but I rolled my head away.
“What are you hiding in the beachfront?”
“You will never find out what’s in the beachfront!”
Someone ripped the man off me. I looked up to find Scotty there. He leant a hand out to me. I looked over at the random man who was trying to pick himself up.
“I found out what they were hiding,” Scotty whispered. “After you had left, Nate had another meltdown. Barry jumped the fence and found this.” He pulled out his phone to show me a picture of Betsy.
“Betsy exists but it isn’t what we all think she is.”
“An animal?”
“Betsy happens to be a mechanical animal that “acts” as something. One of these guys then comes out of the hiding and screams something that someone has been abducted by something. Locals then feel sorry for them, set up a financial support page and money flows in for them. Betsy has only ever been committed once. These guys are frauds,” Scotty explained.
I was amazed at Scotty. I would never have imagined him to be this much of a sleuth.
“How long have you known about this?” I asked.
“Since Day One. I just been waiting for the day,” he chuckled.
Like most endings, the police did come. But our mystery man that had almost killed me, decided to do a runner, across the dried riverbed where Betsy apparently lives. We didn’t do anything but just sit and watch. What a weird day!
About the Creator
Jerome Smith-Pula
Been fascinated with writing since I was 11 years old. I'm interested in crime to feel-good articles. Mostly crime.
instagram: jsp_the_curator
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