The Beach House

It was summer, 2009, and the sun beat down harsh rays as the humidity attempted to smother me. I despised the beach. I was much happier in cooler climates, cloudier weather.

My family were fairly typical of the Californian lifestyle. Sun, surfing, beaches. Warm tanned skin, blonde beach waves and blue eyes adorned my brother, my sister had the figure of a supermodel and the stereotyped personality to go with it. Our parents adored them both. I, however, was the odd one out.

Now don't get me wrong, my dark hair was inherited from my mother. Her Irish ancestry granted her thick black wavy hair and emerald green eyes which mine echoed giving us both a stark contrast. However where she had all the beauty of the Emerald Isle, I had all the angst and rage of a hormonal teenager. Which, of course, I was.

It was the twins' 16th birthday, and they requested a beach holiday. I was woefully out of my element but forced to g along nonetheless. This bothered me as, being the eldest at 18, I should have been allowed to stay home on my own. My parents, knowing me as little as they do, were worried I'd throw an outrageous party while they were out of town. Like that would ever happen...

So instead I got to sit under a parasol lest my fair Irish skin would burn, while my family played in the sea, or played volleyball, or caught frisbees. I lay reading. Edgar Allen Poe wasn't my usual go to for reading, but I just loved the irony of a pale skinned, dark haired teenager reading his work while on the sunny beach.

As my father came back from the sea, hair dripping, eyes sparkling with energy, his gaze landed on me. "Why don't you join us?" He asked me. "The water's great."

"No thank you." I politely declined. "I'm much happier here."

"What? You don't want to spend time with your family?" He asked me.

"I'm here aren't I?" I retorted. "I just don't enjoy the same things you do." I shrugged, looking back at my book.

"One day you'll realise how much you missed out on." My dad told me as he turned to return to the family he actually enjoyed being with.

"Nevermore." I muttered, and grinned to myself. He hadn't heard me, but it gave me some satisfaction.

As the sun began to set, the 'fun' members of my family returned to where I had remained to collect towels and various belongings before returning to our lodgings for the evening, a small house we had rented for the week while we stayed for fun and frolics. I tried to spend as much time in the house as possible, staying away from the beach for the most part, but this was our last day and my parents wanted to 'spend some quality family time'. It was ridiculous, we all knew I was the spare part to this well oiled machine of a family. I was surplus to requirements, and I was fine with that. Why must the try and include me? But I digress.

Now I must warn you, the story I am about to relay is deeply disturbing, has been redacted from all official record, and has been the cause of my admission to a mental facility after being assured I suffered an episode of psychosis. However, with no evidence of any mental ill health, I was discharged, and with no evidence to convict me, I was never put on trial.

It was around 2am when I heard it. The soft scratching like a cat that wanted to get inside. But instead of a quiet meow, there was a low, guttural growl. The sound shook me to my very core, but I was convinced it was simply my imagination. Perhaps it was a car passing, or a motorbike, or I was having a nightmare. Whatever it was, I was perfectly safe. Well... at least I was right about that.

I turned on my side and tried to drift back to sleep, but the distinct scent of salt water and rotten fish powered through the room, like someone had just dumped the catch of the day on my bed. The shock to my senses threw me awake and I sat bolt upright in bed.

There was nothing in my bedroom, but the growl was louder. Whatever it was, it was inside the house. Fearing a wild animal that may hear me, I stayed incredibly quiet. Even when the sound of sniffing came from the other side of my door, before whatever animal it was moved on.

That's when it started.

The sound that fuels my nightmares. I heard the scream of my sister, and then a ripping, tearing, squelching sound, and then a moment of silence. Before a thud, and then the exclamation of my brother and father, before they too were silenced by that same disgusting wet lacerating motion. I peaked my head out of my door to witness my final relative dismembered before my very eyes by the beast that haunts my dreams.

It was disgusting. Human legs carried it around, while it's pulsating body seemed to move in rhythm with it's many tendrils and tentacles. The beady eyes swirled to look at me as my mother, too, fell silent. And then it... spoke to me. In a strange tone, ancient and deafening, yet barely a whisper.

"Water... death... mine..." It said, I guessed it was indicating that my family had... violated it's territory? It's a theory I came up with much later, in therapy. I was too terrified to have any thoughts at the time.

"Ripping... tearing... eating. Good meat."

At that last comment I noticed the blood dripping from it's fangs and I screamed. I screamed so loud I woke the entire neighbourhood. The beast fled down a sewer drain before anyone arrived, and when I told people what I saw, well, as I said, they tried having me committed to a mental hospital, and tried to arrest me for the murder of my family. Monsters aren't real, they told me. It's all in your head. But I know what I saw. And now... well, you know too. So if you're ever at Davenport Beach, California, I'd be careful where you swim.