Prologue
You’ve probably visited Dupont-on-Sea. In Summer, you probably went for long hikes up the rocky cliffs for hours on end and heard the delighted shrieks of children as they splash in the water. As you came, there would’ve been a scorching Sun, shining it’s rays onto the sandy shore and an ice-cream van selling an assortment of flavours to ecstatic children. You were probably led to a cafe on the cliff. It’s that kind of place. At least, in Summer.
But in Winter, you probably watched the waves violently thrash against the jagged, charcoal rocks. You should try being there when an eerie fog encases the town and the foghorn sounds. You should try being there when the beach is so deserted not even the gulls want to squawk. Fewer people visit then. Not even the locals dare to set foot on the beach…and most say, they have a good reason.
Chapter 1
My name is Zamacci Winters and I’m a barista at The Seaside Cafe. Most people call me Zam. I serve people’s food yet sometimes manage to sneak a slick snack. Someone once told me that I’d be better off working a less mundane job but I love it. I have a small office at the back that’s complete with a miniature fire so I can stay warm. I’m terribly lonely as the Sun’s light fizzles out but, during daylight, merry chatter rings in my ears and I feel a sense of comfort because The Seaside Cafe is bustling in the Summer. In Winter, it isn’t quite the same; typically there’s no food to bring out since we have no customers so I simply lounge around in the back.
A girl bangs on the window and makes angry hand gestures, implying that she wants me to let her in. Fortunately, I don’t have to wait long before she hisses, “Let me in!” I stare blankly at her, unsure what to do. It’s late and the cafe is long closed. She looks freezing so I gingerly open the window and she swiftly slips in, eager to be inside. Her mischievous, hazel eyes stare at me as she scrambles onto my crate, panting. Immediately, I hear a raspy croak begging, “Hide me!”
Before I continue with the rest, there is one legend that involves our town that I must inform you of. It happened so long ago that no-one recalls the date or many of the details. Local myths tell of a beast that emerges from the water and creeps through the streets at night. Apparently, it was a variety of mander know as a Mushmander and only came out of the sea in the stormiest of weather. It smelled of sour seaweed and the rotting remains of sailors. It left a trail of footprints like a towering cat on the prowl. They say that at nighttime, the Mushmander wandered the frozen streets, groaning and howling. When locals heard the noise, they’d lock the doors and windows as well as closing the curtains.
“Why on Earth are you hiding?” I hiss back. “What’s wrong?”
“I’ve seen it!” she sobs, “Quick, close the curtains!”
Chapter 2
We sit, hunched over in silence for a moment before I build up the courage and say, “If I’m gonna help you, I need to know what it was that you saw,” Outside I hear the wind howling, as though it was yearning for attention; a storm is stirring. Before she even takes a breath, I have a strong feeling I know what she’ll say. I’m right. She claims to have come face to face with the Mushmander.
20 minutes later, we are stood in the dark abyss outside, retracing Amaya’s path. I know what you’re thinking. I should have stayed inside in the safety of my cosy room. Tucked under a blanket with the fire roaring and a mug of hot chocolate in my hand. All I can say is that Amaya, for that seems to be her name, is the most persuasive and stubborn person I have ever had the misfortune of acquainting myself with! The sea gale is so forceful that it forces us to tilt into the wind, pushing forwards, in fear of being swooped off of our feet and carried away. Distant thunder growls and and lightning crackles over the sea like an uneven claw grasping below.
We pass the fishmonger’s hut, Johnson’s ice-cream parlour and Miss Green’s garden service office. Every single one has been boarded up to fight the brewing storm. The promenade is deserted and the bustle of cars has disappeared as the latecomers scurry past.
Amaya yanks me in the direction of the pier and it is there we first lay eyes on them. Claws as a substitution of toes at the end of what looked to be webbed, wrinkly feet (if you could even call them that). The sea surges forth to the beach, whipping the struts of the pier. Together, we follow the footprints as the storm aggravates around us. Abruptly through the darkness, someone or something howls. It echoes from the fishmonger’s hut. Impulsively, we stumble forwards, unthinking.
Hardly daring to breathe, we tug open the oak door and swiftly slip inside. At that exact moment, the wind decides to gain a sudden boost of energy and slams the door shut, rattling the glass jars. From across the room, something sighs forcefully; a hoarse purr, a low rumble. Terrified, we pause, peering into the darkness. Are we hallucinating?
Soundlessly, Amaya inches forwards yet I maintain a position by the door, spectating. Teeth chattering, regardless of the cold. I can barely identify something by the fireplace. Something crouches, intimidating as a lion with white patches illuminated along it’s back and beady, lava like eyes. The stench of sour seaweed and rotting remains of sailors emanates from its scales figure. Like a raging hippopotamus, it pounded towards Amya.
Outside, lightning rips the night into shreds. Inside, an abrupt flash irradiated the hut. The Mushmander bows, leaps and in one slick movement and a stream of air, it busts through the splintered door and bounds towards the edge of the pier. There it comes to a halt, turns to face us, ruby red, ravishing, eyes bulging and it’s jaw full of blood-stained teeth opens. Then, with one last growl of discontent, it springs upwards and dives into the safety of the crashing waves.
Chapter 3
A few days later, we are stationed in the comfort of my quaint office. We sit in silence which (for once) is actually quite reassuring while taking small sips of candy cane hot cocoa and cream, my favourite drink. Outside, an eerie mist has encased the town. Inside, we are toasty and snug. However, Amaya has entirely different ideas.
“Zam, I’m serious! You have to help me.” Here we go again, I inwardly complain. “As I said, I know where it lives!”
It just so happens that Amaya has wasted hours in the bitter cold, lounging around the pier and searching the length of the coast. Once again, she claims to have seen suspicious prints, identical to the ones in the hut except for the fact that they’re by the cliffs, where the ancient caves lie.
I lock up the cafe and ensure all the windows are double locked and the lights are unlit before we depart. This time, I make sure that we are equipped with torches and I am wrapped up in my camouflage puffa jacket. The mist patrols the area of the promenade and we can only see a few metres ahead. It’s quite like us being caged inside our own little world. We accompany the curve of the bay before we meet the cliffs. Not a soul is permitted to go further. It’s deadly. But that only seems to spur Amaya on. I know that I can’t retreat without her. She’s a stubborn knuckle-head yet I find myself trailing after her. Cautiously, we make our way along the beach, encircled by the mist.
Previously, I hadn’t believe Amaya but the footprints are very pronounced. There are two sets; one leads across the sand and into the dingy mouth of a cave. The other set follows through to the sea.
“Come on, this is the moment we’ve waited for,” utters Amaya, flicking the switch to her her torch. I’m not particularly in the mood for seizing anything but yet again, I have the feeling that she’s leading me into the jaws of trouble.
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