A flicker, out of the corner
of my eye.
What was that? My eyes dart over to
the bedroom wall, but whatever it was, if there was anything, is gone.
I've gotta keep my head on. Things have gotten... weird, lately. Sometimes I'll think I hear a noise outside, or catch a glimpse of something just out of sight, but it's always just the wind or the waves or a tree, slowly swaying back and forth.
"The Beachside Bungalow!" The ad proclaimed. "Wash off the stress of the daily grind!"
Well, whatever this place is, restful is not an appropriate adjective. There just seems to be something... off, about everything. The colours seem to sharp, saturating the air with a sort of ceaseless oppressive vibrancy that set my teeth on edge. I've half a mind to just leave, go home a few days early, but somehow that feels like letting the house win.
No, damn it, you're being paranoid. I tell myself. It's just a house! You came here to get away from stress, and you're wasting the money by just sitting inside, jumping at shadows.
I get up, walking over to the window and throwing open the shutters. For half a second, I imagine a grey-blue face looking over my shoulder in the reflection, but when I glance around there's nothing there.
Of course there's nothing there.
The sun is hanging high over the sea, loftily surveying the small house and its overgrown garden, petunias and daisies mixing with the local brush.
Maybe some sun will do me good.
I chuck on some boardies and head outside, not bothering with sun protection. The sun here is warm but harmless, a comforting glow of warmth that hangs around for ten hours a day and then leaves you to the sub-zero nights. It's the night that's the real killer here, not some half-baked melanoma. You don't rug up nice and warm by eight o'clock, you'd better get moving or risk freezing over. I almost did, the first night. I came to this self-proclaimed seaside paradise with not even a jumper, expecting temperatures of twenty above, but luckily there was enough wood to get the fireplace crackling and stave off the worst of the cold until the sun decided to peek out from behind the horizon, sullen and hungover.
"Oh, blimey, was it that cold last night? Sorry, I had a thing with some other stars, group poker thing, you know."
I managed to get the Jeep to start after much kicking and swearing and drove into the nearest town to buy some clothes to help me survive the remaining nights. The round trip took just over nine hours, so the sun was already sinking beneath the waves when I got back, the moon reasserting its dominance over the heavens. It was that night, as I lay on the lumpy mattress in three layers of new clothes, that I first started thinking I saw things.
I've gotta keep my head on. Things have gotten... weird, lately. Sometimes I'll think I hear a noise outside, or catch a glimpse of something just out of sight, but it's always just the wind or the waves or a tree, slowly swaying back and forth.
"The Beachside Bungalow!" The ad proclaimed. "Wash off the stress of the daily grind!"
Well, whatever this place is, restful is not an appropriate adjective. There just seems to be something... off, about everything. The colours seem to sharp, saturating the air with a sort of ceaseless oppressive vibrancy that set my teeth on edge. I've half a mind to just leave, go home a few days early, but somehow that feels like letting the house win.
No, damn it, you're being paranoid. I tell myself. It's just a house! You came here to get away from stress, and you're wasting the money by just sitting inside, jumping at shadows.
I get up, walking over to the window and throwing open the shutters. For half a second, I imagine a grey-blue face looking over my shoulder in the reflection, but when I glance around there's nothing there.
Of course there's nothing there.
The sun is hanging high over the sea, loftily surveying the small house and its overgrown garden, petunias and daisies mixing with the local brush.
Maybe some sun will do me good.
I chuck on some boardies and head outside, not bothering with sun protection. The sun here is warm but harmless, a comforting glow of warmth that hangs around for ten hours a day and then leaves you to the sub-zero nights. It's the night that's the real killer here, not some half-baked melanoma. You don't rug up nice and warm by eight o'clock, you'd better get moving or risk freezing over. I almost did, the first night. I came to this self-proclaimed seaside paradise with not even a jumper, expecting temperatures of twenty above, but luckily there was enough wood to get the fireplace crackling and stave off the worst of the cold until the sun decided to peek out from behind the horizon, sullen and hungover.
"Oh, blimey, was it that cold last night? Sorry, I had a thing with some other stars, group poker thing, you know."
I managed to get the Jeep to start after much kicking and swearing and drove into the nearest town to buy some clothes to help me survive the remaining nights. The round trip took just over nine hours, so the sun was already sinking beneath the waves when I got back, the moon reasserting its dominance over the heavens. It was that night, as I lay on the lumpy mattress in three layers of new clothes, that I first started thinking I saw things.
I was just about to fall asleep, that precipice between having your feet
planted in reality and being hurled over into your subconscious. Teetering on
the edge, I'd just begun to tip over when my body jerked itself awake in that
smug and depreciating way it has of reminding you that you can't fall asleep
without its consent. So I jolted awake, and for half a second I felt it. I've
never really understood the feeling of being watched, but in that moment it
became crystal clear. I'm talking racing heart, gasping breaths, the hair on
the back of my neck raising like hackles on a hound, the whole shebang. And
after about half a second of lucidity and paralysing fear, something flitted
from the corner of my eye and the feeling vanished.
Since then I've been getting increasingly edgy, jumping at phantoms of my over-active imagination and having trouble falling asleep, my mind not letting me hurl myself over the precipice and into the sweet abyss. Sounds keep me awake when I close my eyes from the dark, whispers from the wind brushing past my ears so that I strain to hear them even while I dread what they might say. I've probably gotten about seven hours of sleep total since I got here; none on the first night; four the second, after the brief panic attack subsided; two the night after; and one last night, if that.
That's probably all this is. Just a lack of sleep. I'm not used to the cold, and I'm not sleeping well, so my brain's a bit fuzzy. That's all it is.
The beach is mainly stone, reminiscent of the shores of England, but the water's surprisingly warm in the late afternoon sun. The sun's beaming at me like a slightly unhinged uncle, glad he's made life that little bit easier before he goes on vacation and leaves me with Luna, the babysitter from hell. I float for a while before going in and towelling off. The unease is still slouching in the back of my mind, however, a thin film of greasy distrust that the salt couldn't quite wash off.
On the way back to the house I pick some daisies from the garden and put them in a small vase overlooking the ocean. I frame the image with my fingers, closing one eye like they do in movies, as if it'll make a difference. Struck by a moment of inspiration, I walk to my room and retrieve my mobile, going into the camera function as I head back to the kitchen. I take half a dozen photos from different angles and then select the best one, sending it to my sister. She always loved daisies. I go to put my phone away, but hesitate. Maybe what I need is to hear another human voice.
Since then I've been getting increasingly edgy, jumping at phantoms of my over-active imagination and having trouble falling asleep, my mind not letting me hurl myself over the precipice and into the sweet abyss. Sounds keep me awake when I close my eyes from the dark, whispers from the wind brushing past my ears so that I strain to hear them even while I dread what they might say. I've probably gotten about seven hours of sleep total since I got here; none on the first night; four the second, after the brief panic attack subsided; two the night after; and one last night, if that.
That's probably all this is. Just a lack of sleep. I'm not used to the cold, and I'm not sleeping well, so my brain's a bit fuzzy. That's all it is.
The beach is mainly stone, reminiscent of the shores of England, but the water's surprisingly warm in the late afternoon sun. The sun's beaming at me like a slightly unhinged uncle, glad he's made life that little bit easier before he goes on vacation and leaves me with Luna, the babysitter from hell. I float for a while before going in and towelling off. The unease is still slouching in the back of my mind, however, a thin film of greasy distrust that the salt couldn't quite wash off.
On the way back to the house I pick some daisies from the garden and put them in a small vase overlooking the ocean. I frame the image with my fingers, closing one eye like they do in movies, as if it'll make a difference. Struck by a moment of inspiration, I walk to my room and retrieve my mobile, going into the camera function as I head back to the kitchen. I take half a dozen photos from different angles and then select the best one, sending it to my sister. She always loved daisies. I go to put my phone away, but hesitate. Maybe what I need is to hear another human voice.
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