On Writing and...On The Beach Man

When I started writing The Beach Man, I had in mind to write a short story of 100 Words. I’d seen the 100 Word Stories Series in Uzoma’s Blog. I liked it, wanted to do something like that, and so I started with the first sentence that jumped in my head: The killer doesn't lift his eyes off me as he grabs the dagger on the table. And this first sentence began a horror/suspense series that would span 13 weekly episodes. The Beach Man was a fun, and sometimes difficult story to write, but the comments the wonderful readers always dropped kept on pushing me to finish the project.

I’ve always been scared about sharing my work for people to see. Waiting for Dami’s Whistle was the first story I ever shared on this blog, and somehow I love that it didn’t get any comments. That story needs some fixing, but then I’ve decided to leave it as it is. I want to have something I can look back on someday and say, “Oh, this was when I was an amateur writer.” No, I’m not saying I’ve become a professional. English isn’t even my native language, but I keep striving every day to see that I get better in my writing and in my life as a whole.

And then it makes me happy to know I have friends who’ve encouraged me in one way or the other to better my writing.

So, I want to say thanks again to everyone who followed The Beach Man: Robyn, Athina, Uzoma, the honorable Doc. Christopher, Omolara, Jennifer, Ezike Nwadiuto, Neso, E-face, Felix, Florentine, Bella, Chinyere. To Saka, for providing the picture of the beach man—the one you see in the cover.

I might have missed some people but I appreciate everyone who has ever stopped by this blog. By visiting this place, you’ve all being an encouragement to me. So a big “THANK YOU” to you! :)

Ps: I want to use this medium to request for critiques on The Beach Man if you have some time to spare. Robyn and Uzoma have suggested that I turn it into an e-book, so I’d love to brush it up. I’ll appreciate any and all comments. Thank you!

The 400-Word Story: The Beach Man #13

Ifeoma

“You’re so naïve, Ifeoma,” the killer says when I stand before him. “You created me. Now you want to destroy me?  Why not think about what we could achieve together?”

I grip the handle of the basket harder. “I did not create you!”

“Your potion turned me into this. You’re to blame for everything I’ve ever done.”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “My potion was for a peaceful transition to life after death. You should have walked away and be reincarnated like me. Yet you stayed back.”

“To avenge your death.”

“You killed everyone involved. Why didn’t you leave?” I spit on his face. “Because you’re evil!”

He scowls. “I’ll hunt you—”

I don’t wait for him to finish. I reach inside the basket, scoop a handful of salt, and hurl it at him. He shrieks, swings his hand towards me, but the entrapment chalk stops him. I reach for the salt again, toss another handful at him.

His body drops to the ground. He curls ups, shivering and whining. Like a dog.

I empty the remaining salt on him. He stiffens. Then, from his mouth, a cloud rises, forming a vague human form above the dead body. I take out the bowl of garlic, set it on the floor. I strike a match. Light the garlic. Then retreat backwards and stand beside Shola.

She reaches for my hand, and together we watch the killer.

He floats about in his true form, seeking for an exit. But soon the smoke from the garlic wears him down; he drops to the ground and begins to fade, until he is no more. Banished from Earth forever.

Shola hugs me with a sigh, and I put my hand around her as she sobs against my back. Tears roll down my face, dropping to the sand.

Finally, this torment is over.

In silence, we hold hands and walk towards the village, alone in the dark night.

The villagers would relax now. People would come to the beach on Sundays, without the fear of being killed. My bag is packed already. I know where to go next.

The hospital.

Because he didn’t want me devastated, Uchenna lied to me about our parents—they had actually sustained some burns in the fire and were in the intensive care unit now.

They need my comfort in this difficult time.

And my healing hands, as well.

THE END

Footnote: This is the final episode of The Beach Man, a 400-Word Blog Series. I hope you enjoyed it. For the first episode, click HERE.

Thanks for reading! Thanks again to everyone who’s followed the series. Can I say another thanks? Well, thanks.

Okay, a special post comes up next Monday.

The 400-Word Story: The Beach Man #11

Ifeoma

The sniffling from the other room stops after a while, then Shola emerges through the door, holding a notebook. I feel a stab of déjà vu as she settles across me; her twin sister had sat just there yesterday, listening as I told her about my strange dreams.

Wiping her eyes with a handkerchief, she places the notebook on the desk.

“I’m really sorry about your sister,” I say.

She shakes her head. “It isn’t your fault. Perhaps if she had been patient, none of this would have happened.”

“How do you mean?”

“Folakemi wasn’t supposed to start a private practice yet.”

I stare at her, confused, and she continues.

“Spiritualism is a difficult practice with different stages. My whole family practices it. There’re five levels of experience in spiritualism. Level one is the beginner stage, while level five is the master stage. In Nigeria, we have just few level five spiritualists.”

I narrow my eyes at her. “What level are you?”

“I’m Level four,” Shola says, regretful look on her face. “But Folakemi was only Level two. She wasn’t patient to learn gradually. She was always eager to reach the fifth level and start her own practice. My father’s a Level five, but it took him thirty-seven years to get there. She renounced our family after a quarrel with him four years ago. Then she started travelling and was always keeping ears open for strange spirits. I guess that’s how she landed here. I’ve been here once to persuade her to return to our family, but she closed the door on me. She was mad because I supported my father in the fight.” She wipes her nose noisily. “But last night she called out to me telepathically, and I knew she was in trouble, so I took the late night bus to get here. Now from what I’ve seen in her notebook, she underestimated the beach man.” She leans forward and holds my hand. “You see, the beach man isn’t just a spirit but a demon who’s grown stronger and stronger over the years. We must stop him quickly.”

My heart races. “We?”

“Yes.” She nods, her eyes flashing with desperation. “We must stop him tonight.”

“Tonight? But I don’t—I…”

“Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. I’ll teach you to become Level five again.” She squeezes my hand harder. “Ifeoma, you were a Level five in your former life.”


Footnote: This is the eleventh episode of The Beach Man, a 400-Word Blog Series.
Click HERE for the next episode.

Thanks for reading! And stay tuned for the twelfth episode next Monday.

The 400-Word Story: The Beach Man #10

Ifeoma

When I wake up, I find myself still sitting on the chair in my room. I grab the towel beside me and wipe my face, trying to recall the dream I just had. Few feet away from me, Chika folds the last of my clothing and slips it into my backpack. She zips up it and looks at me. “I’m done. Emeka’s waiting for us at the motor park.”

I shake my head. “I told you I’m going nowhere.”

She frowns. “See, our lives are better than this NYSC. Two corpers left this morning. Everybody knows this place isn’t safe anymore. Please brush your teeth and let’s leave, okay?”

I look away, and then she walks over to me after a moment of silence. She begins to say something, but I cut her off.

“Leave me alone! Why do you even care now? Go away. I’m not coming with you.”

I expect her to walk away, but she just looks at me and wipes the tears flowing down my cheeks. Then she gently pulls me up and hugs me. “I’m very sorry. I wish I’d listened to you when you first told me about the dreams. Please let’s—”

Dreams!

Everything comes back to me and my body stiffens against hers.

She steps backward. “What’s wrong?”

“Call Emeka. Tell him to come back. We’re not leaving.”

“Why?”

“We’ll die if we try to leave.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The dream I just had. The beach man was the bus driver. He plunged the vehicle into a river, and we all drowned.”

Chika opens her mouth to say something, but then thinks better of it and closes it.

“You’re thinking, what if you leave alone with Emeka?” I say. “Not a good idea.”

She stares guiltily at the floor for a while, then looks up at me. “So what do we do now?”

“I’ll go to the spiritualist place and check around. I need to know who Shola is.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“No, you’ll stay here with—”

Someone knocks on the door, and Chika crosses the room to open it before I can stop her. My stomach drops when I see the woman by the door: heavyset, dark chocolate skin, piercing eyes—a replica of the spiritualist.

“Hello, I’m Shola Adeniyi,” she says, looking at me, and then as if noticing my shock, she adds, “Folakemi’s twin sister.”


Footnote: This is the tenth episode of The Beach Man, a 400-Word Blog Series.
*Click HERE for the next episode.
NYSC: National Youth Service Corps. A one-year national service in Nigeria for graduates, aimed to bring about unity in the country and to help youths appreciate other ethnic groups
Corpers: Popular name for graduates working under the National Service scheme, although an appropriate term is “Youth Corps member.”

Thanks for reading! And stay tuned for the eleventh episode next Monday.

The 400-Word Story: The Beach Man #9

Ifeoma

Flashing a wicked smile, the killer turns away from me and moves toward the spiritualist.

She directs the mirror at him, chanting the words of an incantation. Ignoring the urge to run away, I pull back and watch; the killer has stopped in midstride, whining like a dog in pain. His skin begins to peel off and fall to the ground, revealing ugly scars.

The spiritualist closes the gap between them, and he drops to the ground. Just then his body begins to shrink and shrink, until nothing is left where he’d stood except for his shredded skin and the clothes he’d worn. Then she places the mirror upon the clothes, waves me over.

I ignore my instincts, which tells me to run away, and move towards her, my heart pounding violently.

“This is the most dangerous part,” she says, handing me the knife. She points to the mirror. “He’s in there. He’s very, very weak now. Strike hard. Shatter the mirror in the first attempt or you’ll awaken him, and all our efforts will be useless.”

I can’t keep my hand from trembling. “Please can you do it yourself?”

She shakes her head.

“Why?”

“The creator destroys her creation.”

“What?”

“Your potion created him. Only you can destroy him now.”

“Are you sure this-”

“Don’t worry, it’ll work.” She pats my shoulder. “Breathe in, breathe out. Don’t strike with fear.”

“Okay.” I suck in a deep breath and then let it hiss out slowly. I feel power bubbling within me as I steady my hand and clench the knife harder, determined to end this torment.

The spiritualist steps back. “Strike.”

I raise the knife and in one powerful move bring it down upon the mirror, smashing it with a loud clink. A body drops behind me. I turn around; the spiritualist lies on the ground, thrashing violently, gore rushing from a deep gash in her throat. I stare at her, confused, and just then someone laughs behind me. I spin around – the clothes, the shredded skin, the knife, the mirror, everything is gone.

“I tricked you fools,” the familiar voice says, although I can’t see anyone. “Now you’ve become what you always avoided. A killer.”

The spiritualist bursts into a fit of coughs. I whip around. She’s trying to say something.

I lean closer to her and catch the name on her lips before her body goes still.

Shola.


Footnote: This is the ninth episode of The Beach Man, a 400-Word Blog Series.
*Click HERE for the next episode.

Thanks for reading! And stay tuned for the tenth episode next Monday.

The 400-Word Story: The Beach Man #8

Ifeoma

I catch a glimpse of the stone before it trips me. And pain explodes in my cheeks as I hit the ground. Mildly dazed, I pull myself up and continue towards the beach, gasping for air, ignoring the people calling after me.

I cannot let my parents die.

I am near the sands when I feel my body working against me – my heart pounds fiercely, my whole mouth is dried out, and my ankles scream with pain. With the last of my strength, I push forward, but slowly. Finally, I hear the sound of water splashing against rocks.

In the moonlight, the beach looks deserted, and the cold wind blowing with eerie sounds sends a shiver down my spine. Hugging myself, I scan the area with itchy eyes. My heart almost drops when I see the killer a few yards away, ambling towards me with a smile.

He opens his arms for a hug when he reaches me. “Hallo, sweetheart.”

“My parents,” I say under my breath.

“You’re a minute and twenty-three seconds early, so don’t worry. They’re fine.”

“I need proof.”

“Okay, my dear.” He reaches into his pocket, takes out a cell phone, and passes it to me.

I dial my brother’s number at once. “Uchenna, how are papa and mama?” I say when he takes my call.

“They’re fine now. A fireman pulled them out.” His voice drops. “But, sista…”

“What?”

“Our house is gone. Everything.”

I want to say something to cheer Uchenna up, but the killer snatches the phone and ends the call. Staring at him, I notice that his scars are gone.

“Wondering about my scars?” He closes the gap between us, his eyes peering deep into mine. “I didn’t want to scare you since we were meeting each other for the first time in reality, so I borrowed someone else’s body. Do you like my new look?”

I take few steps back, eyeing him warily. “Why do want me here?’

“For this.” He opens his palms and a small gourd materializes upon it. “The remnant of your wonderful potion. Just drink it and become like me. Now is the perfect time to avenge your death.”

“No, she won’t drink it! Not tonight. Not ever!”

I turn towards the voice on my right.

The spiritualist stands there, clutching a small knife in one hand. In the other hand, she holds a small, rounded mirror.


Footnote: This is the eight episode of The Beach Man, a 400-Word Blog Series.
Click HERE for the next episode.

Thanks for reading!

The 400-Word Story: The Beach Man #7

Ifeoma

I drop to the ground at once, my hands all over Peter, his head, arms, stomach, anything I can touch. But nothing happens. I close my eyes in concentration – maybe I’m missing something. 

Yet Peter doesn’t stir.

Tears roll down my face. He’s dead. Dead!

***
It’s almost midnight. Emeka and Chika sit across from me, in silence, worried looks on their faces. We’ve just returned from the morgue in the town and have informed Peter’s parents about his…death; tomorrow they’ll come and collect his body for burial.

“Wait,” Chika says, suddenly turning towards Emeka.  “What if he comes after us too?”

Emeka looks at me, frightened eyes mirroring the same question.

I open my mouth to say something, but my cell phone rings, cutting me off. I look at the screen, wondering who the unknown caller is, and then I press the answer button after a moment of hesitation.

“Hallo, sweetheart,” the deep, familiar voice says.

I freeze at once, and goose bumps appear on my arms. Emeka and Chika shoot me questioning looks.

“Leave me alone.” I say. “Aren’t you satisfied by his death?”

“Oh, she’s mourning an idiot who didn’t even love her.”

“Shut up!” I feel anger course through my veins. “I’ll find you wherever you are. I’ll kill you. I swear you’ll remain dead, forever!”

“I guess I’ll have to make this quick then,” he says with a chuckle. “Ifeoma, your boyfriend’s death was only the beginning of this night of torments.” The call ends abruptly.

Torments?

Before I can think about it, my phone rings again. It’s my youngest brother, Uchenna. Dread settles over me as I answer the call.

“Sista, Sista, our house is on fire!”

“What?”

“Fire,” Uchenna says, amid background noise of sirens and shouts. “Papa and mama are trapped inside. I can’t-”

Another call comes in just then, the number unknown. I quickly put my brother on hold. “Not my family. Please don’t do this to me.”

“Hear her, she begs like a baby now,” the killer says, laughing.

“Please I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Okay.” A moment passes and then he says, “I want you at the beach now. Consider yourself responsible for your parent’s death if you don’t make it in…ten minutes.”

I drop the phone at once. Behind me, as I race out the door, I hear Chika and Emeka calling me back.

But I ignore them.


Footnote: This is the seventh episode of The Beach Man, a 400-Word Blog Series.
Click HERE for the next episode.

Thanks for reading!

The 400-Word Story: The Beach Man #6

Ifeoma

Peter smells of alcohol and tobacco; he makes faces at me and laughs at every word I say, annoying me even more. Again, I check my watch. Ten o’clock.

"See, it’s getting past my bedtime," I say, frowning. "You can’t stay here."

He scowls for a moment and then begins to laugh. "I warned you about going to that spiritualist’s place, and now she’s messed your head up with visions and more myths about the beach man. Ah, you're so dumb to believe in those bullshit stories."

I clench my fists, resisting the urge to hit him. "Just get out of my room now!"

"I’m not going to leave, and you know that."

"You know what?" I sigh. "I don’t care whether you stay or leave. Just don’t touch me while I sleep."

He winks at me, bowing slightly. "Yes, your highness."

I turn away from him and lie on the bed. Then I put on my earphones and press the play button on my MP3 player. The music helps calm my body, shutting out Peter’s voice, and soon I drift into oblivion.

***

I open my eyes, finding myself in the killer’s hut. Peter sits in front of me, strapped to a chair, panting and kicking furiously in his struggle to escape. I try to rush towards him, to help, but my feet are planted on the floor, as if held by glue.

The door opens just then, and the killer enters the room, clutching a dagger. With light footsteps, he walks towards Peter.

"Please leave him alone," I say.

He shakes his head and mutters something. Then he raises his hand, and I catch a flash in the dagger as he drives it into Peter’s stomach.

At the same time, I hear shouts outside the hut.

***

The shouts continue when I wake up. Surprised to find my door wide open, I roll out of my bed and rush outside. A small crowd stands few feet away from my door, everybody speaking simultaneously, in loud voices, confusing me even more. When I break into the center of the crowd, I see Peter lying on the ground, holding a long dagger; his body is still, and in his stomach, a deep gash, crimson smeared around it.

Then I hear the girl beside me say, "I saw the whole thing! He just stood here for a while and then he stabbed himself."


Footnote: This is the sixth episode of The Beach Man, a 400-Word Blog Series.
* Click HERE for the next episode.

Thanks for reading! And stay tuned for the seventh episode next Monday.

The 400-Word Story: The Beach Man #5

Ifeoma

I can remember lying on the bed in the spiritualist’s dark room, but when I open my eyes, I find myself sitting on a round stool, inside a small hut.

‘Welcome again to our home.’

I turn towards the voice, and I see him – the killer – standing few feet away, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

‘Why are you tormenting me?’ I say.

‘Why?’ He frowns slightly. ‘Because a wife isn’t supposed to cheat on her husband.’

‘What do you-’

‘You know what I mean. You’ve been cheating on me with that boy, Peter.’

‘But I’m not your-.’

‘I knew you’d doubt me. Remember the dead goat when you were five?’

I frown. The dead goat.

‘Yes. Remember?’

‘But how…’ I turn away from him, and my biggest secret, the incident with the dead goat, rushes through my mind.

On the Christmas when I was five, our family woke up to a tragedy: the goat, which my father had bought for the celebration, dead. It hurt me seeing the disappointment on my parents and brother’s face; we were poor then, and everybody knew it was going to be a terrible Christmas. So, when I was alone, I knelt beside the goat, talking to it, begging it to return to life. It didn’t. But when I touched it, I felt energy depart my body. And just then, the goat bleated.

We had a pleasant Christmas afterwards.

But I didn’t stop there. Dead insects, dead animals, they all returned to life whenever I touched them. I was scared; I knew I was different from other people, so I stopped touching dead things.

‘You know,’ the killer’s deep voice brings me back to the hut. ‘You have the same scar she had. The one in your right palm.’

I shake my head. ‘I’m not your wife.’

‘Back then you always said that after death, souls return to live a new life in another body and that you hope we’d meet again.’

‘Okay, let’s say I believe you. What do you want from me now?’

‘They were envious of your healing gift, that’s why they killed you. But I saved some of your emergency potion. All you have to do is drink it, become invincible like me, and let’s wipe out the community, avenge yourself.’

‘And what if I disagree?’

The killer sneers at me, his face deeply malevolent. ‘Then you’ll die with them.’


Footnote: This is the fifth episode of The Beach Man, a 400-Word Blog Series.
Click HERE for the next episode.

Thanks for reading!

The 400-Word Story: The Beach Man #4

Ifeoma

I pull my shoes off at the door before I walk into the room – that’s what the sign at the door says. The room is dimly lit and smells faintly of burning incense. A heavyset woman sits behind a small desk, her face pinched in concentration as she reads the newspaper spread before her, completely oblivious of my presence.

But then she looks up immediately and smiles. ‘Sit down.’

I sit across from her, and she fixes her large eyes on me for a moment, uncomfortable silence stretching between us.

“The beach man,” she says finally. “ You're here because of him.”

I nod.

She closes the paper and pushes it towards me. Then I shift my eyes to the cover; there, I see the headline, printed in big black letters:

THE BEACH MAN STRIKES AGAIN!

Under the headline, the bodies of a man and a woman lie beside each other on the sand, both of them headless. I feel my throat tighten, suppressing the scream building inside me, and then I throw my eyes off the paper and gaze at the floor.

“Isn’t it strange?” Ms. Adenuyi says.

“How do you mean?” I force the words from my mouth.

“He kills only on Sundays, if anyone ventures to the beach. But…wasn’t yesterday Friday?”

I nod slowly, in realization – the beach man has gone against his pattern.

“So, what’s your name, young lady?”

“Ifeoma. Ifeoma Okoli. I was told you could help me. He’s appeared in my dreams twice, stabbed me in the last one and I can still feel the pain in my stomach. I’m really worried. I’m afraid. I hardly sleep anymore.”

“I’ll help you, Ifeoma. I deal with issues like yours every time and this one won’t be any problem.’ She opens a drawer and takes out a bracelet, a small string of cowries. ‘Wear this around your right wrist.”

I wear the bracelet, and after what seems like an eternity, she pulls it off my wrist, slowly, and wears it on hers. Then she stands up and with a stiff gait walks into another room, muttering something unclear.

She emerges from the room few minutes later, frowning.

“What’s the matter?” I say.

“He doesn’t want to kill you. He’s only trying to pass a message.”

“What message?”

“I have no idea what it is. But I know it’s something bad, something you wouldn’t want to hear about.”


Footnote: This is the fourth episode of The Beach Man, a 400-Word Blog Series. 
Click HERE for the next episode.

Thanks for reading!

The 400-Word Story: The Beach Man #3

The Killer

People describe me as half-human, half-ghost when they talk about me. Some say I am a headless monster, which is why I always chop off the head of my victims. Others say my body is decayed and maggot-infested. I laugh whenever I hear a new version, because nobody has seen me. The ones who did, I killed them, even before they could talk.

Only Ifeoma knows what I look like – I let her see me again because she’ll be seeing me often, henceforth. She was scared when I took her from the beach, but she'd put up a brave face, all the while staring at my scars with disgust.

If only she knew she was there when I got the scars…

It was a Saturday evening, many years ago. I was back from hunting, and my wife had just returned from the market and was about to prepare her healing potions. Then shouts came from outside. Engrossed in wiping my machete, I didn’t notice when my wife left the hut.

I jumped at the sound of her scream. I was outside the door in a flash. The villagers were yelling, ‘Witch! Witch! You must die!’ Dragging my wife between. And then I saw him – the man with the club. One quick blow and my wife tumbled to the ground. Another blow and her body stopped moving.

It happened very fast, but I watched it, transfixed, and when it dawned on me that she was dead, I entered the hut and drank the potion she said was only for emergency.

I felt strange.

But I was late; the villagers had set the hut on fire already. The door did not budge when I tried it. And so the fire consumed me. Later, the villagers took my body, along with my wife’s, dumped us far out in the sea.

That night, while they were celebrating the death of the witch and her hunter-husband, one of them, drunken, had wandered far towards the beach. He froze when he saw me.

I smiled as I swung my machete at him, and I watched his head roll towards the-

“Oh, baby!”

I straighten up and peer around the tree, my eyes scanning for the distraction. I see them few yards away, lying near the edge of the water – a man and a woman, kissing and fondling.

I clutch my machete.

Then I creep towards them.


Footnote: This is the third episode of The Beach Man, a 400-Word Blog Series. 
Click HERE for the next episode.

Thanks for reading!

The 400-Word Story: The Beach Man #2

Ifeoma

The concert turns out to be a nightclub. Music vibrates around me as I sit at the bar, watching the dancers, mostly students from the university nearby. Peter has taken an interest in the girl in red gown. When he thinks I’m not watching, he'll put his arms around her waist, pull her close to him, and whisper in her ears. Sometimes she'll whisper back, casting furtive glances at my direction.

Up until now, I can feel pain in my stomach. I had tried explaining to Emeka and Chika on our way here, but they said I was having illusions. With her trademark frown, Chika had said, ‘Ifeoma, relax jare! I've never seen anyone as scared as you are.’ Now she walks towards me with that frown.

“That university slut is trying to steal your boyfriend!” she shouts over the music, pointing towards Peter and the girl in red. “You should do something about it!”

I let out a heavy sigh and then grab her hand and place it against my stomach. “The beach man stabbed me right here, in the dream! I still feel the pain! You think I should be more concerned about the girl stealing Peter than about my upsetting dream?”

“See a doctor then!” Obviously regretting why she'd come up to me in the first place, Chika scowls and then walks away, quickly.

I leave the bar and make for the exit of the club. Outside, the air is cool. I have not wandered far away when someone suddenly grabs my hand from behind.

The sound of my scream attracts stares from the people around.

“I’m sorry,” he says as I face him, and I recognize him – the barman at the club. “I overheard your discussion at the bar.”

“So why-”

“When he appears in your dream, it’s because he wants to torment you. Before he finally kills you.”

“How do-”

“I'm a native of this community, so there’s no need asking me how I know this. Before he killed my mother, he tormented her severely.” He reaches into his pocket and takes out a card, then hands it to me.

I study the card under the dull lights of the street. It reads:

Ms. Folakemi Adeniyi

Spiritual Consultant

The address and phone numbers are printed in smaller letters.

“She’s helped so many people around here. You must see her, if you want to remain alive.”


Footnote: This is the second episode of The Beach Man, a 400-Word Blog Series. 
Jare: A Nigerian Pidgin English expression, which adds emphasis to a sentence.

*Click HERE for the next episode

Thanks for reading!

The 400-Word Story: The Beach Man #1

Ifeoma

The killer doesn't lift his eyes off me as he grabs the dagger on the table. His feet barely making any noise, he ambles towards me, watching with fascination as I struggle in vain to free myself from the ropes bound around my wrists and my feet. I cannot scream; he’d tied a gag too tight against my mouth, and the cloth smells faintly of blood. When I close my eyes again, a flash of memory rushes briefly through my mind. I see myself, Peter, Chika, and Emeka sitting around the fire, near the beach, listening to the old man tell us the story of the beach man. As we returned home that night, Peter had said, “False story! Only meant to keep people off the beach on Sundays.”

Until the killer grabbed me from the beach, I never believed the story, even though I found myself sympathizing with him as the story was told. If the people hadn’t killed his wife, he wouldn’t have come back to terrorize them.

“Any last words?” the killer’s voice, a deep evil sound, brings me back to the warm hut.

I open my eyes, terrified. I look at his eyes – lifeless eyes, malevolent, all white. Eyes of a devil. The sneer on his scarred face as he unties the gag makes whatever sympathy I’ve had for him to fade away. I can tell he loves his victims to beg, to cry.

But I will say nothing. And I won’t cry. I will give him no reason to enjoy my death.

I hold my breath as he raises his hand, and my eyes catch the final view of my life: a dagger reflecting the light of the candles. With one quick thrust, the dagger penetrates my stomach and pain explodes inside me. I feel another thrust, then another, and another. Then I feel nothing again. Before I am pulled into a deep darkness, I hear the sound of my killer’s cackle.

***

Peter crouches in front of me when I open my eyes. He is tugging at my hand. ‘Go and get dressed! It’s almost time for the concert.’

I shake my head. A shiver races down my spine and I hug myself hard. I can feel a slight pain somewhere near my stomach.

Peter frowns. "What?"

"I had the dream again."

"What dream?"

"The beach man, Peter! He spoke to me this time."



Footnote: This is a 400-word story, the first of its kind on this blog. I was inspired by the 100-word story on Uzoma's writing blog. I wanted to write a 100-word story too, but I couldn’t stop myself from writing more after I surpassed the 100-word-count. Now I’ve decided to continue the story as a series, which would appear on this blog every Monday. I hope you enjoy it!

* Click HERE for the next episode.

Thanks for reading! :)