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 #12

Ifeoma

A cold wind blows against me as the killer closes the gap between us. Staring at his new borrowed body, I steady myself, careful not to reveal any trace of the entrapment chalk underneath my bare feet.

“Look who’s here.” He grins, brushing my cheek with the back of his palms. “My sweet Ifeoma.”

“These people wronged you and…” I swallow hard. “They also wronged me, but please stop the killing.”

He shakes his head. “You should try it.”

“What?”

“I mean, try piercing a dagger through someone. Watch their lifeblood seep away.” He smiles. “And then that fearful look in their eyes…oh, it gives me this feeling of pure ecstasy. You really should try it.”

“I’m tired of…I’m just…” I break into a sob.

He puts his arms around me, patting my back gently. I lean against his chest, and an overwhelming feeling of familiarity settles upon me—there used to be a time when he’d return from hunting, and I’d prepare his kill for dinner. He cared so much for me then, even resisted pressures from his family to marry a new wife because I couldn’t bear him a child. He was a good husband.

Now he's…a killer.

A demon!

Suddenly I remember. Under my feet. Chalk.

Holding him closer, I slide my left foot around him in a curving motion, making sure it doesn’t lift from the sand. I do the same with my right foot, until it connects with the arc from the left.

The killer looks at me, sober expression in his eyes. “I missed holding you like this.”

I swing a punch at his jaw and jump backwards.

He tries moving towards me but stops in mid-action. He looks down, sees the chalk circling him. Then he looks at me, his eyes wide with fear.

I smile. “Tricked you fool.”

Just then Shola emerges from the cluster of coconut trees in the right, clutching a small basket. “I thought I’d totally lost you to the past.”

“Let me do the rites.”

She hands the basket to me. I look inside: a bowl of salt, another bowl of dried, sliced garlic, and a box of matches.

Salt ejects a demon from its host body. Smoke from burning garlic weakens the demon and banishes it from Earth forever.

The killer begins to tremble as I walk towards him; he knows I’ve done this so many times.


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

Thanks for reading! And stay tuned for the thirteenth episode 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.