The House

Chapter 17 - Day 2: The Beach

Don't go to sleep!

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I didn't go to sleep, I promise. I just sat down on the bed and browsed around on my phone for a couple of minutes; that's all; I didn't go to sleep. 

I didn't mean to...

I wake up on the beach. From above, the beach seemed to be nestled in the embrace of two rocky outcrops, protecting it from wind and weather. In reality, the stone arms running deep into the ocean do nothing of the kind. 

The wind is howling, trying to wrench my clothes off of me. My feet are bare, and my hair is a tangled mess around my head. It's night, but I can somehow see quite well, even though there is no sign of the moon or stars in the dark sky.

How did I get here? 

I have no broken bones, as far as I can tell, and I don't seem to be scratched up or bruised. I could not have fallen from the lookout point where I sat earlier. My feet are buried in cold, wet sand, and my eyes are burning with sea spray. The air is pungent with the smell of salt. 

Seriously, how did I get here?

I'm cold, I need to get back to the house, but I cannot leave because not far from where I'm standing, a man is struggling to break free from the hold of the sea and the sand.

What?! 

I try to run towards him, certain that I should be running in the other direction, but the man is battling; he keeps on falling to his knees. He seems to be severely injured. Fighting the wind and the sucking sand, I reach him, and I cannot suppress a gasp. 

He is bleeding freely from several wounds. His clothes are in tatters, and his long, wet hair is clinging to his face, blinding him. I try to help him up, but he keeps on slipping from my numb hands.

He is losing so much blood; how is he even alive?

"Sir," the wind grabs the word from my lips and flings it away unheard. I watch, helpless, as he stumbles from the water and finally reaches dry sand. I still cannot quite get hold of him, but we somehow make it over the sand and onto a patch of wet foliage near the cliffs. 

I need to get this man some help, or he'll die.

I cannot see anything or anybody in the raging ocean. It's too dark. If there'd been a boat accident, there might be more wounded people. How do I get to the house?

I've fallen to the wild grass bordering the beach, winded from my efforts to help the man up to here. Gasping for breath, I'm surprised to see him stumble to his feet again. He is nothing if not determined. 

I scramble to my feet in pursuit. I need to tend his wounds, but there's not enough light to see them properly, and all I have on me are my pyjamas.

"Sir, is there anybody else out there?"

He doesn't answer, probably too hurt and in too much shock to respond. I stumble after him and grab him when he almost falls again. I'm not strong enough to carry his weight or to support him properly. I don't have to, the man is strong and resilient, but he is leaving a trail of blood. There is too much of it flowing from him to be safe. Where is he trying to go?

I struggle along with him, trying to support him as much as I can. It takes me a couple of minutes to realise that we're not in the wind anymore; the ground under my feet is hard and wet, covered in sand. We're in some kind of cave. Good. He can rest here while I try to find a way to my phone. 

Why didn't I sleep-walk with my phone in my hand?!

The man is not ready to rest yet, he forges on, and I trail behind him, steadying him when he stumbles. Trying to convince him to rest and wait is having no effect. He is set on going deeper into the cave.

Except that we're not in the cave anymore; we're in a tunnel. It seems to be man-made, and there are no other tunnels branching off from it. It is dark, and yet the wounded man doesn't seem to notice the lack of light as he staggers on and on, deeper into the earth. 

Has he been here before?

"Sir?" he has yet to acknowledge my presence. He has a serious head injury; he must be completely delirious. I am becoming completely winded from travelling up the steep incline of the tunnel, and then it comes to an abrupt stop at the bottom of some stairs leading up to a small landing and a door.

"Uhm..."

He doesn't stop, his movements have become increasingly laboured, his breath rasping in his throat, but he climbs the stairs and pulls a hidden lever at the top to open the door. It moves slowly, and he has to lean into it and push with all his weight until he stumbles into whatever lies beyond the door. I run in after him.

It's the basement.

The door is backed by one of the many shelves I saw earlier. It creaks shut behind me, apparently run by some kind of mechanism. I remember seeing scuff marks on the floor when I cleaned it earlier, but I'd thought nothing of it. The entire floor is marred by scuffs of many years of moving items around. 

The man is stumbling around the room, desperately trying and failing to find his way to the stairs leading to the kitchen. I stumble after him in the dense darkness. Something about this feels too familiar.

We reach the stairs, and I double over with pain. My stomach is being attacked by sharp, merciless knives. The knives are stabbing and cutting me from within; I dig my fingers into the skin of my abdomen, trying to stop the wrenching pain and collapse to the floor, screaming in agony. 

The clocks chime in, joining their screams to my own, as wave after wave of pain seems to ebb and flow along with their deafening toil.

And then I sneeze.

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