Beachfront Burial

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
A mysterious beachfront home, and one ladys nightmare.

Written last year, I was 13years old and in year 8 at school. No changes have been made.

Submitted: July 05, 2012

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Submitted: July 05, 2012

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Clare stepped out of her car and took in a deep breath of clean, salty sea air. The sky was clear and a beautiful pale blue, with birds flying overhead. She had moved to the coast from the city, leaving behind the busy, dirty, never stopping lifestyle she had always despised. Clare craved to relax, to have friends in a small close knit community, to feel safe. She had quit her high paying job as it depressed her. Clare had worked at a museum, researching local indigenous history. She had found the mistreatment and cruelty to the Aboriginal Australians unfair, and had lobbied against the injustice her whole life.

 

After only a few minutes in her new life Clare felt happier, and as the soaked up the stunning seascape she began to smile, knowing she was where she belonged. Gathering the few small shabby suitcases she had brought with her Clare opened the door to her new home. The townspeople often wondered why the house was frequently empty, as it was set right on the beachfront, and was a beautiful home. Some said it was too expensive, others assumed it was too small, no one came close to the truth. Clare, however, was blissfully ignorant of the townspeople speculations as she planned renovations and new gardens.

 

From the moment Clare shut the front door behind her, she felt uncomfortable. Though it was warm and sunny outside, the inside of the house was a bone chilling temperature. There were spider webs and piles of dust centimetre thick, when real estate agents had been in to clean only three days earlier. Pushing her anxiety aside and telling herself not to be foolish, Clare set her belongs down at the foot of the stairs and began to open the window to air the house.

 

Late that night Clare heard a low rumbling, slowly getting louder ad closer. Thinking it was thunder she went to close all the windows in case of a storm. They were all shut. Feeling a little uneasy Clare heard the thunder again. However now it was much closer, coming from the attic. She then realized it wasn’t thunder, but heavy footsteps. While deciding what to do, the lights started flickering. Clare peered out the windows. The rest of the streets electricity was perfect.

 

"She should not be here, she must leave immediately!"

 

"She won’t leave, they believe they own everything!"

 

"We must do something! I didn’t sacrifice my life for my tribes’ sacred land to become white man’s possession."

 

"I know and agree. We will give her a week. If she isn't gone by then we will have to kill her."

 

Clare strained her ears, trying to pick up more of the harsh conversation. The voices were rough, hoarse and they scared her. It sounded like if she didn’t leave within a week they would…

 

"Stop" Clare muttered to herself "I must be going mad, thinking I'm hearing voices."

 Thinking about how silly she was being Clare marched upstairs and went to bed. But Clare was up all night, tossing and turning. At around 1am she could sense spooky, shadowy figures at the end of her bed. Heavy breathing echoed mysteriously around the small room.

 

The next five days were mixed bags of emotions for Clare. She spent as much time as possible in town, surrounded by other people. Clare loved the simply, picturesque town and its residents, and they loved her back. The beach was her favourite place, a place where she could relax, unwind and forget her troubles.

 

But when the sun set Clare was forced back into her house. She frequently heard footsteps and low, disturbing voices. No matter how hard Clare scrubbed the dust and cobwebs wouldn’t budge. Sometimes pools of thick, dusty liquid would appear on the ground, only to vanish when she blinked. The temperature was always below freezing, even when it was in the high thirties outside.

 

Late at night was the worst. The shadowy figures she saw on her first night never left. Clare would hear odd noises all over the house, but was too terrified to leave her bed. Sleep never came easily, and when she did drop under gory spirits haunted her dreams.

 

It was Clare's sixth night in the house, and she couldn't forget what the ghosts had said they'd do if she stayed longer than a week. That night she braced herself and decided that tonight she'd talk to the ghosts. Clare, scared out of her skin, got herself ready for bed and climbed in. As usual the spirits were there.

 

Glaring. Whispering.

 

"What-"

Just as Clare went to speak two figures flew at her. Long, strong fingers gripped at her neck, slowly constricting her airways. Her body was pinned to the bed; she couldn’t move let alone fight. Clare's shoulders were violently shaken, and her feet twisted and the bones nearly cracked. Her ears were pulled and pinched, and large chunks of hair gouged out. Finally she was lifted metres in the air, and flung back onto her bed.

 

This torture lasted what seemed like hours to Clare, but in reality was only around ten minutes. The whole time she was paralysed with fear, but her mind was running through millions of flashbacks. She w mostly wondering what bought on this torture and who, or what, was inflicting it. However Clare truly thought she was going to die and hundreds of old memories flashed through her head like a mini movie.

 

Clare spent the rest of the night wide awake, battered and bruised. Sitting bolt upright, hugging herself, Clare watched spectral figures float around her room. She heard footsteps and whispered conversations that she couldn’t, and didn’t want to, understand. She was shaking, terrified out of her wits, her only wish was to leave the house alive.

 

As the first rays of sun came over the horizon Clare gathered her belongings and flew out to her car. She turned the key, but it didn’t start. That’s when she heard that deep, rough, familiar voice.

 

"Smart girl to leave, others haven't been so lucky."

 

A group of joggers ran past Clare's car just as she heard the voice. They saw her turn bone white, start the engine, and speed away. That was the last they ever saw of Clare.

 

That night the townspeople awoke to the smell of smoke. The beautiful beach front home had burnt to the ground. The fire fighters were puzzled when they couldn’t find the source of the blaze, but even more so when, even though the flames were burning throughout, the house was ice cold. A local historian uncovered the house was built on an indigenous burial ground from long ago.

 

Was it a coincidence that Clare had fought for indigenous rights? Did the spirits not know she was on their side? Or was in punishment for leaving her work, for stopping being one of the few people who did fight for the traditional owners of the land? Clare heard about the fire, and the burial site. She knew that she was right to flee.

 

"I'm lucky to be alive" Clare told a friend "But I’ll never erase the pictures of those outstretched hands torturing me, and those fierce, glowing, white eyes staring at me, mocking me."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


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