Bert S. Lechner is an indie cosmic horror author on the autism spectrum. He started out writing science fiction and fantasy stories, as well as a tabletop roleplaying game, when he was in high school, but did not truly fall in love with writing until graduating university in 2013. After years of jumping between jobs, from pizza maker to wine specialist to IT technician, Bert decided to focus on making writing a career, publishing his first story on The Prose in June of 2022. Since then he has published seven short stories and two novelettes, and has a paperback cosmic horror collection coming out later this year as well as a massive backlog of novels and short horror stories.
When he is not writing Bert can be found baking, cooking, hanging out with cats, and playing video games, oftentimes simultaneously.
BEACH DAY
by
Bert S. Lechner
She couldn’t have asked for a better day to go to the beach.
A soothing blanket of calm wrapped around her as she crested the ridge of wild, dusty-green grass and tenacious succulents. The sea captured her attention, its surface a rippling fabric of thousands of glittering sapphire facets, the white peaks of gentle waves meandering towards the long arc of golden sand and its many encampments of colorful towels and beach umbrellas. The rustle of blades of grass, the drone of crashing waves, the needy cry of gulls above settled in her ear, a welcoming, gentle atmosphere of ambiance. A gentle wind brushed against her face, cool, misty, a balm for the intense heat from the noon sun above.
She took a deep breath, relishing the briny, humid air and the fatty smell of sunblock. Now this is a summer vacation…
Raising her hand above her eyes she scanned the beach, assessing the sand, the crowds, going through her checklist. Not too far from people, but not too close…sufficient distance from the waves…not too much flotsam and jetsam…
“Bingo.”
The perfect spot, not too far away. With light, carefree steps she navigated the beach, winding between the enclaves of beach goers, the warm sand wrapping around her sandals and caressing her toes. She caught a smile cross her lips as she walked, a hum across her tongue to join the bouncy tunes from a nearby speaker. Shifting the cumbersome beach umbrella and heavy cooler in her hands she basked in the atmosphere of relaxation around her, a stark contrast to the gray, nine hour shifts at the office.
Within a few minutes she arrived at her claim, a generous stretch of smooth, gold sand free of debris. Setting down her gear she surveyed her new domain, surprised that more of this pristine portion of the beach had not become a beach towel colony. “My lucky day, I guess…”
She unfurled her beach towel, pinning it to the sand with her bag before the wind had a chance to try and steal it. Satisfied with the positioning she hefted the umbrella, its awkward height making it unwieldy in sunscreen slickened, sand dusted hands. With a heave she raised it above her head and stabbed it into the sand.
Crack.
Jarring vibrations flashed through her hands, hot sparks of pain erupting at the grain of the wood catching on the skin of her palms. She pushed aside the umbrella, wringing out her hands, staring at the sand in confusion. Did I hit a rock or something?
She kneeled, the sun at her back, her knees cushioned by the soft beach. Her hands still stinging she began to dig, grimacing as tiny grains pushed their way into her nail beds with each heap of sand she pulled aside. Only when she had excavated a small crater in the ground did she question why she had started to dig in the first place.
Her fingers brushed against something cold. A shiver echoed through her arms, shock and confusion blindsiding her at the severe frigidity of the thing beneath her fingertips. A few more scoops of sand and the object appeared, her jaw dropping in wonder.
A large, misshapen sphere, its black, glassy surface reflecting her distorted expression of puzzlement. “Obsidian?” she muttered, her eyes traveling across the large, smooth pits and fine edges that composed its surface. Not quite. She had seen pieces of obsidian plenty of times, from the chunks sold in tourist traps along highways to the elegant carved glassy tools displayed in museums. The sphere before her reminded her more of a skylight at night: a thin sheet of glass blackened not by pigmentation but by the overwhelming emptiness of the void.
She shuffled to one side to let the sun shine light upon her find, but found it no easier to observe. The uneasy feeling of being watched by someone unseen clasped the back of her neck, her eyes fighting to make sense of the way the light seemed to avoid the strange glassy orb in the sand.
Bury it, screamed a voice in her head, its panic echoing out of her mind and into her ears. The warning arrived too late. She watched, an anchor of terror dropping in her stomach as something within the dark sphere squirmed, her eyes now picking out an umbral knot of glistening serpentine things twisting within. Paralyzed she watched it bloom, its mottled, glassy exterior splitting, peeling away in quarters, soundless against the rhythmic growl of the sea and the worried cries of the seagulls above. She tried to shout but found no breath, tried to get up and run but found no strength: only cold, leaden fear, a heavy mantle of panic as the writhing sphere of knotted tendrils unfurled, testing the briny air with their rows of sharp crooked beaks.
Only then did she find her ability to scream, her final cries for help drowned by the roar of the waves as the squirming mass dragged her beneath the sand, piece by piece.