"Killer Beach" by Daniel Dubois

Killer Beach 

by Daniel W. Dubois

 

They were thrill seekers, lovers of danger, adrenaline, and living life on the sharp edge of fear. Skydiving, base jumping, cave diving, if it could kill them, they’d done it twice. So when they heard rumors of a mysterious tropical killer beach whispered about in late-night forums and travelers’ bars, they knew it was their next destination. 

The legend was always the same: a beach so beautiful it could kill you. A beach that never gave back what it took. 

They found the island without much trouble. It was a small, lush paradise with a village tucked between swaying palm trees and the edge of the jungle. The villagers were kind, welcoming, and quick to oer food and smiles. But when the couple asked about the beach the "killer beach" the air shifted. Smiles faded. Conversations died. 

No one would talk about the beach, in fear they would be cursed. 

The next day after a night of drinks and fruit under the stars, they slipped away to explore on their own. It didn’t take long to find the old man. He appeared out of nowhere, standing at the crossroads just outside the village. He was hunched, his skin the color of old leather, and he carried a tall wooden sta notched with dozens of tiny stick figures. He said nothing when they approached. Just grinned, eerily wide, then tapped the sta twice once with his finger, once on the dirt path before pointing. 

They didn’t need words. They knew what the man meant and followed the road. At the end of the road they found an unmarked trail. The trail wound through thick greenery and emerged onto a clearing where the trees opened up to reveal the most dazzling beach they’d ever seen. White sand shimmered like powdered gold. The ocean stretched endlessly, a blue so deep it looked unreal. There were no warning signs. No barriers. Just untouched beauty. 

“This can’t be the place,” she said, squinting in the sun. “It’s too perfect.” He nodded slowly. “Maybe we found the wrong one.” 

Still, they stayed.

She spread her towel on the sand and laid back, slipping o her shirt to soak in the sunlight. He wandered into the water, letting it pull him in. The ocean was warm and welcoming. 

But when he turned back to the shore, something felt off. 

Each step toward her grew heavier. He looked down. His feet were buried, first his ankles, then his shins, now his knees. The sand gripped him tight, like a fist. Panic rose in his throat. 

“Hey!” he shouted. “Something’s wrong!” 

She didn’t move. She was sleeping. Deeply. 

He tried to yell again, but his voice was swallowed by the thick, still air. Then the sand beneath her shifted. 

First, it was a subtle ripple. Then, dozens of small, black shapes emerged, sliding beneath her like living shadows. A sudden jolt went through her body. Her eyes snapped open, mouth frozen in a scream too late to stop what was coming. 

They attacked all at once. 

A blur of movement, sharp legs, gaping mouths, and slicing claws. Her stomach arched unnaturally before it erupted in a wave of crimson. Insects, dozens no, hundreds spilled from her like a burst hive. Her scream cut the air like broken glass, but the chewing was louder. A rattling chorus, like thousands of maracas. 

She fought. Kicked. Screamed again. Her arms flailed, skin tearing beneath the swarm. Her face split as if peeled away, revealing muscle, bone, and the awful round whites of her eyes before they popped loose and rolled into the sand. 

He was frozen, helpless, screaming, and sinking deeper with each passing second. 

The villagers heard her. Every scream carried to the village square, echoing o the walls. But no one moved. They smiled. They knew those screams. It meant the beach had eaten and was satisfied. No one from the village would be sacrificed that night.

Her final cry faded into silence as the sand swallowed what was left of her. Blood vanished. The beach smoothed itself out like nothing had happened. Even the footprints were gone. 

Without thinking, he tore himself from the sand and dove back into the ocean. His limbs moved on instinct, cutting through the water until he reached a rotting pier jutting out like a skeletal finger. A rusty ladder led him up. 

He collapsed on the boards, gasping. 

The island was quiet. Too quiet. 

As he staggered back toward the village, shaking and soaked, he saw the old man again. Sitting on a stone beside the road, laughing softly to himself. With calm, almost casual ease, the man carved a new stick figure into his sta. 

One more notch. 

The man looked up and grinned again, wide and wordless. 

The traveler turned, and behind him saw a wooden sign nailed to a leaning post. 

WARNING: NO ONE LEAVES THE BEACH.