Laura Walker is an aspiring author living in Portland, Oregon. While she is a novice at crafting horror stories, she has had a passion for creative writing and poetry since childhood. She is also a life-long reader of all things horror and hopes to continue to learn while drawing inspiration for her own macabre creations.
NOT ALL WHO WANDER
by
Laura Walker
No one believed me, and then it happened again. Something was tapping on the sliding glass door leading out onto the deck. I turned on the outside light and approached the railing. Down below, there was only the seagrass gently dancing in the nighttime breeze. For the third night, I gave up in frustration and turned to go back inside. Tonight, however, I saw that there were fingerprints on the glass. I knew the only access to that deck was the doorway I was standing in. My stomach dropped.
After so many years, it was surreal to return to the beach house where my family used to spend a few days over the Fourth of July holiday each summer. The house had been occupied by the owner year-round since the early 2000s. To my surprise, it was like stepping back in time. The house was nearly untouched, with kitschy coastal decor dominating every room. The ships' wheels, nets cradling sand dollars, and nautical art were as endearing as ever. The old spell washed over me once again, like coming home after years spent lost and wandering.
The following morning, I awoke to texts from my mom and sister.
“Did your friend come to call last night?” my mom teased.
The one from my sister Mary was just a gif of a creeping, hooded specter from an old black-and-white cartoon. After the second night of strange happenings, I confided in them. Mary suggested that maybe some local kids were playing a prank by throwing bits of gravel up at the windows. I decided not to mention the other occurrences: the fully lit house every evening when I returned, the small clusters of perfect shells left by the front door, or how the hall cupboard would open of its own volition to display the old collection of VHS tapes. I knew they'd only chalk it up to faulty wiring. The house's and my own.
I spent the afternoon on the beach, where no shortage of dogs frolicked, crashing through the fretwork of lace the sea foam left upon the shore. I stood amid the breakers at sunset with the sun on my face and seaweed brushing over my toes.
At one point, I noticed something in my periphery. Several yards down the beach, there was a woman facing my direction. She stood at the same depth, her long skirt being pulled back and forth in a tug of war by the waves. She lifted one arm towards me, palm to the sky, as if she were offering me a hand. I decided she must have mistaken me for someone she knew. A dog chasing a frisbee thundered past, showering my back in cold seawater. I brushed away the droplets. When I looked back down the beach, the woman was gone.
That evening, I took my visitors' suggestion and picked a VHS from the box. As I was lazily peeling myself up off the couch to put in the second tape of Titanic, I was startled by the sound of crashing and clattering in the basement. I made my way down the steep, dark staircase that always gave me the creeps when I was a child. I would imagine all manner of ghosts and ghouls stalking up the steps to drag my sleeping form to its doom.
A box had fallen from one of the shelves. I perused a photo album that appeared to be from the eighties. A couple had documented their happy days here at the house. I flipped to one photo of the woman standing and posing on the deck. She wore a bright, white top with short sleeves and a long, flowing red skirt. The expression of joy on her face was unmistakable. I knew how she felt, being surrounded by such a beautiful place. We smiled together just then. It helped to push away the incredible musings on my mind.
Back upstairs, I realized how quiet the house was. There was not even the nightly tapping to keep my company, just the ticking of the dolphin wall clock in the kitchen. A sense of unease crept over me. It was that prickly fear that makes itself known only in the small hours. As if you aren’t alone at all and need only check the shadows in the corners of your vision. Distraction is always the answer to those dangerous ponderings. I pressed ‘play’ on the dusty VCR, and by degrees, I was sucked back into the world of third-class parties and foggy Renault windows.
Around 2 a.m. I finally stumbled down the stairs to bed. As I slid between the sheets, I felt something cold and hard on my toes. It moved, and I squealed in terror. I violently threw back the covers to reveal a live crab. It squirmed on the bed, antennas twitching as it tried to gain purchase on the soft surface. I immediately remembered the same scenario decades earlier, when my mischievous grandpa played a joke on me by hiding a crab in my sleeping bag. It suddenly became very clear to me that I was the visitor here, returning at last.
I carefully picked up the crab and started back down to the beach. It was empty and still aside from a silhouette of a person out in the water. Drawing closer to the waterline, the shape of a woman became apparent. She was waist deep and advancing quickly. I shouted to her, afraid that she was about to make an irreparable choice. I hurried on, stumbling over the waves to catch up. I was too late, and the woman disappeared beneath the dark water, a plume of crimson fabric barely visible as she went under. I ran back to the house, intending to get my phone to call for help. As I approached the front door, I stopped in my tracks. On the wooden steps were fresh, wet footprints shining in the moonlight.