withusyouwillstay (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
withusyouwillstay) wrote2015-06-18 05:33 pm
withusyouwillstay) wrote2015-06-18 05:33 pm
Home By The Sea.
Some things are not as innocent as they appear.
And some people can be fooled by what they see...
The house that perched near the end of the jutty that stretched out towards the sea was a simple, non-descript sort of abode. Two stories tall, with well-laid brickwork and a wooden roof with stone walls, and looking as though it had been built within the last one hundred years, though in truth it was far older than that, as it had been there when the town was only a few buildings dotting the shore. Despite its appearance it had a look of humility compared to the more modern buildings that now gathered about the shoreline like a flock of gulls waiting to head out to sea.
A modest dwelling, fit for a modest homeowner, but no one lived there, as far as anyone in town knew.
Oh, it certainly looked well-kept, for a building with no tenant, but the lands around the house made it clear that for all intents and purposes was abandoned. The rusting fence with the gate hanging from one hinge, and a lawn overgrown with weeds and brush was proof of that.
And that was something that wasn't going to change.
Since no one in the town wanted it.
No one wanted to sell it, and no one wanted to buy it. No one wanted it there, and no one wanted it torn down.
Instead, most people acted as if the home by the sea didn't exist at all.
Because everyone who lived in the sleepy little seaside town was afraid of it.
For as long as anyone in the town could remember, the home by the sea had been the subject of many a story best told as far away from the subject in question as possible, out of some superstition that the house could always tell when it was being spoken about.
Folks in that place knew that the house was only innocent as far as its exterior went.
The sum of the story went like thus: no one was supposed to go into the house, because everyone in town knew that anyone who went in, never came out.
Oh sure, there were those who scoffed at the notion, claiming that people who went in came out well and good, but so far, that belief had never been tested. And since no one went in, no one worried about coming out.
The local youths, being somewhat more skeptical than the elders, were the ones most likely to find the rumours about the home by the sea to be little more than a ghost story that had become too good to tell to stop telling it. Every now and then, as a dare, one of the youths would be asked to go into the house and take something from it.
They never did. Instead they made sure to grab something that their friends would believe had come from the house, and thus fulfill the bet.
If no one goes in, then there's no worry about never coming out. And everyone - skeptic or believer - did not need to worry about whether the stories were true.
During the summer, when tourists swelled the population from first double, and then to triple, people would temporarily forget their fears about the old house, because the tourists were often quite wealthy, and the inhabitants were only too happy to entertain their seasonal guests. Fishing. Boating. Walks out on the piers and the beach. It all kept everyone's mind off what they didn't want to think about at all.
It was during this time that a young man had made his way into town. He was something of a thief and burglar, yet no one here knew about that. To them, he was just another tourist, out for a bit of sun, sand and surf. And he was happy about that.
If they don't pay attention to you, then they won't know what's coming.
It was the rich tourists that had lured him here, and they made easy pickings for the thief. A watch here. Some money there. Maybe a piece of jewellery. But no one suspected the stranger, since he had a way of moving amongst everyone like shadow.
And since he was never suspected until much, much later, he was never caught.
One night, while listening to the sounds of music and accented voices floating up from the streets below, the thief found himself in front of the old house on the jutty. During all his time here in this seaside town, he'd never once even noticed it.
Despite its age and well-preserved exterior, it didn't seem like anyone lived there.
But it certainly looked as though someone once had.
Pondering over who would've lived in this house, and what sort of things they'd owned, he found himself walking up to and past the rusted gate.
The stone path that led up to the veranda was cracked and worn, unlike the house, and choked with weeds, but he paid it no mind.
All his thoughts were on his destination.
When he got up to the veranda, he reached in his pocket for the small flashlight he carried. Before he turned it on, he checked over his shoulder to see if anyone was watching from the street.
No one.
Good.
Shining the beam this way and that, he noticed that, despite appearing to be unowned, the house was full of all manner of valuables. Perhaps it wasn't uninhabited after all, and the exterior was just a ruse to keep people from thinking anyone was home.
Switching off his flashlight and pocketing it, the thief set about looking for the easiest way inside. This place would be easy pickings, and before anyone knew he'd been there, he'd be long gone.
Carefully, he made his way about inside, only using his flashlight when he was sure he was well away from any reflective surface or window looking outside. The house was a treasure trove; full from top to bottom. It was just like being in a candy store, but better. And one he planned to come back to, since there was plenty here for him to take before he was done with the house.
However, the further he went in, the more an odd feeling in his gut began to build.
It was not guilt - he never felt guilt. But it made him keep looking over his shoulder every time he picked something up to pocket away.
Something moved out of the corner of his eye, and he nearly dropped what he was holding. He looked about, and seeing nothing, resumed making his way about.
This time a whisper could be heard.
One whisper. Then more.
And more movement.
The thief looked about him, ready in case the owner was home. He was not going to let himself get caught.
The whisper became clearer.
"Ssssssssssssiiiiittttttttttt dddddoooowwwwwnnnn...."
Stupidly, amateurishly, the thief called out, "Who's there?"
"Sssssssiiiiittttt ddddddoooowwwnnnn...."
"What? No!"
"Sssssssiiiittttt dddddooowwwwwnnnn.... Lllllliiiissssteeennn to uuuusssss...."
Frightened beyond caring about the house's valuables, the thief began to run towards the nearest exit, but found his pathway blocked.
Shadows, like men, surrounded him.
He could easily pass by them, for they had no substance, but his fear kept him rooted to the floor.
Or was it only that?
"Sssssiiiittttt ddddooowwwwnnnn.... Lllllisssttennn tooo ussss..."
"NO! To hell with that! I'm getting out of here!"
"Llllllletttt usssss oooouuttt offfff heerrrrrreeee...."
"I'm getting out—"
"Ssssssiiiitttt ddddoooowwwwwnnnn.... Llllllettt ussss telllll yooouuuuu..."
"No I won't—"
Yyyyyyoooouuuuu cannnnnottttt. Ssssssiiiiitttt dddddooowwwwnnnn.... Llllisssstennn toooo ussssss."
Paralysed by fear and something else he couldn't identify, he remained trapped where he stood, as the shadows swirled around him, whispering:
"Ssssssiiiittttt dddddoooowwwwnnnn.... Ssssstttaaaayyy wwwiiiiittthhhh usssss..... Yyyyyoooouuu cccccaaaannnnoootttt lllleeeaaavvveee...."
As they closed in around him, he let out a terrified scream...
When the dawn broke that morning, all that could be found of the thief's having been here was that the rusting gate was hanging a little more loosely from its hinge.
"'Ey. Looks like another one went and gone into the house again, eh?"
And some people can be fooled by what they see...
The house that perched near the end of the jutty that stretched out towards the sea was a simple, non-descript sort of abode. Two stories tall, with well-laid brickwork and a wooden roof with stone walls, and looking as though it had been built within the last one hundred years, though in truth it was far older than that, as it had been there when the town was only a few buildings dotting the shore. Despite its appearance it had a look of humility compared to the more modern buildings that now gathered about the shoreline like a flock of gulls waiting to head out to sea.
A modest dwelling, fit for a modest homeowner, but no one lived there, as far as anyone in town knew.
Oh, it certainly looked well-kept, for a building with no tenant, but the lands around the house made it clear that for all intents and purposes was abandoned. The rusting fence with the gate hanging from one hinge, and a lawn overgrown with weeds and brush was proof of that.
And that was something that wasn't going to change.
Since no one in the town wanted it.
No one wanted to sell it, and no one wanted to buy it. No one wanted it there, and no one wanted it torn down.
Instead, most people acted as if the home by the sea didn't exist at all.
Because everyone who lived in the sleepy little seaside town was afraid of it.
For as long as anyone in the town could remember, the home by the sea had been the subject of many a story best told as far away from the subject in question as possible, out of some superstition that the house could always tell when it was being spoken about.
Folks in that place knew that the house was only innocent as far as its exterior went.
The sum of the story went like thus: no one was supposed to go into the house, because everyone in town knew that anyone who went in, never came out.
Oh sure, there were those who scoffed at the notion, claiming that people who went in came out well and good, but so far, that belief had never been tested. And since no one went in, no one worried about coming out.
The local youths, being somewhat more skeptical than the elders, were the ones most likely to find the rumours about the home by the sea to be little more than a ghost story that had become too good to tell to stop telling it. Every now and then, as a dare, one of the youths would be asked to go into the house and take something from it.
They never did. Instead they made sure to grab something that their friends would believe had come from the house, and thus fulfill the bet.
If no one goes in, then there's no worry about never coming out. And everyone - skeptic or believer - did not need to worry about whether the stories were true.
During the summer, when tourists swelled the population from first double, and then to triple, people would temporarily forget their fears about the old house, because the tourists were often quite wealthy, and the inhabitants were only too happy to entertain their seasonal guests. Fishing. Boating. Walks out on the piers and the beach. It all kept everyone's mind off what they didn't want to think about at all.
It was during this time that a young man had made his way into town. He was something of a thief and burglar, yet no one here knew about that. To them, he was just another tourist, out for a bit of sun, sand and surf. And he was happy about that.
If they don't pay attention to you, then they won't know what's coming.
It was the rich tourists that had lured him here, and they made easy pickings for the thief. A watch here. Some money there. Maybe a piece of jewellery. But no one suspected the stranger, since he had a way of moving amongst everyone like shadow.
And since he was never suspected until much, much later, he was never caught.
One night, while listening to the sounds of music and accented voices floating up from the streets below, the thief found himself in front of the old house on the jutty. During all his time here in this seaside town, he'd never once even noticed it.
Despite its age and well-preserved exterior, it didn't seem like anyone lived there.
But it certainly looked as though someone once had.
Pondering over who would've lived in this house, and what sort of things they'd owned, he found himself walking up to and past the rusted gate.
The stone path that led up to the veranda was cracked and worn, unlike the house, and choked with weeds, but he paid it no mind.
All his thoughts were on his destination.
When he got up to the veranda, he reached in his pocket for the small flashlight he carried. Before he turned it on, he checked over his shoulder to see if anyone was watching from the street.
No one.
Good.
Shining the beam this way and that, he noticed that, despite appearing to be unowned, the house was full of all manner of valuables. Perhaps it wasn't uninhabited after all, and the exterior was just a ruse to keep people from thinking anyone was home.
Switching off his flashlight and pocketing it, the thief set about looking for the easiest way inside. This place would be easy pickings, and before anyone knew he'd been there, he'd be long gone.
Carefully, he made his way about inside, only using his flashlight when he was sure he was well away from any reflective surface or window looking outside. The house was a treasure trove; full from top to bottom. It was just like being in a candy store, but better. And one he planned to come back to, since there was plenty here for him to take before he was done with the house.
However, the further he went in, the more an odd feeling in his gut began to build.
It was not guilt - he never felt guilt. But it made him keep looking over his shoulder every time he picked something up to pocket away.
Something moved out of the corner of his eye, and he nearly dropped what he was holding. He looked about, and seeing nothing, resumed making his way about.
This time a whisper could be heard.
One whisper. Then more.
And more movement.
The thief looked about him, ready in case the owner was home. He was not going to let himself get caught.
The whisper became clearer.
"Ssssssssssssiiiiittttttttttt dddddoooowwwwwnnnn...."
Stupidly, amateurishly, the thief called out, "Who's there?"
"Sssssssiiiiittttt ddddddoooowwwnnnn...."
"What? No!"
"Sssssssiiiittttt dddddooowwwwwnnnn.... Lllllliiiissssteeennn to uuuusssss...."
Frightened beyond caring about the house's valuables, the thief began to run towards the nearest exit, but found his pathway blocked.
Shadows, like men, surrounded him.
He could easily pass by them, for they had no substance, but his fear kept him rooted to the floor.
Or was it only that?
"Sssssiiiittttt ddddooowwwwnnnn.... Lllllisssttennn tooo ussss..."
"NO! To hell with that! I'm getting out of here!"
"Llllllletttt usssss oooouuttt offfff heerrrrrreeee...."
"I'm getting out—"
"Ssssssiiiitttt ddddoooowwwwwnnnn.... Llllllettt ussss telllll yooouuuuu..."
"No I won't—"
Yyyyyyoooouuuuu cannnnnottttt. Ssssssiiiiitttt dddddooowwwwnnnn.... Llllisssstennn toooo ussssss."
Paralysed by fear and something else he couldn't identify, he remained trapped where he stood, as the shadows swirled around him, whispering:
"Ssssssiiiittttt dddddoooowwwwnnnn.... Ssssstttaaaayyy wwwiiiiittthhhh usssss..... Yyyyyoooouuu cccccaaaannnnoootttt lllleeeaaavvveee...."
As they closed in around him, he let out a terrified scream...
When the dawn broke that morning, all that could be found of the thief's having been here was that the rusting gate was hanging a little more loosely from its hinge.
"'Ey. Looks like another one went and gone into the house again, eh?"