These past three days have given me little chance to write, but I feel I deserve some rest now that I've finished cutting back the path, and it's as good a time as any to record all that's happened. Not that much has happened worth recording.
Work is going fine. The weather has been grey and overcast, but still mild for October, for which I can probably thank the warm southerly wind that has whipped up a fine Atlantic swell.
I can hear the waves now, pounding against the western rocks as if they're laying siege to the land. I tell you, stare too long at the ocean while it's in a dark mood, at the churning violence of its waves, the foaming spittle, and the great, explosive plumes of spray, and you start to remember that, given time, the sea will win this war against stone and earth. At times like these, it seems the height of arrogance for me, a creature of clay, to settle myself so close to its shores.
I still haven't been sleeping well, but that has to change soon with all the physical labour I've been doing. Last night, as I snatched a couple of hours, I had the oddest dream. I dreamt the sound of hooves clopping past my cottage, a sound that lingered in my ears as I woke.
Mrs Andrews' tale must have affected me more than I thought.
YOU ARE READING
The Quiet Sea
HorrorNo one lives on the island anymore. But plagued by a lack of sleep and an unshakable feeling of wrongness, its last visitor begins to question whether they are really alone.
