The Corpses of Conch Cove

Kittiwake

I've lived here my entire life, and only once did I venture to Conch Cove.

It was a mistake I made when young and foolish, and one I shall never repeat.

In fact, I'm lucky to still be alive now in my old age. But the same can't be said for poor John, who was the one to come along with me.

Growing up, I was always told by my grandmother:

"Florence, whenever you go out, always remember to stick to Shell Beach, do not under any circumstances turn the corner by the pier, you'll go right onto 'That Place'...

That place is evil. Do not ever go there."

She'd always say that, that it was 'evil'. As a kid it would terrify me, but once I got to my early teens, it almost seemed a joke to me.

How could a place be evil anyway?

After hundreds of times hearing this, I became conditioned to stay away. Everyone in town did, so it didn't feel abnormal.

Yet the more I heard it and the older I got into my teens, the more I began to roll my eyes or scoff at my poor grandmothers advice.

In her earlier years she might've given me the belt, but at that time she'd become an old and frail woman, and could only look at me with cutting disappointment.

So, one night, I was seeing my sweetheart at the time. His name was John, he was lovely, his laugh used to light up anyone, even if one was in a foul mood. If I'd had a bad day, John would always listen and cheer me up.

Sadly, I took it all for granted. I loved that man, I saw us growing old together. Instead I sit now alone in my old grandmother's house, sitting in her rocking chair, wondering when my body will finally be too old to continue working at all.

When I look in the mirror at myself, all I see is a reflection of my poor grandmother, deep wrinkles and wild white hair. It really is like looking into her old, clouded eyes again. I sometimes forget they're mine.

It's funny how history repeats itself, perhaps, had John lived, I'd have had children with him, who'd be here to look after me or at least give me some company.

Anyway, that night we'd arranged to meet at Shell Beach. It was a nice enough place, scattered rock pools, fairly soft sand often streaked with seaweed.

Most fishermen in the town would frequent Shell Beach, so it was usually awash with tackle boxes, rods and lines far offshore into the murky waters.

There was a pier to the right, then the sand seemed to end, but standing on the pier, one could turn with their back to the sea and could see the infamous Conch Cove area.

Not a lot of people even went on that pier, fearing it somehow was cursed by Conch Cove behind it.

Shell Beach to the left slowly became Limpet Rock, the next part of the shore, filled with jagged rocks and huge seaweed covered stones.

If you were to hobble across Limpet Rock, you came to Cockle Bay, which was a very small shore in a crescent shape, with rocks either side. That's more or less where the beach ended.

Cockle Bay was rather nice, a lot of shells washed up there so you had to watch your footing. Sea bird nests were behind it, and up a sheer cliff.

Also above this beach, atop the cliff, was the lighthouse. St. Catherine's light house stood tall, often in use, blinking its bright beam out over the horizon.

Many ships docked on the rocks at Cockle Bay, tied to the shore and bobbing in the water, much like the seagulls beside them.

John and I had arranged to meet just before sunset, so around half past six on that night.