Seafoam

This piece was originally included in Haunted MTL‘s 101 Proof Horror anthology. It has since then been re-edited and presented here.

Harold Lee was never a brave man and he never claimed to be one.

At the time he was 32 years old and living a moderately successful life as an investor for a mid-level firm in New York. It wasn’t quite the prestige level of some of his classmates, but he’d done well enough to earn himself decent vacations each and every year.

This time around he had chosen to wile away his two weeks on the beaches in Jamaica.

The island was beautiful, and the touristy areas offered him all that he wanted. He was not interested in going outside the polished and safe experiences that were comfortable for him. After all, he was a coward.

He had sprung a little extra this time around for a nice cabana on a beach somewhere. He liked it there in the early mornings when there were fewer people around. It was just as well for Harold as talking to people would turn his mouth into a cotton bundle.

Sometimes there were no people around. He liked those times best.

One morning he rose early to watch the sunrise from the comfort of the cabana. He sat in his chair in the early morning twilight and gazed out into the sea. Everything seemed in order until he noticed distress in the water.

He rose from his seat and made his way to the darkened sand where cold early-morning waves lapped against the shore. His eyes were transfixed to the churning of water and, to his horror, he saw a person splashing. Whether the horror was the sanctity of his private moment being disturbed, or it being the reveal of what was to occur, is hard to say.

He stepped further into the frigid breaching and noticed it was a young girl. She could not have been older than 12, he reasoned. Her hair was long and dark; that was all he could see from his current distance. He waded out further and she tried splashing closer to him. Her skin was beginning to turn pale from what had once been brown.

Harold froze. He watched, stepping no further into the water. The roiling bubbles of seafoam fizzled and popped at his legs.

The splashing had stopped now. She was still so very, very far out in unbelievably cold water. If he attempted to swim out there to try to carry her body back to shore he’d surely die, as he had never been a great swimmer. He was always one for the shallower ends.

It was too cold, he was not strong enough, and by now she was dead and gone.

He sighed.

He was lying to himself, he knew as much; but the lie was convincing enough that he packed up his beach gear, walked back to the hotel, and cut his vacation short. He spent the rest of his time off the beach, and like the other guests, he too expressed regret about the drowning of the young girl as the news came in.

All the while he waited patiently for the next flight out.

The next week, Harold was back at work and had pushed the girl’s unpreventable death from his mind. It was a tragic thing to witness, but nothing could be done.

…

Over the course of five years, he had avoided beaches since then. With time, the strange guilt passed and the drowned girl was more or less forgotten. After all, he wouldn’t have been able to save her. She was already dead when he arrived, after all.

He’d even considered going back to Jamaica again.

It was a cold day in New York, months away from his next trip, when Harold Lee decided to wander off for an afternoon to Coney Island. He’d lived in the city for close to a decade but had never been to that particular landmark. The kitsch was appealing to him now. The proximity to open water didn’t cause any undue waryness.

The trip proved worthwhile and satisfying. Harold made his way to the beach to look at the sea and thought about very little. As the sky grew darker, Harold continued to stare outward. He felt at peace. It had been a good life.

Shortly down the way, he saw something drift on the waves and onto the shore. He considered avoiding it, but something about it called to him, this misshapen lump among damp sand.

Curious, he approached. To his shock what had washed ashore was a corpse, about the size of a child. The long black hair, tangled in seaweed, made dark swirls on a threadbare dress. The skin was a sickly grey. Seamfoam bbubbled at the edges of the child’s shape

Harold was not a brave man, and never claimed he was, but something compelled him to move closer. Something in his gut drove him closer. There were others on the beach, but they kept their distance. Perhaps they hadn’t noticed the corpse? He wished he had failed to do so. The pull was too strong like the tide sucking a wader in the sea, further and further, like sinking into the slick wet sand as the gravity of the tide bears one’s weight along. His mind raced as the sight of the drowning child and his trip years ago came thrashing back, a flurry of splashes and gargles in the distance on a cold morning. He began to sob and shiver as he made his way around the body. He needed to see the face.

He crouched down a couple of feet from the corpse and stared into cold and accusing eyes.

It was as though time nor tide had changed a thing about her.

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