On stormy nights when the winds roared through the oaks and the rain lashed the windows of the old house, I dreamt I was aboard a stately galleon. Those were the times when the shadows of the storm tossed boughs upon the walls of my bedroom, became the very waves beneath my keel. Invariably, in every dream, I would fall into that roaring surf, to twirl and turn, like a helpless leaf in the gale, until I surrendered to the calm benthos of a deeper sleep.
Even now I cannot remember a single night without
sea dreams. Which is remarkable given
that I was born about as far inland as it is possible to get and that my father
had the strongest aversion to merely visiting anywhere near the coast.
Perhaps my inquisitive nature was piqued by his
attitude? I now recognise he had what
modern psychologists would call a phobia, but as a child, all I saw was
his unreasonable and unbending attitude to my enduring fascination and interest
in all things marine. I soon learnt to
stop expressing this facet of my young mind under the heavy hand and dark looks
of his disapproval. An innocent request
for a jolly trip to the seaside brought me a beating. I could not see the harm in it, but I learnt
to still my tongue and not speak of it.
I hid my childish paintings of ships in emerald seas and pirates and
treasure islands beneath my bed, I smuggled books about marine life into my
room - all the time aware I was going against Pater’s wishes.
Perhaps if he had not been so stern upon the
subject, it would never have held such a grip over me? But I say again, where was the harm? After all, two of my young playmates from
school had been to the seaside in the holidays and the way they spoke of the
churning green-grey water thrilled me!
You must understand, this was back in 1918 and I
was but five years old then, and completely without any understanding of tides
or the moon’s influence, so it struck me as particularly magical that there
could be places upon this earth where the order of the well-ploughed field gave
way to a seemingly unending chaos of wind-swept water. I could not imagine it, but, even without
sight of it, somehow my mind created such scenes for me, night after night in
those strangely prophetic dreams.
Thought I knew not from whence it came, somehow the
sea was in my blood.
Thus begins my new horror novella 'Seaside.' Out next month, it's the third in the Horror in a Hurry Series. My homage to H.P.Lovecraft's 'The Shadow Over Innsmouth,' it also nods towards The Wicker Man...'
