Page 130 of The Sea Witch's Son

Another scan of the surrounding hedges turns up empty. Whoever I’m hearing either doesn’t exist or has somehow blended into the leafy walls around me.

“Very good.”

Disturbing laughter rings out and I quickly follow the sound.

Keeping one hand on the wall, I make my way down the uneven trail, following the dips and curves without a hint of direction. The laughter seems to be getting louder and quieter at the same time, the horrible sound keeping my feet driving forward.

“Who are you?”

“Who are you? I know who you are.”Croaks break through the laughter,“The broken melody who found herself a broken ghost.”

Sounds like I’m talking to a pretty fucked up ghost right now.

“Do you know how to get out of here?”

“No, but you do. What is it you want most in the world?”

“To get out of here.”

“Are you sure?”A deep chuckle sounds right behind me,“That’s not what you told the Sea Witch’s son.”

I whip around, expecting to see a translucent figure floating three feet off the ground. Nothing but hedges stare back atme, their imposing structure growing increasingly threatening under the darkening sky.

“I don’t know.”

“So many questions and yet none of them are worth asking. Why are none of them worth asking?”

“Because there’s no answers.” Taking a breath, I cast another look around the hedged fence, “I want answers.”

My foot catches on something and my momentum swings forward. I fling out my hands, trying to break the fall, but it’s no use. I hit the ground hard, tearing the skin clean off my palms and slicing my cheek on a wayward branch.

Fuck.That hurt.

Groaning at the aches consuming my body, I push myself onto my hands and knees. Grains of sand trickle through my bloody fingers, and it takes me a moment to register I’m no longer in the maze.

“What the hell?”

Squinting through the darkness, I catch sight of a long beach stretching just beyond the tree line. White sand glistens under the rising moon, the waves of water lapping lazily at the shore.

A strong breeze hits my face, carrying the sweet tang of salt water. Humidity coats my skin, offering a layer of warmth while I struggle to turn on my phone flashlight.

The beam cuts through the darkness like a knife. Wincing at the sudden brightness, I shine the light on the ground, searching for the rock that must have taken me down.

Letting the light roam over mounds of sand and protruding roots, I catch sight of something sticking out of the ground.

Bending down, I study the corner of what looks to be a plastic folder. It’s only an inch or two above the ground, but the unnatural angle makes me think erosion pushed it to the surface a long time ago.

I grab the plastic corner and give it a tug.

It doesn’t budge.

Blowing out a breath, I set my flashlight down and that’s when I notice the sign.

Staked into the earth, the cardboard square looks used and abused after years of neglect. I lean forward and carefully brush the dirt off the faded words.

And that’s when the horror sinks in.

Here lies T. Seaborn.

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