I visited the sea cabin on the 5th of December, armed with a notebook. The key lived in a lobster pot by the back step, just as the note promised. I opened the door, and the hinge gave a low, careful creak. The place was familiar: the damp-heavy rug, the rocking chair. I unpacked bread, a flask, and the battered pencil case. It should be enough, for I meant to stay three nights. I would air the rooms, let the damp settle, and wring whatever the sea gave onto paper. It felt like a place where my writing might finally begin.
Seal, small hinge, O seal me in;
keep the weather from my skin.
If these rooms remember me,
let my words bind them to thee.
And keep still, you wooden door;
the weather is constant war.
And don’t you begin to move,
else the oaken boards shall groove.
***
The waves idled against the shore, brushing the small wooden jetty beside the cabin. Night came in long strides, and the sun slowly slipped beyond the horizon. Now a hush settled over the seascape. But something would not leave the night in peace; it would not yield. Not even sunset’s calm could sway it. The calm was about to break.
A blip at sea—a thing awakes;
the surface of the water breaks.
A shadow drifts towards the hut,
it shoulders surf and will not shut.
A shell now tests the oaken wood,
it slowly searches for its food.
It waits behind the panel, thin,
to wedge a crack, to channel in.
***
It was a deep night, and something woke me with a thudding. I thought it was raining at first, but it felt stronger, as if the ground vibrated. An earthquake, here? Impossible. I lit the lantern. I peeked through the windows: nothing. Only darkness. Whatever it was, it lay at the front; I had to go through the parlour. What could it be? I dreaded it, but pressed my head against the front door and listened.
What walks the boards, what shakes the wall,
I fear its weight, I hear its call.
If timbers break, if latches fail,
the sea itself will find a trail.
***
I held the door of my sea-dwelling, hand on the latch, enough to feel the winter’s brittle lungs. Then the corridor bulged; this cabin was not the strongest. My heartbeat matched the steps behind the door frame; something was out there, beyond the timber. It moved with me, patient. This sensation pinned me, yet I had to see the shape behind, for the sake of knowledge. I yanked the latch, and the seam showed bead-black eyes. Below its maw, two great claws reached for me; my mouth opened in fear.
Its mighty posture—ten feet tall,
staring, gnawing, with no known goal.
Black-water eyes like two cold moons,
a borrowed house of eerie doom;
its mouth—a door to secret seas—
opens rooms that should never be.
Two ticking clocks—its mighty claws—
they lift me whole—then in its maws;
my breath is seized, my marrow drained,
my name erased; no trace remains.
Thoughts cease and race without an end,
no need to fight—believe me, yield.
Third Eye Horror
© Maciej Sitko, 2025
All rights reserved.