The Last Eye - HORROR STORIES - BREDEVOORT VAN DEN BERG, #2

THE LAST EYE - HORROR STORY - BREDEVOORT VAN DEN BERG

On the unforgiving shoreline, the sea no longer spits out corpses. It spits out eyes. Elsa Kriel watches, as the old lighthouse keeper, Uncle Frik, makes a horrifying discovery in the damp sand: a single, glistening eye the colour of weathered copper. It is the eye of his wife, lost to the waves forty years ago. But this eye is not dead. It is awake, and it isn't looking at him, it's looking through him, with its gaze fixed on Elsa.

This is the beginning of a chilling descent into a reality where nothing is as it seems. The eye refuses to be discarded, reappearing always wet, always watching. Fragments of a memory that is not her own, the sensation of cold silk, the taste of salt, and the crushing weight of a dark water grave invade Elsa's mind. Small, bare footprints emerge from the surf, leading to her door before vanishing into nothingness.

The horror is not confined to the beach. The town's inhabitants are changing. Their own eyes are taking on an unnatural, coppery sheen, and they stand in silent, expectant vigil. This is more than a ghost story, it is a creeping infection of the soul, a psychological horror that questions the very nature of memory and identity. As the line between the drowned and the living blurs, Elsa must confront a terrifying truth: the sea has been waiting, and she has been chosen.

"The sea no longer spat out corpses. It spat out eyes.

They lay on the beach like wet pearls, glistening in the twilight. Elsa Kriel stood with her hands shoved deep into her jacket pockets. Her father, a man who had sailed the sea for fifty years, had said the ocean had a memory.

A shriek cut through the rumble of the breakers. Not a shriek of fright. One of recognition.

Elsa turned. Uncle Frik, the old lighthouse keeper whose mind came and went like the tide, knelt in the damp sand. In his upturned hands, like an offering, lay an eye. The iris was the color of copper, speckled with gold.

"Annette," he whispered. His wife. Lost at sea forty years ago. Her body never found.

Elsa stepped closer. The eye in Uncle Frik's hands did not look up at him. It looked at her. The pupil, black and infinite, narrowed to a pinprick. Elsa felt it focus. On her face."