A man is beachcombing with his dog on the northern shoreline of the tidal estuary near the derelict windmill. The dog growls and barks. The man shouts in horror, Drop it! In its mouth it holds a fully fleshed severed human head by the ear.

It’s night. Conrad, in his car, struggles to find his way through the chaotic network of narrow tracks on the southern shore of the estuary. Finally, his headlights pick out a fingerpost indicating, ‘The Causeway’. He sets off on foot, shivering in the cold damp air, searching for the seldom seen Roman causeway. Legend has it that it leads from one side of the estuary to the other at the time of an exceptionally low Spring tide; the water recedes, revealing the causeway, stretching across the vast expanse of mud. No living person is known to have made the crossing. 

Conrad worries about the wisdom of his bet; but the bookie offering to clear all his huge gambling debts for this one-off wager was too good to miss. The bragging rights of success would be invaluable in restoring his self-respect and reputation.

After fighting his way through reed beds, he arrives at the wooden pier where the path to the causeway supposedly starts. Clouds part and a bright moon shines. It doesn’t take him long to discover that the pier is a rotten death trap. 

Jesus! Conrad shouts. Who the fuck are you? he demands as a small boy takes his hand. Can you talk?
The boy shakes his head, gesticulating that he cannot speak.
You look like you were born old, Conrad thinks. Have you come to guide me? 
The boy nods.

After a short walk the boy points at the long causeway, leading out across the mud. Conrad, elated, sees a construction made of thousands of sets in serried rows. They should be stone, but somehow, they’re not. More like metal, he thinks. What does it remind me of? Can’t be, he concludes. Looking down he sees the boy grinning at him. You know what I’m thinking, don’t you? The boy nods.

Did this just move? Conrad wonders, standing on the causeway. Alarmed, he kneels and touches the surface on which he stands. Not stone. Not metal. A distant heartbeat! Animal scales. Shit! he gasps. He turns to retrace his steps but hesitates; he thinks of being debt free at last. The boy grabs his hand and pulls him on. It must be safe otherwise the child wouldn’t be here, Conrad reasons. 

As they reach the northern shore he sees the derelict windmill. He looks down: the boy has gone. Conrad leaps onto the shingle and shouts, Done it! Free!

He turns. It’s a fucking crocodile! Conrad freezes, hypnotised, as he stares into the monster’s unblinking eyes. Suddenly, the creature lunges forward, engulfing Conrad in its enormous mouth; his screams are drowned out as the crocodile eats him alive. Sated, the animal opens its mouth wide, belches, and spits out Conrad’s severed head.

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I hope you enjoyed this story. Please feel free to pass it on to others who may be interested. You can read my previous 500 word stories on my website www.philcoskerwriter.com under ‘Writing’.>>>More

© Phil Cosker 2024
Phil Cosker has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work. All rights reserved; no part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted by any mean, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise without the prior permission of the author.