They said the sea kept it secrets, but what if it didn't
want to anymore? The storm was only the
beginning. Shoreline Secrets Chapter 1 Salt
on the wind The wind bet Jamie first.
It carried the cold bite of salt and seaweed and tugged at his
sleeves as if to pull him closer to the cliffs.
He stood beside the car for a moment, staring at the cottage,
small, weathered, almost swallowed by the wild grass.
It didn't look like the kind of place that kept people safe.
It looked like it belonged to the sea.
Just for the summer, his mum had said.
Somewhere quiet, somewhere you can breathe.
Jamie wasn't sure how quiet was meant to help, but here he was.
A man stood there, his great uncle thinner than Jamie
remembered, hair silvered, face lying from too many years of
wind and sun. His size, the kind that have
seen storms come and go, soften when he saw Jamie.
But he didn't smile. He only nodded, stepped aside,
and let Jamie in. Inside, the house smelled of old
wood, salt, and something faintly like smoke.
A coat hung by the door. On the wall above, a single
photograph in a cracked frame, A younger version of his uncle, a
surfboard under one arm, eyes on the horizon.
The man in the photo looked freer, or maybe it was just a
way the light had caught his face that day, but his uncle
didn't speak of it. He only closed the window
against the wind and left Jamie alone with the hush of the
house. Dinner had been quiet, too
quiet. The kind of quiet where every
scrape of a Fort, every sigh of the wind outside felt louder
than it should. His great uncle wasn't unkind,
just used to the silence. And Jamie, restless in the
stillness, felt like a guest in his own skin.
He left the house, the air outside cooler, salt sharp.
The sky wasn't dark yet, but the day was fading, the last of the
light caught in the Crest of the waves.
He followed the path down. The cliffs rose on either side,
the sea breezing steady beyond. And then he saw him.
A boy, maybe a little older than Jamie, walking along the shore,
barefoot, bored under one arm, head bent as though listening to
something only he could hear. The boy wasn't in the water, not
now, but the way he moved, it was as if the sea still held
him. Jamie stood still, the wind at
his back, watching as the boy made his slow way across the
sand. The boy didn't look up.
He kept walking, bored under his arm, the seas pulled still in
the way he moved. Jamie stayed there, the wind
tugging at his jacket, the salt air sharp in his lungs.
He watched until the boy was just a shape against the fading
light. Then, finally, he turned and
made his way home. Inside the cottage, a wall
seemed closer. A lamp glowed low in his corner.
His uncle sat by it, a cop cradle in his hands.
He didn't look up as Jamie entered, or maybe he did, but
only for a second. His eyes returned to the dark
beyond the window, as if still listening for the sea.
Jamie hesitated and left his uncle with quiet he seems to
know so well. The morning came, Gray and
quiet. Light filtered through the thin
curtains, pale and cool. Jamie lay still for a moment,
listening. The house creaked softly as it
settled, the sea's voice always there beneath it.
He breathed it in, salt and wood and something older he couldn't
name. Downstairs, the cottage was
empty. His uncle's boots were gone from
beside the door. Out at sea, maybe, or walking
the clips, Jamie didn't know. The kitchen was small,
everything worn at the edges. A pot of tea sat cooling on the
stove, a mug left out beside it. Jamie poured himself a cup that
tastes stronger than he expected.
He stepped outside. The breeze cooled against his
skin. The cliffs rose sharp against
the pale sky, the waves below breaking soft against the shore.
Jamie stood there, mug in hand, watching the sea.
And on the beach far below, a boy picking his way across the
sand, bored under his arm. The same boy.
Jamie stayed still, watching, until the boy disappeared beyond
the cliffs. The silence stretched.
The sea kept breathing. Somewhere down there, the boy
was gone. Or maybe he'd been a trick of
the light, the same way the sea sometimes made rocks into
shapes, shadows into stories. Jamie shook his head.
No, the boy had been real. He followed the path, skirted
the edge of the cliffs, the breeze stronger here, salt spray
cool on his face. The grass grew wild.
The world out here felt bigger and quieter.
For a while he walked, aimless boots scuffing the stone, hands
in his pockets. No plan, no destination.
The path narrowed, the cliffs more sheer.
Jamie stopped at the bend where the rock jutted out like the
prow of a ship. He wondered if his uncle came
here, if this was where the photo had been taken, the one
with the surfboard, the boy his uncle had been.
He wondered what it would feel like, belong to the sea, the way
the boy on the beach seemed to. His phone vibrated in his
pocket, a notification sneaking through.
Jamie didn't look at it. He stayed where he was,
listening to the waves break on the rocks, steady as a
heartbeat. When he finally turned back, the
cottage waited, small and square against the sweep of sky, Smoke
curl from the chimney. Now his uncle was home.
Inside, his uncle stood by the stove, pouring tea into two
mugs, the same stillness in his movements, as if nothing could
hurry him now. He didn't speak as he handed
Jamie a mug, just met his gaze for a moment, flicker of
something behind his eyes, then turn back to the window.
The tea was strong, a little bitter.
His uncle set his mug down. Storm coming?
He said at last, voice low. Jamie only nodded.
He felt it too, not just in the air, but in the way the house
seemed to brace itself. Best to stay off the cliffs for
now. Jamie didn't answer, just
watched as his uncle's eyes stayed fixed on the horizon, the
sea darkening beneath the weight of the sky.
The house felt heavier now, the kind of heavy that came before
rain, before Thunder, before something you couldn't quite
name. Upstairs, the rooms were small
and spare. A narrow hallway stretched to a
door at the far end. Wooden paint chipped A rusted
latch at the side. The attic, maybe.
The air felt cooler here, the smell of salt stronger.
Jamie hesitated at the door. The latch was unfastened, as if
someone had opened it recently. He didn't open it, just stood
there, the storm pressing at the walls, the house holding its
breath. Jamie turned away, but not
before glancing back once more. That night, the storm didn't
come. All at once.
It crept in, soft at first, like a breast beneath the eaves.
Jamie lay in the narrow bed, the ceiling sloping low above him,
the smell of the sea stronger in the damp.
The house shifted around him. Jamie turned on his side,
pulling the blanket higher, listening, a sound so soft he
almost thought he imagined it. A floorboard above the attic.
He held his breath, waited. Nothing but the rain.
And then, as the wind rose, the attic door, the door at the end
of the hall, shifted. With a long, slow sigh, Jamie
closed his eyes. The house, the sea, the storm,
all of them waiting, watching, holding him in the dark.
Jamie stayed still beneath the blanket, the weight of it no
match for the heaviness in the room.
The house settled and shifted around him.
Every sound felt louder in the dark.
His phone lay face down on the small table.
He didn't reach for it. There was nothing there.
He turned onto his back, stared at the low ceiling where a
shadow danced with each flicker of lightning.
Beyond the clouds, Jamie thought of the boy on the beach, the way
he moved, and for a moment he envied him.
A floorboard above gave a single long creak, the attic door
perhaps shifting in its frame. Jamie closed his eyes.
The sound came again, soft but certain.
A floorboard above, weight shifting in the attic, Jamie
rose. The night felt thick with salt
and rain, the house holding its breath.
At the end of the hall, the attic door stood just a jar.
A faint thread of light spilled out, thin and flickering like
the last breath of the moon. Jamie drew closer, Hart loud in
his ears. Through the gap he saw him, his
uncle's shadow bent over something long and pale, the
hiss of a zipper slow, deliberate.
The canvas fell away, and the surfboard emerged.
His uncle stilled, slowly, turned, as if he heard something
he'd long expected but hoped never to face.
For a heartbeat they didn't move.
Two shadows caught between storm and memory.
Then the uncle turned back, hence quick now drawing the
zipper closed. With practiced haste, Jamie
turned and fled down the hall, down the stairs, not to his bed,
but to the window at the front of the house.
Outside, the sea waited, dark, endless, it's breast steady
beneath the storm. Jamie saw the boy on the shore,
silent, slipping into the dark. And above him, the attic door
shifted in the storm, as if the house itself was watching.
Who do you think the boy is? And what do you think secrets
waits behind the door in the attic?
Share your thoughts below. And if you're ready to step
closer to the truth, subscribe. Like comment.
The storm is only beginning.