Lunar Tides of the Unseen Hunt
The tide was unusually high that evening, lapping against the jagged rocks of Declan’s Cove, thrumming with a rhythm that felt wrong, almost sentient. The moon hung low, a muted orange glow over the horizon, hinting at its influence far beyond mere illumination. Declan himself stood behind the grimy windows of the old boathouse, his heart heavy with the unease that had seeped into the air.
Only a week prior, Patrick, Declan’s brother, had returned from a fishing trip claiming they’d run into a creature haunting the coastline. He described a massive figure, cloaked in shadows, moving with a primordial grace. Even now, as Declan sipped his lukewarm tea, he found it hard to dismiss Patrick’s tales entirely. Not with the unsettling occurrences becoming all too frequent since the tides had begun to swell.
Declan had an uneasiness lodged in his chest, something gnawing at him like the distant crash of waves on stone. He took to roaming the cove more often, searching. The locals had taken to avoiding evening strolls and even the tavern had quietened. Strange footprints, far too large to belong to any dog, had been found at the waterline — deep imprints, as if something immense had clawed its way out of the brine.
The moon crested higher, grey clouds swirling, and Declan decided to brave the cliffs, driven by an instinct that pulsed beneath the skin. The path was ragged and steep, each misstep threatening to send him hurtling down into the surging sea below. As he reached the top, a sharp electrical charge raced through the air, prickling the hairs on the back of his neck.
He leaned over the edge, breath held, scanning the surf crashing below, when a sudden rustle in the underbrush snapped his attention. It sounded as if something large was moving through the foliage, each broken twig and rustling leaf echoing as if responding to an unseen voice. Declan’s heart burst into a gallop, the absurdity of fear gripping him. Surely it was just a deer or a wayward goat?
But the noise continued, the brush moving unnaturally, like someone was pushing through it, and that thought chilled him. He backed away slowly, careful not to call attention to himself, but the sensation of being observed prickled his spine. The night deepened around him, a veil of darkness creeping forward, swallowing the light.
He could escape; he could flee back down the treacherous path, but something tethered him, a thread of curiosity woven tightly with dread. Just then, a scream smashed through the night — sharp, desperate. It was Patrick.
Declan clawed his way back down, his footing slipping precariously on the gravel-strewn dirt. Panic surged up as he hurtled towards the source of the cry. He rounded the bend, breathless, and finally skidded to a halt. An unnerving silence gripped the creek where they’d fished before, anything resembling mirth or joy now suffocated by an ominous presence.
“Patrick!” he shouted, but all he received in response was the low rumbling sound of the sea striking rock.
As he stepped deeper into the clearing, he stumbled across a sight that plunged ice into his veins: Patrick lay sprawled on the ground, his face pale, a sheen of sweat slicking over his brow. Nearby, an overturned fishing boat bobbed, its interior soaked with seawater. A series of claw marks gouged the hull, deep and jagged; there were more upon the ground, as if something had viciously pursued his brother – or something worse had captured him.
He knelt beside Patrick, feeling for a pulse, a few ragged breaths escaping his lips. “What happened?”
“It…wasn’t…” Patrick croaked, eyes darting, skin clammy. “Declan, hide…don’t let it find you.”
“What do you mean? What is it?” Declan pressed, a wild desperation taking root as he clenched his brother’s shoulders.
“The tides…changed,” Patrick whispered, straining against his own fear. “It was—cursed. The beast—under the full moon…something else comes for you. It hunts when the moon is rising or falling—you have to escape.”
His brother’s struggle for breath thrummed through Declan as he tried to align the fragments of urgency with logic. Before he could question him further, the low growl returned, and a disturbance rippled through the underbrush again, the sound seeming almost languid, like the water lapping on the shore.
Then, abruptly, there was movement at the edge of the trees. Some great shape slunk silently through, a shadowed predator spiralling closer. Declan instinctively pulled Patrick behind the sawn timber of their boat, breath hitching as the disturbance unfurled before them — a creature with fur like wet seaweed, blending seamlessly with the night, its eyes glinting like lanterns.
Declan could almost decipher it now: a hulking beast crouching low, muscles coiling beneath matted fur, nostrils flaring as it scented the air, searching. It moved with an elegance belying its size, predator and prey blurring in equal measure.
As tremors surged through the ground, Patrick’s body stiffened. Declan kept a tight grip on his brother as the creature perched on its haunches, vibrating with what appeared to be a sickening blend of curiosity and hunger.
“Declan,” Patrick gasped, gripping his arm even tighter. “It can sense fear. If it knows you’re nearby…”
The words fell off his lips, but it was too late — the creature’s snout twisted, its glimmering eyes focused entirely on their hiding spot. It rose, muscles flexing, ready to launch into a sprint. Declan’s instincts kicked in; he pushed Patrick away from the old boat, channeling everything into getting them to safety.
The beast surged into motion, quick as a flash, snapping the distance between them in an instant as Declan whirled, screaming at his brother: “Run! Get to the cliffs!”
They bolted, adrenaline pushing their legs as the creature bore down, snarls erupting like thunder that ricocheted through the night. Declan knew they wouldn’t outrun it, but they had to reach the heights.
Breathlessly, they scrambled upward, leaving the shadows behind for the wispy moonlight, but just as they reached the rocky path the glimmer in Patrick’s eyes dimmed, a shadow falling over his face. Declan turned, heart sinking in his chest.
Before he could react, Patrick staggered, slipping, falling back towards the encroaching creature. The beast seized him instantly, powerful jaws snapping closed around his body, and in the shocking brutality of the moment, Declan could only watch as the lunar tide swept away any hope for Patrick.
Silent screams echoed in his mind, twisting into disillusion as he stood frozen, understanding crash upon him like the waves that shattered against the cliffs below.
With a desperate glance back at the creature savouring its triumph, Declan pushed himself onwards, the taste of terror poison on his tongue, limbs heavy with the weight of survival. He ran toward the cliffs, but he would never forget the tides that hunted him now: a curse born of moonlight, always drawn to the scent of fear, waiting to mark the next prey as the lunar tides rose higher.
As he reached the edge of the precipice, opposing the echoes of his brother’s final cries, Declan realised he’d become part of the curse that stalked the shores — now always aware of the moon, always haunted by the beast lurking between tides, relentless, unyielding in its hunt.
