The highway followed the coastline for almost the entire length of the peninsula. As he drove, Patrick looked out over the bay as the sun slowly sank toward the horizon. Across the water, the bay stretched out like a sheet of glass—almost mirror-perfect—reflecting the blue sky and reddish clouds with crystal clarity.

  He couldn't go home and face the prospect of another sleepless night, not yet. He changed course and headed toward a small café down by the beach.

  The charming little café stood about fifty metres back from the shore, perched alone on a small hill and surrounded by light bushland. A small terrace jutted out over the winding promenade that followed the coastline.

  It was a closely guarded secret among locals—a hidden gem tucked away from the usual haunts of the annual tourist invasion. After living in the area for five years, Patrick had only just discovered it.

  It was Melanie who had mentioned it in passing as they walked along the beach. She claimed they served the best coffee she’d ever had.

  When Patrick pulled into the car park, the sun was half its own height above the horizon. He got out and walked up to the terrace.

  Even though the cafe was secluded, Patrcik had expected it to be busier than it was. A scattering of people were stretched out along the path, but the thick throng of tourists that usually found their way down here was nowhere to be seen.

  The heat had lost its edge, but the air was still heavy and uncomfortable. He took a seat at one of the tables as a waitress came over and took his order.

  A small crowd had gathered to watch the sunset. People sat in scattered groups along the terrace, while down on the promenade, a lone cyclist and handfull of walkers drifted past one another, moving slowly along the shoreline.

  While he waited for his coffee, Patrick’s attention was drawn to a young couple walking hand in hand along the path. Their pace was slow and unhurried, as though they wanted nothing more than to linger in the moment.

  Their intimacy was captivating. When they stopped to lean against the rail overlooking the beach, they stood so close that not even light seemed able to pass between them.

  The waitress returned with his coffee, and Patrick leaned back in his chair to watch the last curve of the sun sink beneath the horizon.

  As the final band of pure white light vanished, the serenity shattered.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  A piercing scream cut through the air.

  Patrick stood and moved to the edge of the terrace, scanning for the source. Fifty metres away, he saw the young couple backing away from a man stumbling up the hill.

  Blood poured from a deep cut on the man’s left cheek. He held his hands out towards the couple, palm up. From Patrick’s vantage point, it looked as though he was pleading with them.

  Patrick couldn’t quite hear what the man was saying. He leaned forward, tilting his head to listen.

  Then the wind shifted.

  “I can’t stop it!” the man screamed. “It’s all going back!”

  He stretched his hands toward the couple in a helpless way, with the same palms up begging gesture. That was when Patrick saw the knife.

  The blade was wicked-looking, nearly thirty centimetres long and slick with blood.

  Without warning, the man closed his fingers around the handle and turned the knife on himself.

  He slashed at his chest and arms again and again, carving into his own flesh with frantic violence. Fresh streams of blood followed from every cut.

  People scattered in all directions.

  The man lunged from side to side, unable to decide who to pursue. He reached out toward anyone who came close enough—not threatening, begging. Even with the long blade in his hand, the gesture was clear.

  He spun in circles, searching desperately for someone who wouldn’t run.

  In less than ten seconds, the promenade and the beach were deserted. People hid behind bushes or fled to their cars, desperate to escape.

  The man looked up toward the café, searching. His gaze came to rest on Patrick.

  The man pointed the knife up at the terrace and let out a joyful cry. "I found you!" A crazed smile spread across his face as he began climbing the final stretch of the hill.

  A hand fell on Patrick’s shoulder.

  He spun around, heart racing.

  The waitress stood beside him, holding out a tray with a slip of paper resting on top.

  “Your bill, sir.”

  “What—” Patrick glanced at the tray, then grabbed the waitress’s arm and pulled her toward the railing. He pointed down at the promenade. “We have to call the police! There’s a man down there—he’s got a—”

  People were strolling along the path below.

  A father and son laughed as they launched a kite into the air, the warm wind carrying it higher and higher.

  “Please take your hand off me.”

  Patrick’s grip was tight around the young woman’s upper arm. Fear filled her eyes as she recoiled from him.

  The man with the knife was gone.

  There was no panic. No blood. No sign that anything had happened.

  “Sir, please.”

  Patrick released her immediately and stepped back.

  “I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean to scare you, but…”

  He looked back at the promenade, still expecting to see the man advancing toward them.

  “…there was a man down there, and he was…”

  The words wouldn’t come. How could he explain what he had seen without sounding insane?

  “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I must have been mistaken.”

  But he knew he hadn’t.

  “How much for the coffee?” he asked.

  “Three dollars fifty,” she replied hesitantly.

  Patrick pulled a twenty-dollar note from his pocket and placed it on the tray.

  “Keep the change.”

  He looked down at the promenade once more.

  Nausea surged through him.

  He turned and hurried down the stairs, desperate to leave.

  The screams still echoed in his mind, and the image of the man pointing the knife at him was burned into his memory.

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