Last Day at the Beach by Ultan O Donnell

They were packing up when the children threw their crusts into the sand, waiting for gulls that never came. The sea was too still. The sky too clear. The sound of the waves seemed distant, as if it belonged somewhere else. The father turned the dial on the radio. Nothing.

“Is it working?”

“No signal.”

“That’s strange.”

He didn’t turn it off. The children had already run ahead, up through the dunes. Their voices carried back in bursts, then vanished as the path dipped. The mother followed. At the top, the boy had stopped.

“What is it?” He didn’t answer. He was staring.

“There’s nothing there,” she said. “Just a post.” Grey. Thin. Half-buried in the sand. She looked again. It was not where she thought it had been.

“Go to the car,” she said. “Run. Lock the doors.” They didn’t move.

“Go.”

They ran. She turned back. Behind her, the beach lay empty. The crusts still scattered where they had fallen. No gulls. No sound. 

Further down the path, the father was coming toward her, the basket under his arm. He raised a hand. She tried to call out. He didn’t hear.

The light had changed. The sky was no longer blue. It shimmered, colour draining and returning in slow, unnatural waves.

Her lips moved. He was too far away to hear her. But close enough to see. Close enough to read the words.

Close enough to feel the heat as the sky above them burned.

Ultan O Donnell is an Irish writer whose work explores atmosphere, subtle horror, memory, and moments of quiet unease.

Painting by Ultan O Donnell