The Haunted Storm Read Free

he would feel himself gripped by a wave of lust, pure cerebral lust with no object, and that in turn would give way to a huge emptiness, an echoing cavern of no-purpose. All the while he carefully picked his way down the steps, clinging tightly to the railing in case he should slip. He thought for an instant of how he had been standing a few moments before on the cliff-top, and shuddered. His head was filled and emptied in turn. Tears for his helplessness came to his eyes and rolled down his cheeks, mingling with the rain.
    The bottom steps were covered in a drift of pebbles and rough soil from the base of the cliffs. He let go of the railing and stepped on to the beach, looking around. The beach sloped down sharply to the water, which was ten yards or so in front of him. The tide was almost at its height, and the waves crashed angrily with a roar that deafened him completely. They were high and fierce, and the water raced sideways after the waves broke, each retreating back into the belly of the next. He walked carefully down to the water, wiping the rain from his eyes, and stopped just where the highest rush of the water came. He could feel the shingle moving underfoot as the great mass of water crashed down and swept back and sideways again.
    The light was greener now, taking its colour from the water; and the clouds were universally black. The body of each wave was a trembling, translucent black-green, and the foam and the spray that shot far into the air were ghostly white. Further out were lighter patches on the water, patches of mud-green and what looked like yellow. The spray dashed into Matthew’s face, but he hardly noticed.
    There was something moving out on the sea, and it was drifting in to the shore.
    At first he was inclined to ignore it. But his eyes stayed on it and before long it had absorbed his interest to the point where he could not look away if he tried. Above the roar of the waves and the shingle he could hear, faintly and intermittently, the noise of an engine, but soon that stopped. The boat, meanwhile – for that was what it was – had drifted in further, and he could see lights on board, and even make out dimly the shape of it. It looked like a fishing boat of some kind, with a small wheelhouse amidships, where a light was glowing. It rose and fell heavily with the waves. It was being carried in almost languidly, and borne along to his right. He supposed that the engines had failed.
    It was still two or three hundred yards offshore – it was hard to tell in the wild confusion of spray, and the extraordinary light – but it was definitely coming closer. Matthew, eyes fixed on it, began to stumble along the beach, following it. His feet slipped once or twice on the shingle, but he kept his balance. He could see someone in the wheel house, moving about unhurriedly. Probably there was nothing they could do. He thought he could see a dinghy hanging over the stern; why hadn’t they lowered it into the water and rowed safely ashore?
    He came to a spot where the shingle gave way to a mass of rocks, and had to take his eyes off the boat to clamber over them. They were rough with limpets, but great clumps of seaweed made them slippery, and he had to go carefully. When he got back on to the shingle he ran a little way to catch up with the boat, stumbling and nearly falling head long, and panting with excitement. Something, either the boat itself or the sea, had gripped his emotions and was holding them tight. The world had come alive again, and in the sweep of the wind and rain he felt a hint of that mysterious romance which had emanated from the sky over the rooftops earlier on.
    With a shock he realised that the vessel was heading straight for the Spur. In fact, no sooner had he realised it than it struck, and he caught the breath in his throat with dismay. It had lifted high on a wave – a little less than a hundred yards out now – and come down, with a crash, on the rock. It hung there, at an