Tiny Tales of Terror: Rockpool

 My sister scours the rockpools at dusk just as the sun makes its evening journey over the horizon. She is barefoot, her long, straggly hair draping over the back of her t-shirt and skimming the waist of her shorts.

She is searching for crabs or tiny fish left behind by the tide. I do not see her face, or the fear I imagine flashes through her eyes as she stumbles. Her head makes contact with a jagged rock and plunges face-first into cold salty water. I stay by my window. By the time I have run down to save her, I know she will already be dead, and as I reach the edge of the
 rockpools, her ghost will have faded away. 


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