The second earthquake was when we realized something was horribly wrong. I remember that day with unsettling clarity. I had been walking along the beach after class when I stumbled upon the ancient artifact. It was unlike anything I’d ever seen—before the real horrors began.

The object was a small statue, no larger than a baseball bobblehead. Its design was grotesque, depicting some malevolent deity with clawed hands and jagged fangs. Its alien appearance sent a chill through me.

I slipped the statue into my pocket and told no one. It felt like a discovery that belonged in a museum, the kind of find that could make international headlines. But it wasn’t the last we would see of them.

The first earthquake was minor. In our small coastal town in South Carolina, we were used to hurricanes and rising sea levels, but earthquakes? They were almost unheard of. Despite the damage, authorities assured us it was a freak occurrence. There was nothing to worry about, they said.

A month later, the second quake was much worse. I was at home, watching TV, while my parents sat in the living room. The house trembled violently, nearly collapsing under the force. Across town, buildings crumbled, and floodwaters surged in as monsoon-like waves battered the coastline.

Panic set in. Our town became a global spectacle overnight. News crews arrived in droves, and we were on every major network. Then came the third quake, followed by another, and soon they became a weekly occurrence.

My parents and I evacuated like most of the town’s residents, but I had a reason to stay behind. I was a college student, yes, but more importantly, I was a journalist. There was a story here—a mystery begging to be uncovered—and I was determined to discover what was happening. 

Looking back now, I wish I had just left with everyone else.

**

I managed to land a freelance gig with an online news outlet, which gave me a reason to return. It didn’t matter that I was a senior in college; they were eager to have someone on the ground who knew the town. The day I came back, the skies were dark and heavy with clouds, as if perpetually on the verge of a storm. But it never rained. Not once during the two weeks I spent there.

My days were spent driving through the empty streets, snapping photos, and speaking with the few remaining people. One was Peter Earle, an archaeology professor from the local university. He had been studying the strange artifacts that continued to wash ashore with each quake.

One afternoon, I found him in his cluttered office, turning one of the statues over in his hands. “I’ve shown these to colleagues around the world,” he said. “None of them can identify the culture or time period. It’s as if they’re from nowhere… and everywhere.”

“What do you think they are?” I asked, feeling a strange knot in my stomach.

“Deities, maybe. But these are not gods anyone would willingly worship. They’re monstrous. Violent. I don’t know where they came from… or who could have made them.”

Peter was a man of reason, which is why I was so disturbed when he called me in the middle of the night a few days later, his voice frantic and disjointed. He claimed to have been visited by a creature—half man, half reptile. It sounded insane, like the ramblings of someone who had lost their grip on reality.

The next day, I went to check on him. His office was ransacked, and Peter was nowhere to be found. Even more disturbing, all the artifacts were gone.

I found a note hastily scribbled in his handwriting, though halfway through, it devolved into incoherence. The gist of it was chilling: an ancient sea creature worshipped by a hidden cult had been awakened by their rituals. It was the cause of the earthquakes.

It sounded absurd, of course. Ridiculous. I took photos of the letter and handed it over to the police. I never saw Peter again.

That night, something happened that made me reconsider everything Peter had said. The artifact I had found on the beach was still with me, tucked away in the corner of my hotel room. As I worked on my latest article, there was a knock at the door. A sense of dread filled me, but I forced myself to answer.

Standing on the threshold was something out of a nightmare. It was just as Peter had described: part man, part sea creature, with the head of a fish and cold, piercing eyes. Its body was covered in slick, reptilian scales, and though it spoke no words, I could hear its voice in my mind.

Return what is ours.

I was paralyzed, my body moving as though under its control. I retrieved the artifact from my room and handed it over. The creature’s hand extended, its cold, slimy fingers wrapping around the statue. 

Before leaving, it issued a final warning: I was to leave the town and never return. The sea creatures had reclaimed their domain, and soon, they would drive out the remaining humans—by force, if necessary.

I didn’t hesitate. Within hours, I was on the road, leaving the town behind. I told my editor I could no longer cover the story, offering no explanation. My parents were relieved when I rejoined them inland, safe from the horrors lurking beneath the waves.

Within a month, the town was abandoned. The earthquakes ceased, but no one could explain why everyone had fled.

Whispers circulated about what had happened, but few were willing to speak openly about it. Those who stayed until the bitter end claimed something had risen from the sea, something ancient and powerful.

Whatever it is that stirs beneath the waves off that cursed coastline, I’ve learned one thing: some mysteries are better left unsolved.

The End