The Unfinished Beach House

In the sweltering summer of 2018, our family’s plans for a seaside escape were shattered by the news of our great-uncle’s passing. We had set out from the dusty roads of the Karoo, heading towards the coastal town of Umhlanga, but death had other plans. My grandmother, Aunty Florence, had booked a charming cottage near the beach, hoping for a week of peace and reconciliation with her estranged sister, but instead, we became mourners in a strange town.

The funeral was set for Saturday, and we extended our stay at the cottage, but the owner was adamant: the reservation ended on Sunday. With nowhere else to go, we decided to make the best of it, spending our days on the beach and our evenings with relatives we hadn’t seen in years. On the last night, my younger brother, Tim, and I decided to explore the northern end of the beach, where a half-finished mansion stood, abandoned for decades. Locals called it the ‘Unfinished House’, and rumors said it was cursed.

As we walked along the shoreline, the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in blood orange. The mansion loomed ahead, its skeletal frame silhouetted against the fading light. Tim, ever the daredevil, insisted we go inside. I hesitated, but the pull of curiosity was too strong. We climbed over a fallen fence and stepped onto the cracked driveway, overgrown with weeds.

The interior was a maze of concrete pillars and half-built walls. Dust motes danced in the last rays of light filtering through missing roof tiles. We found a stairwell leading down into a basement, and Tim, with a flashlight from his pocket, led the way. The air grew thick and cold. In the far corner, we saw a door, slightly ajar. Behind it, we heard a faint sound, like a lullaby being hummed.

Tim pushed the door open. Inside, a single flickering lantern illuminated a room lined with old suitcases and trunks. In the center, on a worn armchair, sat an old woman with a shawl, humming to herself, rocking back and forth. She looked up at us with milky eyes, and a smile spread across her wrinkled face. ‘You’ve come,’ she said. ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’

We were frozen. Tim’s courage had vanished. The woman gestured to a pile of letters on a table. ‘These are for your grandmother. She must read them before it’s too late.’ We numbly picked up the letters, noticing they were addressed to ‘Florence’ and stamped with dates from decades past. Before we could ask anything, the lantern flickered out, and when Tim’s flashlight came back on, the room was empty, except for the dying lantern’s wisp of smoke.

We fled, clutching the letters. Back at the cottage, we found Aunty Florence crying. She had just received a call that her sister, the one she had quarreled with, had suffered a stroke and was in the hospital. We handed her the letters, and as she read them, her tears turned to sobs. They were apology letters from her sister, written but never sent, explaining the misunderstanding that had driven them apart.

The next morning, as we packed to leave, the news came: her sister had passed away in the night. Aunty Florence sat on the porch, clutching the letters, staring at the sea. ‘The Unfinished House,’ she whispered. ‘It was never meant to be completed. Like us.’ We drove away in silence, the weight of unfinished words hanging over us.

Years later, Tim and I still talk about that night. We tried to find the house again, but the northern end of the beach was empty, as if it had never existed. But sometimes, on quiet nights, we hear that lullaby, and we wonder if the old woman is still waiting, holding letters for other unfinished stories.