Batcave
von Jacques Pinard Brown (Copyright)
I met the stranger in the bar of the Gonubie Hotel. It is an old and cozy bar where all the locals know one another, and a local had better accompany you, if you want to be accepted. I was with a cousin that lived in these parts.
I started a casual conversation with the stranger, as one is wont to do in such a relaxed atmosphere. I could tell straight away he was a surfer-bum by his appearance; he wore baggy bathing shorts and was bear chested, apart from a wooden crucifix that hung around his neck. By the same token it was immediately apparent to him that I was a ‘Vaalie’ on holiday.
As we consumed our liquor the conversation became more relaxed.
“Have you ever been out to Nahoon.” The stranger inquired.
“Yes” I said.
“Do you know; Batcave.” He asked me.
“I’ve seen it from the shore but haven’t actually ever been over to it.” I said.
“Well let me tell you a story about Batcave” he said as he started his tale.
“A few years ago I met a couple of Aussie tourists who were staying at Nahoon Caravan Park in a tent. They were also hitching around and checking out the surfing scene in South Africa. So we became friends and surfed together a good deal. The guy was called Bruce, and his girlfriends name was Sheila.
I am into long boarding and they were also, so we got along very well. At night we went to bars and hotels in town, or just had a beach-braai and surfed in the moonlight, if the tides were right. This went on for some time until I decided one night to take them to Batcave. Actually it was more on their request that I conceded, as I had always found it an eerie place.” He said with a slight shiver, it seemed, and then continued.
“Well we paddled out on our boards and it was quite late at night but the water was tranquil. We arrived at the cave and I showed them around. They saw why it was called Batcave, as black bats fluttered around in numbers. They ventured inside, but not to deep, as it was pitch dark and we had no torches.
I met the stranger in the bar of the Gonubie Hotel. It is an old and cozy bar where all the locals know one another, and a local had better accompany you, if you want to be accepted. I was with a cousin that lived in these parts.
I started a casual conversation with the stranger, as one is wont to do in such a relaxed atmosphere. I could tell straight away he was a surfer-bum by his appearance; he wore baggy bathing shorts and was bear chested, apart from a wooden crucifix that hung around his neck. By the same token it was immediately apparent to him that I was a ‘Vaalie’ on holiday.
As we consumed our liquor the conversation became more relaxed.
“Have you ever been out to Nahoon.” The stranger inquired.
“Yes” I said.
“Do you know; Batcave.” He asked me.
“I’ve seen it from the shore but haven’t actually ever been over to it.” I said.
“Well let me tell you a story about Batcave” he said as he started his tale.
“A few years ago I met a couple of Aussie tourists who were staying at Nahoon Caravan Park in a tent. They were also hitching around and checking out the surfing scene in South Africa. So we became friends and surfed together a good deal. The guy was called Bruce, and his girlfriends name was Sheila.
I am into long boarding and they were also, so we got along very well. At night we went to bars and hotels in town, or just had a beach-braai and surfed in the moonlight, if the tides were right. This went on for some time until I decided one night to take them to Batcave. Actually it was more on their request that I conceded, as I had always found it an eerie place.” He said with a slight shiver, it seemed, and then continued.
“Well we paddled out on our boards and it was quite late at night but the water was tranquil. We arrived at the cave and I showed them around. They saw why it was called Batcave, as black bats fluttered around in numbers. They ventured inside, but not to deep, as it was pitch dark and we had no torches.
We gathered up some driftwood and started a fire. A few clouds had gathered in the night sky and occasionally one of them would blot out the moonlight. As the fire burnt we sat and talked quietly around it. I felt a sense of unease, and I am sure they felt it to, judging by the expressions on their faces. We sat in the darkness and heard only the murmur of the ocean; perhaps that is why we saw him to late.
A figure had appeared as if from nowhere. In the dark I could not discern his features, but he seemed shrouded in darkness as if there was a cloak around him, and only his eyes shone like those of the devil himself.” He paused and had a sip of his beer before continuing.
“The creature had fangs, with the mind of demon and the strength of ten lions. He first grabbed Bruce and sank his fangs into him; he sucked out his blood quickly and ferociously. Next he finished off Sheila, and I had time to gather up my board and dive with it into the water, but not before the devil and I stood staring in each other’s eyes for a second. He fixed his eyes on my crucifix and let out a hellish howl. I paddled off leaving the two Aussies behind. But that is not the end,” he continued.
“A month or so later I was doing some night surfing on Nahoon beach, and when I climbed out of the water I noticed two surfers in the sea close to me on long boards. As they drew closer I could discern their features clearly in the full moon. It was Bruce and Sheila. But now their white t-shirts were bloodstained and they sported a sizeable pair of fangs each.
When they noticed me they gave one look at my crucifix and, both letting out devilish howls, changed into two black bats right before my eyes. Then they flew off in the direction of Batcave. And that was the last time I saw Bruce and Sheila.” He said.
“That mouth needs to be buttered” I said “ Barman bring this man another beer.”
The End
Nahoon: small seaside town north of East London, S.A.
Gonubie: small seaside town north of Nahoon.
‘Vaalie’: Transvaler.
Aussie: Australian.