Crabs' Moon

An armoured underwater army, they lay off-shore, watching, waiting. Then moon-driven, coldly mad in their need to destroy, to kill, to eat, they edged forward.

The quiet night sounds: gentle lapping and hissing on the shingle, the warm on-shore breeze ruffling through the grassy dunes, lights, laughter and music from the unsuspecting holiday camp, the diesel thump, thump of a last late fishing boat.

Tensed, shuddering and eager in their hunger, they lurched out of the water. In their hundreds, huge and evil, they crawled, lumbered up the beach, feeling their way towards their prey.

The new night sounds: the clicking of giant claws, the scraping of giant bodies across the rocks, screams of terror, screams of agony suddenly stilled, the crunch of bones, the sickening sucking and munching as they gorged on human flesh.