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In a small coastal village, in an old blue cottage, lived a young man whose only relative had recently passed away.
This young man was earning a living out at sea, like most people in the area.
Out of season none knew just what exactly he was up to.
He was seen around town often, always well-mannered and boots polished, going for a pint or two at the only pub in the area, where the few people you could count as his friends were regulars.
There was something fishy about him, yet no one could exactly pinpoint what that something might've been.
Maybe it was the way his smile never quite reached his eyes.
Or the ominous phrasing of a paragraph in his relative's testament, which explicitly excluded him from the inheritance on the grounds of 'immoral conduct'.
Everyone knew, it had made quite the waves in their recently renamed small community.
There weren't many tall tales to tell in Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch.
He wasn't misbehaving, a good citizen, so they tolerated the discrepancy.
The cottage he owned had belonged to his late father.
It was painted bright blue, though the paint had begun to peel off, salty air at work.
There were never any flowers in the windows in spring, the garden was barren and none of the townspeople had so much as glimpsed the inside since his father's passing.
All in all, nothing too out of the ordinary, just another bachelor not accustomed to keeping his own home.
That was nothing new under the sun, although it certainly didn't reflect well on the inhabitant.
One might've had cause to wonder how he ever planned to get himself a wife.
There were rumours about him being one of them men who went the other way but seeing as he was a regular with one of the local bawdy women -a seamstress by daylight- and she had only good things to report about him, those rumours could well be laid to rest.
Eventually, they became disinterested with the slightly odd but sufficiently pleasant young man. And whatever was there to be said about him turned stale news.
But who would've believed it, the townsfolk were soon treated to much fresher gossip.
Batty old Lou had gotten herself a new husband who'd gone bat shit crazy after a few weeks, which somehow culminated in her son dying in a freak accident. People were too busy embellishing the new story to pay attention to the older mystery.
Until one night they heard a scream coming over the dunes, from where the blue cottage stood. Someone, or something, was afoot.
That rekindled the rumours. Everyone was certain now this man must be a violent murderer, although they had no evidence.
Might as well have violently stubbed his toe, witnesses couldn't vouch it hadn't been his voice.
They all looked on curiously as his friends -three brutish men whom most dared not anger- made off to pay him a visit the very next day.
Near evening they were seen coming back to town, talking amongst themselves and laughing, which only fuelled the onlooker's scepticism.
Who knew what kinds of depraved, horrible things were happening in that little blue cottage!?
No one dared ask but they all had their own ideas.
They insisted to the seamstress she go investigate, until she eventually caved under public pressure.
She did not return to tattle, however.
As such things go, eventually the public refused to continue minding the man's privacy and they took it upon themselves to bring him to -what they perceived to be- swift justice.
Though they had no proof, their righteous rage served them just as well.
An angry mob arrived at the blue cottage only to find it empty, the man and his belongings long gone.
In the bathtub, they found the seamstress, throat and eyes wide open and her shift drenched ruby red.
And scales, confusingly enough.
A myriad of shiny blue scales scattered about the house, not belonging to any fish they'd ever seen.
And they'd all seen plenty, seeing as they made their money off the fruits of the sea.
They gave the seamstress a proper burial, she had sacrificed herself for a good cause, after all.
Then they burned the cottage to the ground. And tasked a priest to salt the earth to ensure this would not reflect badly on the rest of the village.
Only a few days later something washed up on shore.
A shark had taken a good bite out of him but it was clear for all to see; the blonde man had a tail for legs.
A blue one, incidentally.
The creature, or what remained of him, was swiftly burned and none ever spoke of the odd young man or his crimes again.
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