Mystery of the Inn by the Shore by Florence Warden

In the meantime Clifford was proceeding slowly on his way to Shingle End. It was dark by this time, and the way seemed even longer than it had done when he was on his way to Courtstairs that afternoon. There was a faint light over the gray sea, but on the right, over the marsh, and away as far as the ridge of hill on which old Fleet Castle stood, there was inky blackness. It was a lonely road at night, this long, dreary stretch of straight, hedgeless highway, with only an occasional bit of ragged bush or a still more infrequent wayside cottage, to break up its wearisome monotony.

Even the cry of the sea-birds was startling, as it came to Clifford's ears on the clear air. An ugly fancy took possession of him, too, as he drew near to Shingle End at last, that the cries he heard were not all those of the sea-birds; that it was a human cry, shrill and weird, which came to him over the flat meadow land by the sea.