HYDROPHOBIA

Charity Anthology for Houston Hurricane Harvey Victims

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Edited By

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Lance Fling

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With Assistance From

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Donelle Pardee Whiting

Weston Kincaid

Katelyn Murphy

Kevin J. Kennedy

A.J. Brown

Hydrophobia

Copyright © 2017 by Stitched Smile Publications

ISBN: 978-1-945263-12-5

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author.

Dedicated to the City of Houston

Houston Police and Emergency Responders

And to the everyday heroes who helped keep

#HoustonStrong

Table of Contents

Ghost Ship by Marc Sorondo

The Soul Fish by Jeffrey B. Burton

The Reaping of the Seaweed  by Megan Watson

The Fathomed Wreck to See by Alan Baxter

Fountain by Cary G. Osborne

The Dust by William Stuart

Floating by Rick Powell

Adrift by Peter Molnar

In the Shadow of the Equine by Kenneth W. Cain

The Last Wish of Seymour Moss by Robert Freese

The Old Man by Jason Morton

High Tide Coming by Kenneth C. Goldman

Hydrophobia by Shemeeka Howard

It Came from the Water By Alex S. Johnson

Undercurrent by David Court

Splash by C.S. Anderson and Rita Ohara

What Came Ashore by Ash Hartwell

Category Three by Lance Fling

She Who is Red By Deborah Devitt

Wake Up, Daddy by Nicholas Day

All at Sea by H.R. Arwryd

Nessie Lives by Calvin Demmer

Bunny and Clyde by Lisa Vasquez

Beyond the Ocean by Lisa Lane

Dark Water by Lillian Csernica

What Storms Bring by K.C. Griffant

The Fine Art of Wrecking by Jennifer Loring

The Lake Children by Izzy Lee

Back to the Sea by David M. Hoenig

Ghost Ship

by Marc Sorondo

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BILLY TOOK A LONG DRAG off his cigarette and held the smoke in his lungs. He watched the reflection of the full moon on the gentle swells of crystal-blue Caribbean water. The character of that water was different at night. That brilliant, sapphire-blue water that seemed to glow in the sunlight absorbed moonlight. It swallowed the light of the full moon so only a pale reflection shimmered dully on the surface.

Billy had grown tired of that sea. Though it had called him once—its siren song filling his dreams, his plans to reach it monopolizing his waking hours—the Caribbean had ceased to speak to him. He longed to go home again.

Billy turned at the sound of footsteps and found Curtis approaching with a wide grin stretched across his tanned face, just beneath the band of freckles that ran across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose.

“Can hardly hear the music up here,” Curt said.

“That’s why I’m up here,” Billy said.

“I figured you just got tired of watching drunken, middle-aged assholes do the thriller dance.”

“Never even made it that far. I left the second the conga line started up.”

Curtis laughed.

Billy took one last pull off his cigarette and flicked it. As he watched the glowing cherry fall past the partiers and the cabins that were home for him and Curtis, he said, “This is the dumbest idea we’ve ever had.”

“How do you figure?” Curtis laughed again. “Do you realize how much money we’re making tonight? Dumbass tourists are paying over double the usual rate for a booze cruise into the Bermuda Triangle on Halloween night.”

Billy shrugged.

“Hell, if I’d have realized it was going to be a full moon, I could have charged even more. These people are so damn bored with their lives.” He paused. “This is like an adventure for them.”

“Yeah, but money aside, this sucks,” Billy said.

“What’s so bad? This is our only job. We take people out on a boat, have a party, get everyone drunk ... that’s it. What is there to complain about?”

“That’s all there is to it,” Billy said.

“Exactly. We’re living the God damned dream here, man. No stress ... no responsibility ... no shirt, no shoes, no problem.”

“Curt, we’re pushing thirty. How long are we going to do this? I’m starting to worry that we’re going to look back after it’s too late and wish we would have settled down.”

“What, is your biological clock ticking? You sound like a chick. Besides, look at these people ... look at how badly they want to escape their normal lives.”

Billy looked Curtis in the eyes. For a moment they were both quiet.

“I don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this, man. Home is calling me,” Billy said.

“We hated home.”

“When we were kids.”

There was another quiet moment.

“Okay ... we have to have a long conversation. I can accept that ... but now is not the time. Let’s get these tourists drunk, give them a scare or two, show them a good time, and tomorrow we’ll figure out what to do with ourselves.

Billy nodded.

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TWO HOURS LATER, BILLY had finished setting up the rig for their first little stunt. He’d secured the long pole that jutted out perpendicularly from the very front of the ship. From the tip of that pole trailed a long chord attached to a cheap, inflatable sea monster. They had weighted the tail end so it was little more than a huge serpent head sticking out over the water. By the light of the moon, the bright-green paint on the fake monster had the appearance of wet lizard scales covered in bioluminescent algae.

Billy went inside. He looked past the dance floor full of inebriated tourists moving to the Monster Mash and caught Curtis’ eye. He gave Curt a thumbs-up and motioned to the windows at his left with a quick nod of his head.

As he turned to leave, Billy heard Curtis lower the volume on the music and speak into the microphone.

“Boys and ghouls, it seems we’ve got a special guest. If you’ll look out the starboard windows, you’ll see that we’ve piqued the interest of a genuine Bermuda Triangle sea serpent.”

Billy shook his head as he climbed the steps to the upper level. He and Curtis had lived in Puerto Rico for seven years. They’d agreed, before the second semester of their senior year of college, they would head south and never look back. They knew, even then, they had to leave immediately. If they put down any roots at all, they would never leave. They would find themselves old men, sitting together on some cold, New York winter day, wondering what would have happened if they had actually moved all those years ago.

They took no chances. Less than a month after graduation they were in San Juan, putting their roots down in strange, sandy soil.

And, as agreed, they’d never looked back.

Now, as Billy cranked the end of the long rig to bring the sea monster forward, he found himself longing for New York. He missed the crisp air and turned foliage that marked Halloween at home. The tropics had started to seem so foreign to him.

Once he’d cranked the monster up enough to be out of sight of their passengers, he began to disassemble the rig.

They had two more tricks planned for later in the night that Billy wanted to set up ahead of time.

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BILLY HAD ONCE READ it was nearly impossible for an observer, even a well-trained observer like a police officer or a soldier, to accurately gauge the size and distance of an object without other objects to provide perspective and reference.

With that in mind, the second trick Billy had set up was a UFO. Though in actuality only a seven-inch disk dotted with glow-in-the-dark paint hung from fishing wire at the end of an aluminum rod; the passengers aboard the Hecate claimed to see anything from a fairly close craft the size of a compact car to a distant craft the size of a yacht.

One of the passengers, a man who was probably an investment banker in New York or a lawyer in Los Angeles, a man dressed like a pirate and stinking of rum, approached Curtis and slurred, “How’re you guys doing this stuff, the snake and the flying saucer and stuff?”

Curt smiled. He almost laughed, but stopped himself. He knew he needed to straddle the line between goofy and maniacal without going too far to either side. His grin widened.

“All we had to do was bring you poor souls into the Bermuda Triangle, sir. Any incredible things that happen are purely the result of the magic inherent to this place.”

The man waved this away. “Really? I figure the space ship was a remote-control thingy, but what about the serpent?”

Curtis leaned in a bit, as close as he was willing to get to this guy that stunk of sweat and rum and faintly of tobacco. “Just go with it, sir. It’s more fun that way.” Curt straightened back up. “If we ever make it back to land, you’ll be happy you enjoyed this terrifying experience.”

The banker or lawyer laughed, took a long sip of his drink, and said, “Crazy kids,” before walking back into the crowd that had resumed dancing.

Curtis set the next three songs on the playlist: “The Time Warp,” “Sweet Transvestite,” and “Touch-a Touch Me,” all from the Rocky Horror Picture Show.

He headed up to find Billy, chuckling to himself at how stupid these tourists always looked. The more repressed a guy was in his regular life, the more he had to keep up the appearance of a responsible, mature, morally upstanding man for the people at his job, his church, his country club, the more likely he was to run off to some faraway place and get drunk as hell and make an ass of himself, to do drugs he’d preach against in his regular life, to have sex with some local prostitute, often enough a male one, to generally give free range to the little devil on his shoulder for a change.

Curtis stopped laughing when he realized Billy missed that world, that hypocritical nonsense and pressure to conform.

Curtis shook his head and thought he’d be happy with Caribbean sun, cold beers, and short flings with tourist girls until he died. If Billy wanted to leave, he could; Curtis was already home.

He reached the upper level to find Billy storing the rig for the UFO under the bench seats behind his captain’s chair.

“I’m telling you, man, if we decide to stay, we might want to do this theme shit more often,” Curt said.

“Why’s that?” Billy asked.

“It’s easy. There’s no getting the party started. Usually I have to work at it, get people into it, but when they show up in costume ... they’re ready to party.”

Billy shrugged. “That’s something to think about.”

“All ready for the third trick?”

“Yeah. I’m going to wait a little bit. I don’t want to rush from one to the other ... but it’s all ready to go.”

Curtis nodded and headed back down to the main level.

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WHEN BILLY SAW THE vessel in the distance, he didn’t know what to make of it. None of the lights were on, so Billy only saw it when the Hecate’s lights caught the white paint of its cabin and the glossy black of its hull. It was a pleasure cruiser, about sixty feet, smaller than the Hecate, but a good size for a personal ship.

Billy slowed the ship and turned on a million candle-watt spotlight. He trained the light on the dark ship. He sought the name with the beam until he found and illuminated it: Jenny II. The deck of the Jenny II was deserted. The cabin appeared empty as well.

Billy pulled back on the throttle and let the engine idle. He played the spotlight over the Jenny II again and again. It was so cliché: a boat adrift in the Bermuda Triangle, no sign of any passengers, on Halloween no less. Billy didn’t buy it. It had the air of a very elaborate prank, though Billy couldn’t for the life of him think of how this particular prank was supposed to work.

Billy heard Curtis step out onto the deck below, followed by the chuckles of the drunk tourists as they streamed out into the balmy air.

Curtis turned and looked up just as Billy leaned over the railing and looked down.

“What the hell?”

“Indeed,” Billy said.

“No one aboard?”

Billy shrugged. “Don’t see any. Hang on.” He went back to his captain’s chair and picked up the microphone that connected to the loudspeakers all around the ship.

“Jenny II, this is the Hecate. Are you in need of assistance? Is anyone aboard?” Billy’s voice boomed out over the open water.

There was a moment of silence.

One of the women on board, one dressed like Cleopatra, said, “Wow, you guys are really going all out on this one.”

“Ma’am, this is not part of the entertainment,” Curtis said.

“Don’t call me ma’am. Makes me feel old.” She spun, causing the black hair of her wig to spray out, and walked away from Curtis shaking her butt, as if she’d just told him off.

Billy looked down at Curtis again. “Come take the controls and get us closer. “

“I can check it out,” Curt said.

“I’m the one with the paramedic training ... just in case.”

Curtis said, “Touché,” as he headed for the external staircase.

Billy waited for him. As Curtis reached the top of the stairs, Billy asked, “What the hell do you think this is?”

“Good question. Some sort of accident? Scuba divers who didn’t properly anchor their boat before a dive?”

Billy shook his head.

“I’ll radio coast guard while you check it out.”

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AS THE HECATE NEARED the Jenny II, Billy tossed two coils of rope onto the deck of the smaller vessel. As the boats bumped together with a gentle thud, Billy hopped onto the deck of the Jenny II. Its deck was wet, and his feet slid out from under him. He landed sideways on his hip.

He could hear the tourists chuckling at his fall.

“You okay there, Captain?” one of them yelled.

Billy stood. “I’m going to have to ask you guys to head back inside.”

For a moment the tourists just stared at him.

Billy sighed. “The sea monster was an inflatable raft. The UFO was a glow-in-the-dark toy on a string. Those were a joke, part of the fun. This is an actual ship in distress. Now go inside right now.”

Billy glowered at the crowd.

In groups of two and three they turned to head back inside.

Billy heard a man from the center of the group laugh and say, “Don’t worry. It’s all part of the show. He’s in character.”

Billy shook his head and turned back to the deck of the Jenny II. He pulled a small, waterproof flashlight from his pocket and scanned the deck. No blood. No debris. The deck was soaked, as if it’d recently passed through a violent storm, though Billy knew there hadn’t been any in the area.

Billy tied off the two ropes so the ships wouldn’t drift apart. While his hands set to work on knots he’d practiced thousands of times since boyhood, his mind wandered. He could hear the water lapping against the hulls. The sound eased his nervousness.

Once the ropes were secure, Billy went to check out the cabin. It was empty. Everything was in order. There was no mess, no blood. Nothing was broken. It appeared to have just been abandoned.

Billy thought of the Mary Celeste, arguably the most famous ghost ship in history. For a time he’d been fascinated by the story—a ship found adrift without any sign of the crew. Nothing to suggest accident, struggle, or foul play. Nothing out of order. Nothing missing, aside from the crew, of course. No one from the ship had ever been heard from again—but Billy had quickly grown frustrated by the multitude of theories and the lack of answers.

There was a narrow staircase in the cabin that led below decks. Billy shined the flashlight onto the stairs, which were clean and empty. He took a step towards them.

“Anything?” Curtis called.

Billy stepped out from the cabin and shook his head. “What did they say?”

“They’re going to send someone out.”

Curtis looked at Billy, his expression a mix of concern and bewilderment with a dash of fear thrown in. “What the hell happened?”

Billy shrugged. “I’m going to check below.”

“Maybe you should wait,” Curt said.

“Someone could be hurt down there. I’ll be real quick.”

Curtis nodded.

Billy headed for the stairs. He stopped at the top and shone the beam of his flashlight at the bottom. As he stepped down, his hand started to shake. Though the tremor was slight, the beam of light, which danced all over the staircase, exaggerated it.

He stopped about halfway down. Billy turned his head and listened, straining to focus on any sounds coming from the living quarters below.

He heard nothing but the soft lapping of low waves against the hull and his own fast, shallow breathing.

He took a deep breath and tightened his grip on the flashlight. The tremor stopped.

Billy moved down the steps, careful to stay on the balls of his feet so as to make as little noise as possible.

When he reached the bottom, he hesitated. He wanted to know what, if anything, hid down there, but his hand refused to move. Instead, the light pooled at the bottom of the stairs, illuminating his feet.

His fear, while paralyzing him, heightened his senses. He could taste the salt on the air. He heard the muffled voices carried on the breeze from inside the Hecate. His eyes adjusted to the darkness, to make sense of the darkness.

He could make out a shape in the shadowed living quarters. It was crouched or hunched and motionless, as if it were waiting for him.

Billy forced his hand to turn at the wrist. The beam of the flashlight first illuminated the floor and then moved into the doorway.

Her eyes shone in the light. They were green, opened wide, with pupils dilated and a glossy bead of tears in each corner. Billy watched her pupils contract in the brightness of the flashlight beam.

She had blonde hair, long, with short bangs cut so they formed a straight line just over her eyebrows.

Billy guessed she was somewhere around seven years old. She was thin and lanky, wearing a light-blue sundress and white sandals. She had her bent legs pulled against her chest, and she hugged them tight.

“Are you alright?” Billy asked.

Her eyes remained locked on the wall in front of her.

Billy took a step toward her. “My name is Billy. I’ll help you. You’re safe now.”

She did not react.

He crouched down beside her. “Are you hurt? Where are your parents?”

Her eyes turned to Billy

“Can you tell me your name?”

She stared at him.

“That’s okay,” Billy said. “You can tell me some other time. Let’s get you somewhere safe.” He extended his hand.

She looked down at his hand for a long while, in which Billy wondered if he should just pick her up, before finally reaching out with her own small hand and taking it.

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BILLY LED HER UP THE stairs and she followed, matching his pace.

As he led her on deck, he yelled, “Curt!” and scanned his surroundings. He knew at least one adult had completely disappeared and something had happened that so traumatized the little girl she’d fled deep into her own mind. Billy thought through scenarios that ranged from drowning and shark attack to rogue waves and alien abduction. They were, he realized, all the same theories thrown around when the Mary Celeste was discussed.

Curt looked down from the elevated captain’s post. “Holy ... is that a kid?”

“Come help me.” Billy led the little girl towards the Hecate. He could see tourists inside. Some looked concerned, as if they finally realized the Jenny II was not part of their plan for the night, but most smirked, still assuming the ship and the child were all part of the show.

As Curt ran down the steps, a few of the tourists came outside.

“You can’t really think it’s appropriate or responsible to involve a child ...,” one woman started.

“Is she alright?” another asked.

“This is not part of the show!” Billy yelled. “Get inside now, and I’ll give you a refund when we get back to land.”

All but one tourist returned to the festive but now quiet party room. An older woman remained outside. She was slightly overweight and had a flush in her cheeks. She was dressed as Lucille Ball.

“Ma’am, I have to insist you go back inside,” Billy said.

“I’m a nurse,” the woman said. “Retired, but just last month. Maybe I can help.”

Billy nodded. “Thank you.”

Curtis tugged at the ropes holding the two ships together, bringing them closer until they touched.

Billy leaned down to talk to the little girl on her level. “I’m going to give you to my friend Curtis and then I’ll come over, okay. We’ll be safe on my boat.”

She stared past him.

He lifted her up.

Curtis took her. He pulled her close to his chest and smiled down at her. “Hey beautiful, are you alright?”

She stared past him.

Billy untied the ropes holding the Jenny II to the Hecate and jumped onto his ship.

Curtis put the girl down in front of him.

Billy extended a hand and the girl took it. He turned to the retired nurse. “What’s your name?”

“Rose.”

“I don’t see any sign of injury on her, but she’s obviously been through something. Can you check her out and watch her until we reach port?”

“Of course. What’s her name?”

Billy shrugged and made a face.

Rose nodded. “I see.”

Billy leaned down again. “My friend Rose here is a very nice lady. She’s going to keep you company while I get us back to dry land, okay?”

The little girl stared.

Rose extended her hand to the little girl. “Hello, sweetheart. Would you like something to drink, maybe a soda?”

Billy put the girl’s hand into Rose’s, and the girl transferred her grip.

“Thank you again,” Billy said.

Rose waved the thank you away with her free hand and turned to lead the girl inside.

“What the hell happened over there?” Curtis asked.

“Good question. It looks like nothing happened. It looks abandoned, except there’s a traumatized little girl sitting below decks in the dark. It’s like her parents evaporated or something.”

“No sign of the parents at all?”

“No sign of anybody, man. It doesn’t make sense.”

“What do we do?”

Billy shook his head, but then he said, “I’ll head us back to the port, and I’ll radio ahead for a doctor.”

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BILLY ADJUSTED THEIR course and headed back to San Juan at full speed. He called the coast guard but got only static in reply. He decided he’d try again in a few minutes.

He made minor adjustments to their course using his GPS and reached beneath the controls for a soda.

There was always a six-pack of cold root beer on hand while on the boat. His earliest memories on the water, those of sitting in a small rowboat and fishing with his grandfather, were inextricably linked to the taste of cold root beer from the can. Billy felt as if something was missing if he didn’t have at least one while out at sea.

He popped the top on the can and hoped the bittersweet taste and the carbonation would sooth his nerves. He chugged down two gulps and held a third in his mouth, savoring the taste of it before swallowing.

Billy tried the coast guard again and got only static.

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ROSE WAS DOING HER best to keep the little girl off in a quiet corner, but many of the other tourists were too drunk to realize they weren’t helping by being so damn pushy. Each one had some suggestion; each one knew best what the poor girl needed.

It only took a few minutes for Curtis to push his way in between Rose and the others.

“I’m going to have to ask everyone to just take a few steps back and give the girl some space,” he announced. All the humor had left his voice; now it was deep and stern, and it reverberated in the acoustics of the big room.

“She needs food,” one person shouted.

Curt turned his head and spoke to Rose over his shoulder. “I’m going to take you and the girl upstairs. You can stay with Billy.”

Rose nodded.

Curtis pushed back through the crowd. He forced the tourists far enough apart to get Rose and the girl through and then waded through the smells of sweat and alcohol and perfume, realizing as he went there was nothing like an open bar to make a bad situation worse.

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ROSE AND THE GIRL SAT on the bench seats behind Billy’s captain’s chair, beneath a decorative set of oars and a life preserver with the word Hecate printed on it. They were silent. Rose watched the two men. One was clearly nervous, in spite of his big grin, every time he looked over. The bravado of the big hand gestures he used, and the tone of his voice made it evident. The other seemed more puzzled, as if he were working the situation over in his head, trying to deduce what had happened.

Rose petted the little girl’s hand and hummed an old song from her college days.

The little girl stared at a dim star just above the horizon.

“Forty-five minutes?” Curtis asked.

“Give or take. I think she’ll be okay. I don’t think she was hurt ... physically,” Billy said.

Curtis turned and smiled at Rose. Then he turned back to Billy, leaned in a bit, and whispered, “Then what the hell happened to her?”

Billy looked up at the dark sky. “That’s the thing. It doesn’t make sense. No scenario fits.”

Curt shook his head. “I should get back down there.”

Billy took his pack of cigarettes off the seat behind him and pulled one from the pack. He popped it into his mouth.

Curt was at the top of the stairs down to the main deck.

Billy lit the cigarette, took a deep drag, and said, “Curt.”

Curtis stopped and half turned back to Billy.

“Let them go back to partying. Tell them the girl is an actress who looks much younger than she is, and that it’s all part of the show. Apologize for getting them all worked up and say we figured they’d realize it was a goof. They’re drunk enough that that’ll keep them mellow until we reach port. We’ve just got to keep things under control for another hour, tops.”

Curt nodded. “Worth a shot.”

Bill took another drag. He faced Rose and the girl and looked from one to the other.

“What’s on your mind?” Rose asked.

“Can I ask your opinion of something ... as a medical professional?”

Rose nodded.

“What happened to her?”

Rose shook her head. “Unless she starts talking, we may never know.”

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NOT QUITE FIFTEEN MINUTES later, the engines died. The change in speed was so abrupt that many of the partiers ended up in a heap on the dance floor. The power went out, silencing the music and darkening the many lights of the ship.

Above, Billy muttered under his breath, “Fucking Twilight Zone episode.”

“Everything okay?” Rose asked.

Billy turned to her and flashed an annoyed smile. “We’ll see. Hang out here. I’ll find out what happened.”

Curt was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs. Upon seeing Billy, he held up his hands and said, “What the hell? I just got them all mellow and happy again.”

“You’re the mechanic. You tell me.”

“Shit.” Curt headed for a narrow door that blended in with the white paint of the wall beside it. He ran below.

Billy stood at the door and yelled down, “Even if the engines died, shouldn’t the battery have some juice?”

“Yup,” Curt yelled up. “That and we have a back-up generator. All three would have to go out at once.”

“What the hell would cause that?”

Curt came back up the steps. “Add this to the list of things that don’t make any sense.” Curt was sweating; he wiped at his forehead with the back of his forearm. “Call the coast guard and—”

“No power, man, so no radio. Besides, damn thing’s been all static for a while.”

“Figures.”

“Maybe if I turn everything off and try to start the engines back up,” Billy said.

“I doubt it, but it’s worth a shot.”

Billy turned to the stairs.

He was stopped by two men—dressed as Beetlejuice and Dracula—who smiled at him as they approached.

“You boys go all out,” Dracula said in a heavy, southern twang.

“We aim to please,” Billy said. “But I’ve got to get back upstairs or else the timing for the rest of the show’ll be off. Please excuse me.”

The men chuckled and nodded as if they were in on a very secret joke and stepped out of Billy’s way.

He ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time. His lungs felt fuzzy and warm by the time he reached the top.

Billy smiled at Rose and the girl as he passed them on his way to the captain’s chair. He turned the key in the ignition, waited for a second in which he held his breath, and then turned it back. Nothing happened.

Trying the radio again, he found that it came to life, using up the last traces of power that had gone to it. There was, however, only static that pulsed slightly to a slow, throbbing rhythm, like a gigantic heartbeat or whale song.

Billy sighed and went to reach for his cigarettes when a flash of movement caught his eye. He looked at the compass that was built into the ship just beside the wheel. Though it was hard to see in the dark, when he examined it, Billy found that the needle was spinning counterclockwise at a slow, constant pace.

Billy watched it for a moment before looking away. He decided he needed a cigarette desperately, as he was sure that some type of shit had just hit the fan.

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WHEN THE CREATURES first appeared—crawled up over the side of the ship, their bodies moving with the awkward grace of a simian—the drunk tourists all pointed and laughed. They squealed in delight at the show being put on for such a small amount of money, though some swore they could see zippers, buttons, and other fasteners on the cheap costumes.

Curtis backed towards the door with his mouth hanging open and his eyes full of uncomprehending horror. Of those on that lower level, only Curtis knew the show had been over for more than an hour.

He reached the door and fumbled for the knob without looking. Once he grabbed it, he turned to look through the glass door.

There were webbed hands, the scaly, wet fingers tipped with long talons, gripping the edge of the ship.

Curtis realized they were crawling up the side of the ship; there were tons of them crawling out of the water like ants from a disturbed hill.

He ran towards the stairs, screaming, “Billy!”

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BILLY LOOKED DOWN IN time to see a dark shape crouched before Curt. Its skin glistened in the moonlight. It was built like an orangutan, its arms long enough to hang down past its knees, its legs short and bent into a squat.

Billy wanted to yell something, to scare the creature or to inspire Curtis to fight that thing off. He found that he could only watch.

Curtis screamed as the creature grabbed him, its long arms lashing out and pulling him close.

Billy expected some sort of gory attack then. He could almost see the creature open its mouth to show its serrated teeth to Curtis before biting into him, or perhaps the creature would use the strength of those long arms and the sharpness of those talons to pull Curtis apart.

Instead, the creature pulled Curtis to the edge of the ship. Curtis was helpless to do any more than scream before it pulled him overboard.

For a moment they thrashed on the surface, Curtis screaming and choking, before they finally sank beneath and all was silent.

Billy scanned the length of the ship. He estimated ten on that side of the ship alone.

He turned to Rose and the girl. Rose’s eyes were wide. She watched Billy, waiting for some explanation.

The little girl stared at a dim star just above the horizon.

Billy just shook his head. He looked at the wooden oars that hung crossed against the wall over Rose and the girl’s heads.

“Get up for a second,” he said. His voice was calm. It amazed him.

Rose stood and led the girl away from the bench.

Billy walked over and tore one of the oars off the wall. He held it, felt the weight, and decided that it would do.

“Thanks,” Billy said, motioning back to the bench.

Rose led the little girl back, and they both sat.

The screaming started then. The sounds of it came up from the lower level, and it was like a symphony of terror and despair. Long, wailing notes and short, harsh cries, words and phrases of rage and fear and loss, prayers for mercy, prayers for help, prayers recited from memory that hadn’t been said since childhood.

It all blended together until the individual sounds were indistinct and meaningless. Billy got another can of root beer and popped the top. He looked at Rose and the little girl.

Rose watched the can in Billy’s hand as if she couldn’t make sense of it.

Billy lifted it to his mouth and closed his eyes as he downed a few gulps that fizzed and bubbled down his throat, leaving his mouth with a bittersweet aftertaste.

He sipped from the can after that, savoring the flavor of it and the memories it conjured while he waited for the creatures to come for him.

He tried to calculate the odds of surviving. He took another sip of root beer and held it in his mouth. Something his grandfather had once said came to him then: “Sometimes it’s how you lose that shows what kind of a man you are.”

Billy looked at the little girl and wondered what she’d already seen, what she’d already been through.

The first one came alone, and it hesitated at the top of the steps. Its face was reptilian, the eyes yellow, the mouth without lips, the entirety of it hairless and covered in glistening scales.

Rose screamed.

The thing’s lipless mouth pulled back in a grin, the teeth long and thin and interlocking in the closed mouth.

In one fluid motion, Billy stepped forward and swung the wooden oar like an oversized baseball bat.

He caught the thing right in the face and knocked it back down to the lower deck.

Rose screamed again, and Billy turned to find her in the embrace of one of the reptiles, the long arms wrapped around her as it dragged her towards the water.

Two more approached Billy.

The little girl remained on the bench, seemingly ignored by the creatures.

Billy attacked the duo of monsters. He hit one in the chest, knocking it to the ground. He lifted the oar again, but the other creature was already too close.

It grabbed Billy, and its grip was so tight, its arms so strong, that all of Billy’s thrashing and fighting did little to delay his capture. It wrapped its arms around him and squeezed. Billy could hardly breathe. He wondered why people would have bothered to scream with so little breath left in their lungs. What was the point?

Billy was stoic as the reptile pulled him overboard. He decided not to give it the satisfaction of screaming.

––––––––

THEY CROWDED AROUND the little girl, hunched over and careful to stay a few feet away.

She did not look at the creatures this time. Instead she kept her focus locked on that same dim star.

One of the creatures dared to approach closer. It looked at the girl’s green eyes and hissed like an enormous serpent, a sound of revulsion and fear.

All at once the creatures rushed away, moving like primates through the jungle, until a series of splashes punctuated their retreat.

Then, aside from the gentle lapping of small waves against the hull, there was silence.

The little girl sat in the darkness, her eyes open wide, and focused on a point of light a billion miles away.

The Hecate drifted.

The Soul Fish

by Jeffrey B. Burton

I was there that very first day when the fisherman and his first mate were showing Doctor Jasinski the day’s most intriguing catch. Doctor Jasinski, marine biologist and Executive Director of Anchorage’s SeaLife Aquarium, paged me to his office to look at something that, he assured me, will “blow your socks off.” I got there in time to hear McGurk, the fishing captain, as he finished telling his tale.

“Me and Sammy laid a few thousand line hooks at 400 deep. Buoyed it up and gave it eight—thinkin’ halibut or cod, ya know.” Captain McGurk, wind-battered red face and half an index finger missing on his left hand giving testimony to the life aquatic, looked from Jasinski to me and back to the doctor, seeing we were all ears. “We winched in the line and nothing, after nothing, after nothing, after nothing. That rarely happens. Not where I fish. But as we got closer to the end, I touched the line, and there’s a slight wiggle at first—a vibration like a tuning fork—and I knew we wasn’t completely skunked.”

I looked over at Sammy, the first mate, a towering Native Alaskan and most likely an Aleut, who declined to join the conversation. Sammy’s eyes stayed glued to the weathered fishing cooler sitting atop a rolling cart in the center of Doctor Jasinski’s office.

“Then what, Captain?” Jasinski prompted.

“An odd thing. Very odd. A sudden swell tipped the boat, not much, but enough to send us to the rail, and that critter,” the captain pointed at the cooler, “came aboard. Baffled the bejesus outta both of us, huh, Sammy?”

Eyes still averted, the Aleut nodded once.

“Never seen anything like it, Doc. Never in all my years have I seen anything like it. I slipped the bugger off the hook—easy as pie—don’t know how it didn’t jiggle away when we pulled it in, and I stared at the damned thing. Sammy got on me right away, wanted me to throw it back, din’t ya Sammy?”

For the first time, the Aleut spoke. “This is not its place, Captain. It doesn’t belong here.”

“Well, Sammy here and I go back a far way. And I always listen to him, don’t I Sammy? But I ain’t never seen nothin’ like this before. And as I held it out in front of me and . . . damned if something didn’t happen.” The captain paused and looked at us both again to verify he still held our attention. “For a second as I looked at it, I could have sworn it was staring back at me, both of us on the same frequency or something. That’s how it felt. And another thing, you know how the sun can play lotta tricks out there. Water mirages they call them, more than in the desert, but when the eyes winged out, and we looked square at each other; I could have sworn that for a second there I thought I saw myself. Just a peek in the mirror is all.”

“It doesn’t belong here,” the Aleut repeated.

“Happened to Sammy, too,” the captain said and chuckled. “But he don’t talk about it.”

The giant Aleut looked at his feet and said nothing.

“What do you mean by ‘eyes winged out’?” I asked.

“You simply won’t believe it.” Doctor Jasinski put his hand on my back and led me toward the fishing cooler. “Captain McGurk filled his cooler with sea water and brought us back an amazing little gift. He will very likely have this fish named after him.”

“Ah, don’t do that. The crew’ll give me too much shit. Just let me know if anyone knows what in hell it is.”

Doctor Jasinski lifted the lid on the cooler, and I leaned over to look inside. I’ve been a marine biologist for 17 years and thought I’d seen everything the ocean had to offer up; giant eels that’ll haunt your nightmares, stingrays it’d be best to avoid, sea wasps—those pink stinging jellyfish that had killed bathers off the east coast of Australia, and that deadly blue-ringed octopus from the Timor Trench. But nothing prepared me for when the Doctor removed the lid of the cooler.

My first thought was some dwarfish sub-species of barracuda because of the separated dorsal fins and the lower jaw jutting out beyond the upper one. But the coloring was all wrong. Green, yellow, and freckled white on the underbelly. Much smaller, too. Maybe two feet in length, possibly four inches wide, and couldn’t weigh more than 15 pounds. I began working through a classification checklist in my mind, frankly beginning to wonder what all the fuss was about. The fish swam a slow path diagonally across the cooler. I watched as it dipped down, hugged the bottom of the cooler for a second, then shot up, straight at me . . . and its eyes fanned outward. Like car doors opening simultaneously, both eyes stared forward for an instant before snapping back to their respective sides.

“Jesus!” I leapt back, as though a puppet yanked on its string.

“Exactly,” Jasinski replied. “Exactly.”

The doctor, ever the schmoozer with potential donors, had his arm about the captain’s shoulder as they left the office. I knew how Jasinski’s mind worked. It was obvious he was deadly serious, and tremendously excited. McGurk had just presented the doctor the dream of a lifetime and things were never going to be the same. Jasinski had a thousand things to do, but he looked forward with great relish to performing every glory-invoking task.

I started out after them when something caught my wrist in a vice-like grip. I turned to stare up into the blue marble eyes of the Aleut.

“The thing does not belong here. The captain should have thrown it back.” The man nicknamed Sammy turned toward the cooler and spoke a string of fast syllables that I took for some incantation from his native tongue. Then he turned back, leaned down to my ear, and finished what he needed to say to me in a low whisper. “That thing is darkness.”

And with that, the Aleut released my wrist and was out the door.

The next two weeks, Doctor Jasinski and I set up the private viewing. We brought in an aquarium the size of a Hummer, kept the water temperature at a computer-controlled 50 degrees, and set up four separate filters to keep it clean. Spent the aquarium’s entire annual reserve fund on the new hardware.

Feeding Gurk, as we’d come to call the fish, was hit and mostly miss. Jasinski and I hit it hard with flake, pellets, tablets, and sticks, chockfull of macro nutrients. They did nothing but sink to the bottom. Then came the live food, a magnificent buffet of water fleas, sludge worms, bloodworms, and newly hatched brine shrimp. Like a haughty French chef at a Taco Bell, Gurk ignored it all. Finally, we settled on an assortment of feeder fish. Gurk was shy, wouldn’t eat during the day, but in the morning the goldfish, guppies, and red minnows were all floaters. A couple missing, perhaps, a nibble off of one here and possibly off of another one over there. Certainly not a heavy appetite, but to be expected because of Gurk’s abrupt change of environment, which would have been a shock to its system.

Gurk also made the fish in her two neighboring tanks skittish. Not an oddity. We’d certainly witnessed this sort of behavior before between predator and prey. There’s a universe of fish we don’t dump into the shark tank. The two dozen pregnant Hippocampus, that is, male seahorses newly in from Nova Scotia—seahorses and pipefish being the only species in which the male becomes pregnant—had migrated to the far side of their aquarium, as far from Gurk as possible. Same with the mole crabs in the tank on Gurk’s other side.

Doctor Jasinski worked in a delightful frenzy, sending weight, measurements, and digitized images of Gurk to marine biologists about the globe ... his colleagues in Finland, Japan, Australia, China, Germany, Russia. Heck, the doctor even sent to Shedd Aquarium in Chicago. This was his moment in the sun, and Doctor Stanislaw W. Jasinski was going to make the most of it.

It was this second week that brought the news, hard to miss even if you only scan the headlines. Having spoken to the captain the day before the incident, informing him of the nickname and letting him know his find still remained a solid mystery, I took it especially hard. Captain McGurk, Sammy, and the two other mates on his fishing vessel—The Tulukaruk—just hadn’t come in that next evening. No call, no radio distress, no Tulukaruk returning to dock. With Alaskan fisherman holding one of the most dangerous jobs in the world, that is something that’s taken quite seriously.

The Coast Guard Cutter Liberty found the Tulukaruk in the middle of the night. Sitting empty. The search and rescue team couldn’t make heads or tails of it. The weather hadn’t been nastier than normal. It was a real Bermuda Triangle puzzler until they began drawing in the long line. Imagine their surprise then, when amongst the day’s catch of Black Cod, Pollock, and other bottomfish, they pulled up Captain McGurk—one hook sunk deep beneath his jawline, another speared under his ribcage.

It’s hard to picture what had occurred on The Tulukaruk that afternoon. A commercial fishing vessel’s stability constantly shifts during its voyage. It likely became unstable—an unexpected tilt, a violent lurch—from sudden changes in wind or waves. Instability could also have been caused by the ship’s loading or fishing operations. Either way, the line hooks got the Captain. The sea had swallowed up Sammy and the rest.

The following weeks were a flurry of activity. Distinguished colleagues and learned biologists converged on our little shop to examine Gurk. Although I was present for all of the meet and greets, it was in a very subordinate, almost clerkish, role. When would I ever get another chance to press flesh with the pioneers in my chosen field? But Doctor Jasinski was the featured man of the hour, personally presenting Gurk to the hordes of astonished dignitaries. Jasinski enjoyed sponging up the attention, and more power to him, as this find had the very real potential of adding a new research wing to the SeaLife Aquarium. For my tastes, however, I found him too giddy as he relayed the poor captain’s misfortune. It provided Jasinski an additional talking point, heightened the drama if you will, as well as leaving him center stage—alone in the limelight—to tell of this truly amazing discovery.

And, frankly, I’d begun to feel a little uncomfortable around Gurk. About this time, the seahorses and crabs in the neighboring tanks began to die off, one after another. We had the added task of figuring out how this came to be. We’re certainly not new at caring for these types of creatures, and the water samples all came back A-okay. Jasinski, paranoid it might somehow affect Gurk, had the other fish moved from the display room and left me to quibble with their ruffled sponsors.

The Finns were the first to bring up the same sensation the captain had described. Daavid, first, and later Niko. Gurk swam to the front, hovering in front of the glass, and then the eyes opened out to look at the visiting scientist. Daavid mentioned a wave of nausea passing through him, like mist over a mountain lake, and an instant of seeing his own face superimposed over Gurk’s. Then the eyes closed back to normal, and Gurk swam away. A similar experience for Germany’s Gerd Lehmann, ditto Professor Oleg Prokofiev from Russia. About half of Gurk’s visitors voiced similar occurrences. Others acted a bit unsettled, but declined to comment.

Shiori Mishima, a biologist from Japan’s Yokohama Hakkeijima Aquarium, likened it to a photograph being developed and then realizing it’s a picture of oneself before it dissolved away.

“Her eyes are windows of a sort, only to what I am not sure,” Shiori volunteered. “Tama means spirit or soul in Japanese. If you are considering species names, Doctor Jasinski, I’d call her The Soul Fish—because of her eyes.”

“The Soul Fish,” Jasinski repeated. “I like it.”

And the name stuck.

With hundreds of years of collective experience, none of our esteemed colleagues had ever seen, heard, or read about anything that sounded even remotely close to our Soul Fish. One by one, we’d drive them back to the Anchorage International Airport, none the wiser.

“The damned thing’s pregnant.” Doctor Jasinski stood in the doorway of my office.

“Pregnant?”

“At first I thought it was nothing more than a couple of anomalies along the belly. But over the past week, her stomach’s been swelling more and more ... she’s ripe with eggs.”

“That certainly takes the cake.” I leaned back in my chair and stared at Jasinski.

“I’m beginning to wonder if there’s anything about Captain McGurk’s fish that doesn’t take the cake.”

“Oviparity,” I mumbled aloud, shrugging. “When she spawns and scatters the eggs, there’ll be no male of her kind to fertilize them.”

“Maybe that’s not such a bad thing. Quite frankly, I hope the bitch eats her own.”

“You can’t be serious about—”

“I’m dead serious.” The doctor cut me off. “I caught a glimpse of myself in her face this morning ... and I’m not sure I liked what I saw.”

“Are you feeling okay? You look pale.”

“What did the philosopher say?” Jasinski shook his head as though trying to snap out of a dream. “Something about, ‘If you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.’”

We added weeds to the sand and gravel to make The Soul Fish feel more at home, I guess, for her spawning phase. I examined her belly through the glass of the aquarium; sure enough, Doctor Jasinski was correct—maybe a half dozen marble-sized swells bulged below her stomach. It may have been a trick of the light, and I know this sounds insane, but there appeared to be slight movements inside each bulge.

Six days later, a little before lunch, Doctor Stanislaw Westfield Jasinski—head of the Anchorage SeaLife Aquarium—walked out of his office, down the hallway, out the entryway, marched down the sidewalk, stopped near the busy intersection, paused for several seconds, and then stepped off the curb directly in front of a speeding transit bus.

The funeral this morning had been a small affair. Closed casket. There was talk of how the doctor was absentminded, engrossed in his thoughts, blind to traffic as he took that fatal step. I don’t buy that for one second. I heard from the police the bus driver swears Doctor Jasinski made eye contact with him before taking his final step.

I sit now, alone, in my office. Reflecting. Day has passed slowly into night. You see, I spent a long afternoon trying to connect with some of our distinguished colleagues who had blown through SeaLife to examine and attempt to classify The Soul Fish. At first, I wasn’t exactly sure how to broach such a delicate topic without sounding certifiable, but after I’d heard about the Finns—and some of our other recent visitors—it became unnecessary to find the words.

Late last week, Daavid, behind the wheel of his Porsche Boxster, had driven both Niko and himself straight into a concrete bridge abutment at 180 kilometers per hour. Soon after that, Gerd Lehmann, the German, died of smoke inhalation in a house fire, which the authorities believed was set of his own making. A few days back, Claude Davidson, the Australian, for some reason had shed all of his diving weights and then ascended from the Barrier Reef’s deepest trench like a bat out of hell, sans face mask and tank, with no decompression stops to equalize pressure. A fatal panic attack, the news report stated. This from an expert scuba diver who’d spent most of his waking hours underwater examining sea life.

And just yesterday morning, Shiori Mishima, our intuitive scientist from Japan, had poured herself a deep warm bath, slid naked into it, and then opened both her wrists with a razor blade and bled out.

These. And more. Google and some painful long-distance phone calls brought the events of the past week terribly close to home.

For you see, right after Doctor Jasinski’s funeral, I came back to the aquarium, to the private viewing room to check in on The Soul Fish, to see how close she was to spawning. I stared into the tank, watched as she swam lazy figure eights. I was taken aback at how much more swollen her underbelly had become, stretched beyond thinness, vaguely-translucent and membrane-like. More eggs—many more—moving about inside her, each individual orb expanding and contracting, pulsating, like a spider’s egg sac. I couldn’t tear my eyes off this latest development until she came to a stop in front of the glass, facing me, her eyes fanning out. I lost track of time—it may have been seconds, it may have been minutes—as we stared into one another. And it happened. A kaleidoscope of colors, followed by an after flash, a frozen frame, seeing myself in her, my features imposed upon her face, a wave of dizziness, and something else not so definable. Then it passed, but sent me racing down the hallway to my office to contact the others.

I remember what the Aleut fisherman warned me of that very first day. It echoes about in my mind. That thing is darkness, he whispered. I know I should march back to the display room, smash open the tank with the fire axe and ... but I wonder how far I’d make it—before I got an unquenchable urge to leap from a window or turn the fire axe on myself.

More puzzling yet, a part of me needs to know. We have been waiting for her to spawn, and although her eggs will be scattered, there’d be no male to fertilize them. But, as I consider the dozens of bubbling, pulsating eggs—like stolen heartbeats—I think of the dozens of dignitaries that have passed through our doors and I have an epiphany.

She has no need for a male. You see, her eggs have already been fertilized, and—if I can stay around that long—the hatchings will be

Novels in Jeffrey B. Burton's Agent Drew Cady mystery series include THE CHESSMAN, THE LYNCHPIN, and THE EULOGIST. His short stories have appeared in dozens of magazines. Jeff is a member of the Horror Writers Association, and he lives in St. Paul, Minnesota with his wife, daughter, and an irate Pomeranian named Lucy. For more information, visit www.JeffreyBBurton.com

The Reaping of the Seaweed

by Megan Watson

Ethel Yorke shivered in the breeze, the memories of the horrors that took place here still fresh in her aging mind. As the sun set, casting auburn rays across the colorful foliage still clinging windswept to branches, the large, empty hole below looked unearthly. Hard to visualize when the space was actually a lake, with water the color of ice tea and stumps of dead cedar trees piercing the surface. Nature's sculpture garden. She smiled as a single tear ran down her cheek, wishing she didn't have to make this trip every year, but knowing the possible consequences if she stopped.

––––––––

THE COMMUNITY OF CEDAR Lake, nestled in the middle of the New Jersey Pine Barrens, was once a typical small town. Most families had lived there for generations, though the last couple of decades found a growing number of retirees and young families from the city, escaping the stress of metropolitan chaos. Simple wooden docks speckled most of Cedar Lake's shoreline, with the Central Clubhouse sitting prominently in the center. Near the far end, the lake connected to a swampy area with a small creek fed by the dam. This edge was most popular among the canoe and fishing crowds, while the majority of the swimming and boating occurred at the opposite end. A small road encircled the entire lake, one only paved in recent years. Just a few houses were located directly on the water, the rest scattered about in a type of wagon wheel pattern.

Summers tripled the local population, the surrounding quiet and eerie pine forest invaded by echoes of youthful laughter and boat motors. Not that one would hear any complaints from the locals, as those throngs of people pumped enough into the local economy to keep everyone solvent through the off-season months. Their biggest issue was the constant battle against the seaweed invasion every year.

People hated the seaweed. It entangled swimming limbs, caught on blades trying to propel small fishing boats, made the lake floor slimy (only an issue in the shallow parts), and it smelled funky. Thus began the annual ritual of clearing the lake known as The Reaping of the Seaweed, a festival celebrating the unofficial kickoff of the tourist season. Seven days of fun-filled activities: fireworks, lakeside barbecues, and late-night shenanigans. And hundreds of gallons of toxic, untested chemicals and herbicides thrown into the once pure cedar waters. Not every citizen of Cedar Lake agreed with this particular tactic. Ethel Yorke was among the loudest of the critics, never letting a Reaping go by without a fight.

Then the 50th Annual Reaping of the Seaweed arrived. Despite the waters not yet being cleared of the pesky aquatic plant life, people couldn't wait to jump in and wash away their winter blues. Long, cold, and snow covered, the frigid weather marked the first time the lake had ever frozen completely over, solid enough to walk the three miles across, shore to shore, with ease. Cabin fever had raged. As soon as the weather turned mild, the lake was full of people. The seaweed population was abundant. Never had the lake been so choked. But soon, sugar highs and liquor buzzes set in, and all that mattered was that it was warm, and winter was mercifully over.

Ethel was in full force, her long silver hair braided down her back and her voice filled with strength and authority; she passionately spoke about the dangers of continuing to poison the lake. She handed out pamphlets and literature full of scientific studies, though most ended up in the recycling bin outside the Central Clubhouse.

"You're killing the ecosystem!" she pleaded. "You're killing our paradise!"

No one listened. People just streamed by, eager to get to the opening celebrations, the allure of free food and ice-cold beer calling them like a siren of the sea. A few stopped out of sheer politeness, but Ethel could see right through their well-intentioned gestures. As the afternoon progressed, she sighed and packed up her things, hoping to have better luck tomorrow. Despite her protests, she proceeded towards the clubhouse to grab a beer. Her taxes helped pay for the seaweed genocide party; she might as well help herself to some hard-earned rewards. She took her beer and a small plate of food to the main dock. She sat staring at the seaweed plants floating on the surface, tracing them to their roots underwater. A sunfish swam by, tickling her toes as it passed.

"Poor things, you have no idea what's about to happen, do you?" A piece of seaweed brushed the side of Ethel's foot. She yipped, "Ouch! That stung." Feeling it was a sign, she finished her beer and left.

On day two of the Reaping, Ethel stood in the parking lot of the Central Clubhouse, her usual signs and literature in hand, and this time, she reminded passersby she was a retired scientist. No one flinched. Sheriff Spike Curtis and Councilman Sam Harding approached Ethel. She stared them down.

"If you two think for one moment that you can make me leave ..."

"Calm down, Ethel," said an empathetic Sheriff Spike.

"Just making sure you know we read your studies. Sam here says there's nothing to worry about."

Nodding, Sam added, "Don't forget the sacrifice is at six o'clock tonight. It's the most popular event of the whole festival!"

Smiling, he gave Ethel a condescending pat on her shoulder as he and Sheriff Spike continued into the clubhouse. Spike's deputy, Devi Loomis, followed a beat behind. Devi, used to a bit of teasing herself thanks to her alliterative job and name combination, looked over. She too smiled at Ethel, but it was filled with kind sincerity, her eyes glimmering with unspoken but pleasant understanding. Ethel smiled back, thankful for the brief but uplifting encounter.

That day, swimmers, getting in their last moments before the poisons were added to the water, started to report a strange tingling sensation on areas grazed by seaweed. More than a few inquired about the possibility of jellyfish, or some other animal, that may have joined the ranks of the lake's underwater population. That notion was quickly dismissed with the simple explanation that the swimmers probably just got scratched by the branches of submerged cedar stumps. The celebrations continued, leading up to the main event for the night: The Ritual of the Seaweed Sacrifice.

Large pieces of seaweed were gathered and hung up, along with strands of white lights, to tastefully decorate the top of the Central Clubhouse lamp pole. Next came a toast of thanks for the sacrifice the seaweed had made to ensure the prosperity of the community for another year, as the deadly concoction of herbicides, mostly experimental, thanks to the questionable ethics of Councilman Harding, was poured into the waters of Cedar Lake. The ritual concluded with a community feast by candlelight, usually full of vegetarian fare in jest of the massive slaughter of seaweed that had just begun. By the end of the night, drunken revelers would wave pieces of lettuce or fresh seaweed at the lamp pole, as if teasing the dying plant, rubbing in the ingestion and murder of its brethren, laughing as they stumbled away. Some kinder souls would thank the seaweed, and quietly apologize for their more brutal counterparts. And every once in a while, one person, usually a child, would claim to have heard the sacrificial seaweed weeping as it died on the pole overlooking its former home in the lake, as if crying out for help. Unfortunately, those lone voices of reason, Ethel Yorke among them, were ignored.

Days three and four were raking days. People in full rubber suits waded into the water to rake the seaweed up and remove it from the lake. This took care of the larger areas of seaweed concentration, as well as the loose plants, many already dead. Once the water was reasonably clear, sand was brought in to cover up the naturally slimy lake floor. Day five was a day of rest and fireworks over the lake, counting the minutes until it was officially safe to swim again. The morning of day six, the entire community gathered on the shore of the Central Clubhouse under the still decorated lamp pole to declare the clubhouse open for the season. On the final day, the waters were cleared for swimming and the summer officially began. The festivities always continued into the wee hours of the morning, this year under a full moon sparkling on the lake and making the white sands of the Pine Barrens glow in celebration.

The 50th Annual Reaping of the Seaweed had been the best one yet, at least until the missing persons desk at the Sheriff's office became inundated with reports. A week after the celebrations had concluded, ten people had been reported missing, and the list was growing. On the other side of town, the clinic overflowed with people suffering from bizarre maladies. One group had mysterious stings and red, tendril-shaped marks on their limbs, people swearing there must be some type of jellyfish in the lake. The other group had more severe cases; toe and finger nails peeling off out of nowhere, leaving tips raw and bloody, resembling hamburger meat. The worst cases evolved into tooth and hair loss. The only common variable was that every person, whether missing or ill, was at the Reaping, and all had swum in Cedar Lake in the past two weeks. With the tourists already starting to pour into town, officials, especially Sam Harding, were worried and trying to come up with some cover story to keep money flowing in, not tourists fleeing out.

Mutterings about the seaweed being responsible spread around town, especially at Mini's, the local diner. A part of the wall by the front doors was covered in missing persons posters. Seaweed only made sense, as it was a common denominator, except for the fact that seaweed doesn't sting. Sally White swore the seaweed was trying to drown her, that she could feel it pulling her down, fighting with her, the painful stinging getting worse the longer she fought. Her boyfriend, Jack, had managed to pull her away before exhaustion caused her to go under for good. The day after relaying their tale at Mini's, which caused quite a stir among diners, Sally went missing. Jack, who had been stung while rescuing Sally, ended up at the clinic two days later, completely bald and missing most of his finger and toenails.

A town meeting was held, panicked citizens asking, "Why are so many sick, and where are our missing loved ones?" The clinic began sending patients to the general hospital, an hour outside of town. People were waking up choking on their own loose teeth, pillows sprayed with blood. The town council's explanations were no longer calming Cedar Lake residents. The people were scared and they wanted real answers.

Ethel Yorke stood up. "I know what's going on."

Silence fell over the frantic crowd.

"It's the damn chemicals. I've been warning all of you for years! No one listened. So, being that I was an aquatic biologist and botanist for thirty years, I took it upon myself to run some tests on the water, and especially the seaweed. The seaweed has mutated into a new species. The so-called ‘environmentally safe’ herbicide Councilman Harding insisted we use contains animal and plant DNA. It altered the seaweed causing the plants to ... well, fight back by stinging anything it determines is a threat. Like a snake biting when cornered. And though further testing is needed to know for sure, I think its sting is causing all these other horrific symptoms. The new formula, which I'm sure is top notch," as she glared at Harding," is the only explanation that makes any sense." Ethel looked around and was met with looks of confusion and disbelief.

"I am not insane. Please! Listen to me!" But she feared her efforts were futile, especially as a woman with the undeserved reputation of being the town crazy person—a reputation earned only from being educated and trying to impart that knowledge to her fellow Cedar Lake neighbors.

Councilman Harding was the first to speak. "Uh, we appreciate your insights, Mrs. Yorke, however, your explanation seems highly unlikely."

The room erupted, people were shouting, most in disbelief, or rather denial, at Ethel's explanations. Sam banged the gavel, while Sheriff Spike called for order. Ethel walked out with her head down, knowing the worst was yet to come and seeing nothing she could do about it. Sheriff Spike called to her to stop, but she didn't hear him. Promising solid answers, a frustrated council adjourned the meeting until further notice.

Sheriff Spike Curtis was not equipped to deal with the issues plaguing his town. Tourist revenue was already unusually low, and with so many missing and ill people, not many were picking Cedar Lake as their summer getaway. He had few resources, more than twenty missing people, and a medical facility overflowing with patients suffering from bizarre and disfiguring ailments of unknown origins. He sat down on his own private dock, beer in hand, surveying his home. Though new to being sheriff, he wasn't new to Cedar Lake. He was local, born and raised, and in fifty years nothing like this had ever happened. As the sun began to descend over the calm, mirror-like water, he stared down at his reflection, dangling his feet over the dock edge. His toes tickled the surface, thoughts racing, until something wet and slimy jerked him back to reality. Some seaweed had gotten caught on his toe. He tried to shake it off, but it was climbing across his foot, making its way up his calf. He watched in a terrified daze, until the plant started to forcefully pull his foot. Shaking his head, he ripped it off. Stinging and burning had started, red streaks marking the contact spot. Spike, knowing, KNOWING, he had felt it pull him, stood up unsteadily. It was then he noticed how much seaweed was in the lake. It was as if the Reaping had never happened! How had no one noticed?

Ethel Yorke. Ethel had noticed. Sheriff Spike, shaken but determined, hopped in his car and headed to Ethel's house.

Ethel was already on her way to Deputy Devi Loomis' house. The two knew each other from Devi's graduate school years. Ethel still occasionally taught, and Devi had been one of her interns in aquatic botany. Devi would have gotten her doctorate, but changed careers when she was forced to move home to care for her sick father. While Ethel was sounding the alarms at the town meeting, Devi had been concluding the necessary tests to prove the seaweed was to blame.

When Sheriff Spike saw Ethel on Cedar Lake Road, he turned on the lights and pulled her over.

"Mrs. Yorke ... uh, Ethel, I need to talk to you. I got stung."

Speaking with a curt and urgent tone, Ethel replied, "We need to go to Devi's."

They arrived at Devi's place shortly after. Devi answered the door, confused by the presence of her boss. Ethel nodded, letting Devi know it was okay to speak freely.

"I'm still waiting on a few results, but there is no doubt it is the seaweed. I improved my earlier serum, and it appears to stop the spread of the venom."

"Give some to Spike," declared Ethel, who had tested Devi's initial serum on her own stings.

Devi applied the serum to Sheriff Spike's stings, and to their relief, it appeared to clear the red streaks. Spike exhaled a sigh of relief. The three sat and talked, discussing what they knew, and the more dreaded topic, what they didn't know. The fate of the missing people weighed heavily on them all, and none of the test results provided the needed clue to the final piece of the puzzle.

Cedar Lake was closed down; no swimming, fishing, boating, or just dipping your toes. The warm summer months wound down into a cold and dreary autumn. None of the missing people had been located and there had been no leads, no clues, no nothing to their whereabouts. Most of the sick people had gone missing shortly after being sent home. The rest died after losing all their hair, nails, and teeth, though many had been found sleepwalking near the lake shortly before death. There were no new cases once the lake was closed. Sam Harding resigned and left town.

Winter arrived with a bang, in the form of a major blizzard at the beginning of November. It dumped three feet of snow, and was followed by two weeks of subzero temperatures. Cedar Lake froze over. Sally White's little brother, Randy, was curious what it looked like by the small dam on the lake's edge. Knowing the lake was frozen solid, he went exploring. Most of the lake's surface was snow covered, any ice itself opaque and nearly impossible to see through. As he cautiously made his way closer to the dam, aware the ice would be getting thinner due to the current, the ice also became clearer. Peering down, he swore he saw faces. As quickly as he saw them, they would disappear as if pulled down, away from the light of the cold, frozen day. The dam was about fifty feet in front of him when something bright red caught his eye. Slowly, Randy made his way to the source, carefully bending down on the ice to get a closer look. It was Sally, a bright red scarf wrapping her now bald head, framing her face beautifully in her watery grave. He banged on the ice, his grief immediate. Sally's eyes opened, meeting her brother's tearful gaze. Bubbles hit the ice as she screamed. Randy fell backwards, not sure of what just happened. He went back, leaned over, and sure enough, there was Sally, eyes open and mouth screaming, alive but paralyzed, thanks to the seaweed venom. He began pounding the ice, praying it would break just enough to save her but not kill him. A tiny crack opened as he continued to hit the surface, screaming once he had found his voice. A couple walking their dog ran to the shoreline closest to his position, but didn't understand why he was screaming. The ice began to splinter all around Randy and in his panic, he saw Sally wasn't the only person under the ice just as he realized he was about join her. A green tendril slithered through one of the cracks and made its way towards him. It wrapped around his leg like a python, and in a flash pulled him under, bending his slender body in ways it was never meant to move. It happened so quick, the couple was hardly sure he was even there.

Sheriff Spike and Deputy Loomis arrived with special rescue teams. No one knew for sure, but it seemed all the missing people from the previous Reaping were there, bald and missing their teeth and nails. The seaweed had attached to the bodies as if feeding from them; the aquatic plants had never looked so lush and plentiful. No other life was left in the lake, just paralyzed bodies tied to the lake floor by seaweed. Not one person survived being extracted from the lake and the seaweed attacked anyone who entered the water, causing rescue teams to abandon their task, knowing the victims were being left to suffer an unimaginable fate. As soon as the water thawed, the lake was drained and families showed up to claim their loved ones, or what was left of them. The seaweed had continued its attempted takeover, but without water and the special chemicals, it soon dried up and disappeared. The few people left physically unharmed moved away, leaving Cedar Lake another ghost town, tucked away in the middle of the New Jersey Pine Barrens.

The Fathomed Wreck to See

by Alan Baxter

If Dylan thought about it, he could still feel the sting of the slap across his palm. As if it happened only moments ago. He could see the shock on Catelyn’s face, before her eyes creased up in pain. Tears, screaming, accusations. He’d deserved a lot of it. But his rights were out the window after he’d struck her. He couldn’t believe he had done it. Like someone else’s hand drawing back, slicing through the kitchen’s angry air, pinning a red palm print to her cheek.

Next, silence as she packed and refused to meet his eye. Wouldn’t say a word. Walked out, slammed the door, and made a full stop in his life. An absolute point, unchangeable. And it was his fault. The rock in his chest threatened to choke him again, and he knew it wasn’t just emotion. He gasped for breath.

He stared at a half-inch of scotch, swirled it around the bottom of the glass, swallowed it. As he rose to get a refill, the gentle swell of the ocean under the boat made him stagger. Or perhaps it was the whisky. Either way, he ignored it and drank more. Same as every night for two weeks since she had left. Drinking away his shame. His remorse. His fear.

You love that fucking boat more than you love me! Freedom Spray, my arse!

He slumped back at the small, plastic-coated table, glass held in both hands, and stared into the tumbler as though answers swam in the amber liquid.

You’d rather fish than work on this. On us.

It was easier to let her think that. How could he tell her the truth? After her father died so young, lungs blackened and ruined by cancer, and all her haranguing of Dylan to quit. And he had, now. Too late.

Why won’t you fight for us? For me? What happened to the man you used to be?

And the scared, broken, angry part of him reacted, slapping at the truth she unknowingly spoke. That he wasn’t the man he had been. He was no longer strong nor vibrant. He wasn’t her oak any more, always there for her. He trembled, struggling for breath, his lungs thickened and half their size. She would never know the real reason he had become so distant.

With his muscular frame wasting by the day, he couldn’t help thinking it was for the best. Better she think him a dick and get on with her life, than continue to love him and watch him die.

Soft music drifted in through the open windows of the cabin, perfect tones lifted in song. Dylan blinked, swallowed the dregs of the whisky. He strained to hear over the sound of water lapping at the hull. The most beautiful melancholy he’d ever heard, floating on the night air. He listened for a while, paralysed. It took him long moments to realise he wept.

He staggered out onto the foredeck of his fishing boat, scanned the black water. A half-moon dappled the wavelets in shimmering silver. Specks of light on shore dotted the horizon behind him. Dizzy, he held the railing, knelt to steady himself. The voice was clearer, almost crystal, but he saw nothing. A subtle splash and he spun on one knee. Still nothing.

He couldn’t understand the words; a fluid language, melodic and gentle, but the sadness was unmistakeable. Longing clawed at him.

“I hear you!” he cried out, his voice ragged, slurred.

Then silence.

“Please, where are you?”

For more than an hour Dylan knelt and wept, but neither song nor singer returned.

* * *

THE DOCTORS HAD SAID maybe one year. The internet said anything from a few months to twenty years, with stories of miraculous recoveries peppering the sobering truths. Believe in Jesus and you’ll be saved, said some. Allah, said others. Meditate, eat raw food, sleep ten hours a night. A swamp of conflicting information.

He rubbed his eyes hard and drank coffee, frowning against the harsh light of day. Perhaps he could drink himself to death first and avoid the indignity of wasting away in someone else’s care. He imagined Catelyn nursing him, making him comfortable as he died, all the while hating him for putting her through it all again. Sometimes he resented her for the damage she bore already, which stole the opportunity of care from him. Then he imagined her smile. Her softness. He saw the warmth in her eyes when she looked at him, and wondered if he did her a disservice. He remembered that warmth banished by a slap.

He should have told her, trusted in her strength, even as his waned.

He packed up and set the boat towards shore to buy supplies, check in with the real estate agent. Once the house was settled and all the goods and chattels divided up, he planned to bank whatever he had left and live on Freedom Spray. Catelyn had always hated that name, sneered at the implication. He understood why, but he’d had the boat before they met. She never seemed to get that. Regardless, a mooring was far cheaper than a mortgage, and he didn’t have twenty-five years.

As he secured ropes at the wharf, something caught his attention, a sensation like a fishing hook lodging in his soul. For a moment he shuddered, once more assailed by thoughts of rotted lungs and dying coughs. But it wasn’t just his fear. He looked up and saw a woman leaning against a scored wooden post, hand shading her eyes as she looked out to sea. Her long hair reflected gold in the sunlight. Like Catelyn’s. He took in the curves, breasts, hips, thighs, but images of Catelyn overlaid what was in front of him, surpassing her in every detail. The blonde smiled, stopped him in his tracks. Curious at first, her expression softened, head tilting to one side. One eyebrow rose. “You okay?” she called.

Dylan shook his head, looked away. “No, not really.” He closed and locked the boat, grabbed his bag, and strode off to buy more food and alcohol, feet slapping the white painted wood of the wharf. Every footstep sounded like his palm across Catelyn’s cheek.

* * *

DYLAN TOOK THE BOAT out again that night. Would he do this once it was his only home? In truth, he had never really needed anything more. Offers were coming in on the house already, so he’d find out soon enough. It would be so easy to leave the shore and never return.

He sat in the vast black expanse of ocean, the lights of land far behind, and ate cold beans. And drank. “What’s the fucking point?” he yelled, as indifferent stars wheeled overhead.

His leave from work would run out soon, and he had no idea what to do then. When he finally gave in and started treatment, he would need more time off. His six-foot form would stoop and weaken with the chemo, his hair would fall out. How could a person work through that? His chest tightened, his hands shook, but whether from the sickness, the fear, or the drink, he didn’t know or care.

The song rose once more, achingly beautiful.

Dylan jumped up, ran to the prow. “Where are you?” His voice struck away the calm stillness. The melody moved through the dark, sank into his heart. “Please,” he called, throat constricted. Did this song cause his tears? The booze? Was he just pathetic? “Where are you?” He was so tired of crying.

The music floated nearby and stopped and he turned, glimpsed a beautiful, slim face, long blonde hair spread across the ocean like a fan, then a splash, and nothing.

Dylan stared at the empty space. He hadn’t drunk that much, not yet. Though he had every intention of drinking a lot more. Had he really seen that? No sight or sound disturbed the night again and he went back below to hide in twelve-year-old malt.

* * *

DYLAN WASN’T SURPRISED to see the blonde on the dock the next morning. For a moment he almost convinced himself it was Catelyn. Could she forgive him? He could be honest with her. But it wasn’t his wife. Her position by the post, the direction of her gaze, even her clothing, unchanged. As he tied off she sauntered over, a half smile tugging her lips.

“Hi.”

Dylan swallowed then nodded, not trusting his voice.

“Do you fish at night?” she asked.

Dylan licked his lips. “No,” he said eventually. “I just like it out on the water.”

“Is that safe?”

“I don’t really care.”

She smiled, knowingly. She said nothing more, simply stood and almost gloated. As the moments passed, Dylan became uncomfortable. “I need to ...” He gestured vaguely at the boat.

She nodded and returned to her post, turning to face the horizon once more.

Dylan gathered his things, locked up. Unable to help himself he called out, “What are you looking for?”

“Something lost,” she said, without looking at him.

A chill trembled along Dylan’s spine, and he hurried to his doctor’s appointment.

* * *

FOR THE FIRST TIME in his life, Dylan was too scared to take the boat out. He couldn’t explain why, but he didn’t want to be near the ocean. He wandered around town and ate junk food before walking two blocks to a painfully familiar bar. So many evenings here with Catelyn after a movie, or with Catelyn and friends before a show. He took a few paces inside and changed his mind, turned back, determined to find somewhere else to drown his sorrows.

She smiled as she walked in. She winked and breezed past him. He stood marooned in a sea of people as she pulled out a bar stool and slid onto it, perfect curves stirring him. She drew him towards her without turning around. Her back, veiled by a waist-long fall of hair, beckoned as surely as a crooked finger.

He put one heavy foot in front of the other, desire and danger warring in his mind. She hooked out the stool next to her without looking. He sat down.

“Glenfiddich,” she told the barman, tipping her head towards Dylan. “Make it a double.”

“How do you know that?” he asked.

“Not taking your boat out tonight?” Her eyes were deep green.

“No,” he said distantly. “Thought I might ... you know ... land.”

She laughed, a light sound like an icy waterfall over rocks. “Land, huh?”

He nodded.

She swallowed the last of her drink and beckoned the barman to refill them both. “Land is overrated,” she said, lifting her glass in a toast.

* * *

DYLAN WOKE IN HIS BED. In his bedroom, in his house. He blinked at the ceiling. He didn’t remember getting home, or even leaving the bar. The bed felt too big and solid and still. He had grown used to his bunk on the boat. The house echoed with space and emptiness. It rang with absence.

He struggled from the covers and rocked, bile rising in his throat. Deep breaths quelled the feeling, but something wasn’t right. There was nausea but no headache, no blindness to the sunlight streaming through the open curtains. He wondered if some magic had cured him, a drinking session heavy enough it stole his memory but left no hangover. But a deep breath wheezed through his throat into desperate lungs, and he shook with the daily realisation that he was wasting away.

Eventually, the sickness passed.

Thoughts tripped over each other, seeking some purchase in the vacuum of his recollection. He didn’t black out when he drank; he was cursed with remembering every vivid detail and paying for it the next day. Flashes of a kiss, cold skin, a briny aftertaste. Her voice in his ear, soft as a caress.

“Come to the water. Be found.”

* * *

THE DOCK GLEAMED HOT and white in the sun, boats bobbing, rigging clapping against masts. She was nowhere to be seen. When he thought of her his blood ran cooler, his brain misted with deep greens and greys, as if the sea had taken up residence there. He tasted salt water on his tongue.

He stood at the post where he had first seen her and gazed out. Past the mouth of the harbour the ocean stretched endless and inviting, as dangerous and mysterious as she was. He wanted to dive in and sink down until the depths swallowed him. And he wanted to turn and run away, pace after pace inland until the sea was as far away as it could be. What had she done to him?

* * *

DYLAN MOTORED OUT OVER calm waters, the summer sun glinting in his wake. In an hour or so it would set, plunging the world into night. He needed to hear her song again. Needed to know what was dream, what was real.

He ignored the compass and heading, ignored distance and time. He kept going away from land until it was dark and no lights could be seen. The sky was still clear; the moon rode high, illuminating the night. One hand gripped the wheel, the other absently pressed and gripped at his chest.

Eventually he decided he was far enough out and dropped anchor. On the curved deck of the prow he sat, whisky bottle in hand. He swigged, forgoing the civility of a glass. A length of rope, secured to the starboard gunwale, lay coiled beside him. He picked it up and tied it tightly about his right wrist. What lay in the depths with her? Salvation? Did it even matter? Perhaps the stains on his lungs were creeping into his brain, infecting his wits, the only things he had left to rely on.

The moon was half set and the bottle half empty when the music slid over him. He gripped the rope until his knuckles whitened. The aria chilled him, quickened his heart and mind, beckoned him. He wanted to leap from the boat, cut into the deep green, and never re-emerge. But he clenched his jaw, held the rope, and drank.

She drifted some twenty feet away, bobbing gently. Her hair was slicked back, rippling behind her. She smiled. “You made me come a long way to find you tonight.”

Dylan gasped, a beached fish. The rope pressed into his palm, its roughness reassuring, solid, certain. Normal.

“Come,” she said. “Join me.”

She wriggled, rose up above the surface. Water cascaded over her breasts and moonlight flickered across pearlescence at her waist before she slipped back out of sight. Dylan ground his teeth and drank again. His vision blurred, his tongue swollen with the booze. He waited.

She resurfaced, eyes catching the moonlight and flashing angrily. “Come in,” she said, and blinked, her fury melting into a smile so open, so inviting, that he sat up straighter. The rope pulled taut.

She moved closer, stretching to see the deck where he sat. He couldn’t take his eyes from her chest, the smooth line of her stomach. She hissed as her gaze fell on the rope. Deep lines darkened her face with harsh shadows. Her teeth sharpened, her hair twisted into dark, greasy seaweed. Dylan cried out, scrambled back in shock.

She swayed, beautiful and calm. Her face smooth, smile straight and bright white in the moonlight, hair drifting on the surface. “Come in. You know you want to.”

“Not all palaces under the sea and love among the fishes, is it?” Dylan said.

She swam back and forth, cajoling. “It’s whatever you want it to be.”

“Is it, though?” He knew she lied, but still longed for her, ached for her. At the mere thought of her, he felt the cold embrace of ocean almost manifest on his skin. He sidled forward, his right arm caught behind by the rope. She came to the prow and he leaned forward to see down to her.

“Let go of the rope,” she said, her voice sing-song, lulling him. “Let everything go. Come willingly. I’ll help you forget.”

He leaned further, shoulder protesting. Her body was a wave of motion, dark green scales from the waist down. She grabbed his left wrist, his hand still gripping the whisky bottle. As she yanked he cried out, strained between the securing rope and her incredible strength. She hissed again, fingers extending into claws.

Dylan drove his heels into the deck and pushed back, tried to pull away from her. He gripped the neck of the bottle, refusing to let go, twisted it to break her grasp. The rope bit into his other wrist. A high wail burst from her and she released him, dropped back beneath the surface.

Dylan upended the whisky bottle, gulping until it ran dry.

* * *

IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON by the time he reached mooring. His head pounded, his mouth thick with fur, dry. He was scorched by the sun, the skin raw where the rope had bitten into his wrist. He needed a proper feed and a decent sleep. What he needed most was for Catelyn to hold him and tell him everything would be all right. But it wasn’t, and she never would.

The siren leaned against her post and scowled as he fumbled the mooring ropes. He refused to meet her eye, terrified and intoxicated. She strolled towards him, and he watched her long, shapely legs.

“Rather literal, aren’t you?” she asked.

“What?”

“For a man who can’t quite let go, you’re rather literal. Actually tying yourself to your boat.”

He saw the rage in her, and the desire. She ached for him, he realised with sudden clarity, as much as he did for her. But his yearning was driven by enchantment. Her own was primal, animal hunger.

“I don’t know ...” he started. “I can’t trust ...”

Her face softened, all understanding and sultry invitation. “What’s to trust? We could be perfect, you and I. You’re lost and alone, and that’s exactly what I seek.”

She looked up and down the wharf. No one was nearby, no one witnessed the exchange. Dylan gasped as she slipped out of her clothes and sat, her feet in the water. He couldn’t focus as her skin shifted gently, green shimmers running up her calves. She dropped into the water and her mouth opened in song.

Dylan clenched his fists at his sides, tried to push thoughts past the pounding in his head.

“Join me,” she said, though her singing didn’t cease. “You want me,” she said with the melody. “You have nothing else.”

“Dylan!”

He turned and couldn’t believe what he saw.

“Dylan, what are doing?”

He blinked. “Catelyn?”

Behind him, a hiss, feral and furious. He stepped away from the edge of the wharf as sharp, ice-cold talons raked his ankle.

“Is it true?” Catelyn asked. “I talked to your doctor. He rang my mobile because you haven’t been answering yours or the home phone.”

“True?” Dylan said dumbly.

“He told me you’re dying. Dylan, is it true? When he realised you hadn’t told me anything he wouldn’t say any more.”

Dylan nodded. “I didn’t know how to tell you. I felt so stupid, so ...”

“You thought you were protecting me?” Her face showed more anger than concern.

“The way you lost your dad, and kept on at me about quitting ...”

“You really thought I wouldn’t find out?” Catelyn said. “Even if I left?”

“I didn’t want you to go. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“So you hit me?”

Dylan stared. His chest felt as though it were collapsing in on itself. “I’m supposed to be the strong one,” he managed at last. “I’m supposed to look after you.”

Catelyn’s eyes widened as she looked past him towards the water. “Who’s that?”

Dylan turned.

The blonde floated, arms gently paddling out to her sides. “Dylan and I have this thing,” she said, with a crooked smile.

Catelyn’s eyes narrowed, her face hardened.

“It’s not true!” Dylan cried. “She’s been ... stalking me.” Though true, it still sounded pathetic.

The blonde began to sing. Dylan’s mind softened at the sound; mesmerised, entranced. Catelyn clapped her hands over her ears, blood draining from her face. Her mouth moved without words.

“Stop!” Dylan yelled, looking from the woman in the water to his wife. “Stop it!” And the song dropped into silence.

Catelyn let her hands fall, eyes wide. “What the fuck was that?”

“That hurts you?” Dylan asked. When she nodded, he said, “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Who is she? What does she want?”

“She wants to take me away. From this.” He gestured at the harbour, his boat, the whole world. “From everything.”

“Fuck that, Dylan. You’re my husband.”

He looked into his wife’s eyes. And saw the truth there. “Really? She seems to think I’m lost.”

Catelyn laughed, a hard sound. “That may be true, but you’re my lost thing.”

“But after everything ...”

“We’re a partnership, Dylan. Can’t you understand that? We’re supposed to look after each other.”

“After what I did ...”

Catelyn slid her gaze sideways at the blonde in the water. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I should have trusted you,” he said as she wrapped her arms around him. Her smell pushed every fear and doubt from his mind. “I’m so sorry.”

She held him tight. “You don’t have to do this alone, Dylan.”

“I’m so sorry I hit you. I should never ...”

“You idiot. If you ever do that again ...” She leaned back, looked into his eyes. “How long?” she asked quietly.

He shrugged. “Months, maybe a year. It’s a crapshoot.”

Catelyn held him hard. “We’ll do this together.”

Dylan nodded, revelling in the sensation of her hair against his face. “It’s so good to hear that.” He pulled away from her, grimacing at the loss dragging on his heart as he moved. And then the lightness of revelation sparked through him and he smiled.

Catelyn’s brow creased. “What?”

“I’m a wreck, my love. But I can finally do something right by you. I won’t have you watch me decay and die. Remember who I was, before all of this.” He turned to the water.

Catelyn cried out as the blonde smiled. Triumphant notes like silver blades spilled out of her, and Catelyn staggered, covering her ears. Dylan lifted his arms above his head. At last, he could take control of his future. Still smiling, he dove into an icy embrace.

Fountain

by Cary G. Osborne

“Take me with you,” the young man said.

He was staring into the metal pan of the water fountain, watching water swirl down through round drain holes into blackness. His words were addressed to no one in particular, probably to no one at all. Ellen just happened to be passing by when he spoke.

She had been working in the hospital only two days as a temporary admin. assistant. This young man was the first really odd person she had encountered in her, so far, short career. He didn’t look exceptionally different.

She unlocked the door to her office and walked in, shutting it securely behind her as always. Janet was going through folders in the two-drawer file cabinet.

“Is that normal?” Ellen asked.

“What?” Janet said defensively. She was a physician’s assistant, working with Dr. Roberts.

“There’s a young man talking to the water fountain.”

“Oh, that.” Janet smiled. “You’ll see that sometimes around here. A lot of people with psychoses also suffer from what is called water dysfunction. That means they drink too much water. Some of them are fascinated with it, like to watch it running in the fountain. They’ll touch it a lot, too. Who was it you saw?”

“I don’t know. Young man, dark hair and beard. Just a little taller than me.”

“Was he barefoot and wearing a red stocking cap?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s Randy. At least that’s what we call him. No one knows his real name. He always wears that cap, and when it’s warm he almost always goes without shoes.”

“What’s his particular problem?”

“I don’t know. He’s not one of the patients I work with.”

She returned to rummaging in the files and Ellen started on the typing Dr. Roberts had left in her basket, forgetting Randy for the time being.

But she saw him often because he came to the same water fountain several times each day. There were other fountains on the first floor, but he favored that particular one, mounted in the corner just outside the nursing supervisor’s office and down the hall from Ellen’s own office.

As Janet said, he always wore the red stocking cap and it being mid-summer, he went barefoot. She began to recognize him even from a distance. Not just because of the cap, but because he didn’t look like most of the patients who wandered aimlessly around the campus and through the halls of the medical building where she worked.

There were eight other buildings in the complex, big red brick structures, three stories high, six of them wards where the patients lived. They were arranged in an irregular square, sitting at different angles to the campus and each other in a pattern that once would have been called modern.

Sometimes, when she glanced out the hall window, she would see Randy striding out of C Unit and across the campus, head held high, topped with that red cap. He walked with purpose. Other patients hung their heads, watching the ground move beneath their feet as they shuffled along. Their rounded shoulders contrasted sharply with Randy’s ramrod straight back. He never looked like he belonged there.

##

“I WANT TO GO HOME.”

Randy was at his usual post, talking to the drain. It would have been comical if he hadn’t been so serious. And sad. He looked and sounded like someone who knew where he should be, but no one would let him go, probably told him he couldn’t get there from here.

“Do the doctors mind if we talk to the patients?” Ellen asked, once back in the office.

Janet sat at her desk signing some letters Ellen had typed up for her. She looked up impatiently.

“About what?”

Ellen knew she asked a lot of questions, especially for a temporary admin. assistant, about too many things that had nothing at all to do with her work. At least not directly. Janet got irritated sometimes, but Dr. Roberts didn’t. He always answered politely and patiently. It didn’t matter much either way, since she wouldn’t be here very long.

“Anything,” she said. “Would they prefer we not get friendly with them?”

“There’s no rule that I know of. They don’t want anyone upsetting them.”

“How would I know what might upset them?”

“I suppose you’d just have to try it and see.” Janet yawned and looked at her watch. “Just don’t try to help anyone, no matter how well-meaning you might be. You can talk to them, even bring them little gifts or accept gifts if they have something to give. But believe me, you don’t really want to do that. Their so needy, they’ll eat you alive with it.”

Ellen nodded. She could talk to Dr. Roberts, but he was going to be at the university most of the time for the next two weeks.

That night, Ellen tried to talk to Sam about the patients. It was the first time she wanted to say aloud how it felt to be around them, how frightening they could be, or sometimes, like Randy, how sympathetic she could feel toward them.

“They’ll stop anyone and ask for matches, cigarettes, the time, anything, even money,” she told him.

Most of the time they made her terribly uncomfortable when they spoke to her or got close. There was always the possibility they would become upset, go into a rage or a suicidal moment. The greater fear was one of them might hurt her.

“They talk to each other a lot and watch the staff members and workers,” she continued. “But they talk to themselves more than anyone.” Sam looked up from the newspaper. He might be listening for a change.

“The other day, I met a young man in the hall having an argument with himself. He actually stopped and listened each time he spoke aloud.”

“No one can be that spooky,” Sam said. “Sounds more like something out of a movie.” He turned a page of the paper and continued reading.

He had dismissed her and what she said as though it was an exaggeration. She felt a momentary flare of anger. The patients listened to themselves better than Sam listened to her.

What she really wanted was to talk about Randy. But even her thoughts skirted around him. She found it too difficult to speak of him directly in spite of her curiosity. Or was it interest? Thinking of speaking to him made her heart beat faster and her palms sweat. She couldn’t get over the feeling he just didn’t belong there and wishing, maybe, she could help, in spite of Janet’s warning. Sam would have dismissed that as her frustrated mothering instinct.

Her own three kids were grown and out in the world. They came home once in a while, but not often enough to keep her from missing them. Sam worked every day—more hours than were necessary to support the two of them—and still couldn’t make time for anything else. She did want someone to mother sometimes, but her feelings about Randy were more than that.

Two days later, she stood at a short distance, watching Randy talking to whatever he saw or heard under the drain cover. She listened to his words, the tone of his voice.

“I know you can hear me,” he said, pleading. “It’s time to take me home.”

He listened as if expecting an answer. Almost directly behind him, Ellen stood quite still, even though she knew he would not acknowledge her presence if she moved or made a noise. He never seemed to hear anyone or notice them in any way.

“I don’t belong in this world. It’s time to go home.” His tone was becoming more and more desperate.

The water arched through the air as he held the valve open with his right hand. The fingers of his left hand moved through the stream as if caressing it and being caressed in turn. He was oblivious to the coldness of its touch. She stepped closer.

“Randy,” she said gently.

He didn’t respond.

“Don’t make me stay here any longer. I’ve learned my lesson. I won’t do it anymore.”

His voice cracked. She expected him to break into tears at any moment. Instead, he released the handle, straightened, and turned to face her for the first time. Seeing him close like that, she was struck by the paleness of his skin, especially contrasted with the near darkness of his beard. The glance was too quick to see his eye color, but his gaze seemed to penetrate to her soul. Yet, he didn’t see her. He walked away, moving around her as if she were only an obstacle.

He fell into one of the chairs in the lobby, staring moodily at the framed print on the opposite wall. It was a picture of a sailing ship, a galleon Ellen supposed, on a choppy sea. It was hard to tell if Randy truly saw it, but the presence of water made her suspect he did. His eyes seemed focused just as they were when he stared into the water fountain. Any other time, he looked beyond or through whatever confronted him.

She sat down, not too close, keeping one chair between them.

“Randy.” No response. “Randy, would you like to talk?”

His head turned, ever so slowly, the eyes re-focused, and he stared straight into hers. His eyes were blue-green. For an instant she fell into them, drawn by the coolness of the color and a sinuous motion within their depths, like the fish in underwater tanks at Sea World.

“You understand, don’t you?” he said, breaking the spell.

“I’d like to.”

“You will,” he said with certainty. “They won’t take me back home.” His voice took on a pleading tone, again. “I’m being punished, but it’s long enough now. I can’t stay here. I’ll go mad.”

“Who are they?” she asked, shivering slightly at the last word. There was always a “they.”

“The elders. They said I didn’t appreciate my world. That I was a rebel and must be shown what other worlds are like. Even my own family ... even they agreed I should be sent here.”

A tear slid down his cheek, and Ellen fought the urge to wipe it away with her finger.

“They didn’t say how long I had to stay. They did promise to take me back.”

He wiped the tear from his cheek with a forefinger then licked it. It’s time now.” He turned away from her.

“Randy.”

He looked back at the picture, turned off to his surroundings. There was to be no more talk that day. Now that they had broken the ice, though, there might be more talks in the future.

Ellen returned to work, wondering if she should tell anyone what had happened, what he had said. It might mean a breakthrough in his treatment. Or it might just make his doctors mad at her for interfering. They probably knew more than she did, and it would be best to say nothing.

Over the next few weeks, they talked several more times, the number of meetings and length of time they spent together increasing. She began dreading losing her temporary job which could end at any moment, and started thinking about the possibility of applying for the position when it was posted. That wouldn’t happen for another month or so.

The more she considered it, the more the idea appealed to her. She needed something to occupy her, something to plug the gaps, to keep her own life from slipping away. The temporary job had only begun to give her a place in the world again.

“How would you feel about my going to work full time?” she asked Sam one night at dinner. She waited for him to object.

“Where?” He looked up from his plate at the dinner table.

“At the hospital. In the same job I have now.”

“It’s okay with me. But I thought you weren’t comfortable there.”

“It’s not so bad.”

“Do it, then.”

He left the table, and went into the living room with his newspaper. He turned on the TV with the remote, then opened the paper and sat reading. Ellen cleared the table, still unsure in her mind what she would do, except to continue meeting with Randy. That she would not give up.

He always spoke of wanting to go home, but “they” wouldn’t let him. Several times she asked him about home, but he never elaborated. Then one day—it had been quieter than usual in the lobby as they sat looking at the picture—he spoke suddenly, startling her with the suddenness of it.

“Why won’t they take me home?”

“What is home like?” she asked for what seemed the hundredth time.

“It’s soft and caressing, blue and green, bright and dark.”

“Where is it?”

He turned to look down the hall at the water fountain.

“Randy?”

He turned back toward her, not quite looking at her.

“I was shut up here because I talked about it,” he said.

“I have nothing to do with that or them.”

He fidgeted for a moment, then looked at her. She didn’t hear the first few words, losing herself in the blue-green depths of his eyes.

“... where all life comes from,” he was saying. “Water is the mother of us all. Some of her creations left there to live in the world of air. Like your ancestors. My ancestors stayed within her depths, lived with her, in her.”

“In water?”

His mouth puckered in derision at her ignorance.

“Of course, water.”

Then he left her, the glaze spreading back over his eyes.

##

“RANDY, THIS IS FOR you.”

Ellen held up the yellow sucker from which she had removed the cellophane wrapper. She had discovered he liked sweets and he responded to the color yellow. Although she didn’t particularly like that color herself, she began wearing everything she had that was yellow. She even went out and bought a new dress. But their conversations, although more frequent, were seldom more informative, no matter how hard she tried.

He took the sucker and stuck it in his mouth, working it around with his tongue. His smacking noises followed her up the hall as she returned to the office. After lunch, she looked for him in the lobby where they usually sat and talked. She was later than usual, and he was waiting, his palms pressed together between his knees, as he did when he was trying to be patient.

He looked up as Ellen approached her chair, still one over from his. The yellow skirt caught his attention. He grinned, the morning’s sucker stain around his mouth nearly hidden in the lines at the corners. She smiled back, glad of their short time together.

As she sat, he moved to the chair which had always stayed empty between them. His eyes sparkled, and his grin widened. His hands moved quickly as he rubbed his palms together. She had never seen such eagerness in Randy before, and she felt apprehensive.

“They talked to me this afternoon,” he said, his voice higher pitched than normal. “I’m finally going home.”

“How did they talk to you, Randy?” She struggled to keep her own voice calm.

“In my dream. When I took a nap.”

“What did they say?”

“I can go home now.”

“Will they come get you?” She clasped her hands to keep from taking hold of his. This could very well be a bad development in his illness.

“No, but they told me how to get there.”

“When are you supposed to leave?” She would have to get word to his doctor.

“In the morning.”

“How will you go?”

He looked at her, those blue-green eyes making her momentarily speechless, thoughtless, as they always did when she looked directly into them. Then they clouded over, and she knew the conversation was ended. As she recovered from the effect of his gaze, she wanted to shake him, make him tell her everything, realizing at the same time there was nothing real to tell.

She reached over and patted his hand resting on his knee. He didn’t respond, not even to pull away. The moment of recognition, of being a solid part of his world, had disappeared, and she returned to work, with an overpowering sense of impending loss.

The feeling remained with her the rest of the day. She saw Randy at the fountain at the usual times. She still didn’t know who his doctor was, had never made any effort to find out. She considered making some calls to find out now, so great was the fear that gripped her.

When she left at five, he was at the fountain as usual. She stopped, studying his features, his expression. Reluctantly, she started toward the door, trying to think of some excuse for staying. He grabbed her hand as she passed, gently yet insistently. She jumped and started to pull free, but his eyes locked onto hers. She sank into them, felt coolness over her whole body. Peacefulness spread outward to the tips of her fingers and toes.

“Come with me,” Randy whispered. “I’ll show you my home, where I belong.”

She couldn’t catch her breath. They stood quite still. He blinked, and she looked away, pulled her hand free, and walked out the door. She could feel his eyes following her, feel the sadness of his gaze caress her back.

She didn’t sleep that night. Her mind wouldn’t stop thinking about him and how much she wanted to go with him. It didn’t make any sense. He was going nowhere. But he’d asked her to go. Younger, better looking a man than she was a woman. She was losing him to whatever he thought he saw in the fountain. It was all a creation of his poor, incomplete mind which knew only that he did not belong in the same world, in the same way, as other men. The mind which longed for a place which suited him, where he could feel comfortable and at home, a home created out of that desperation. And where he wanted to be with her?

Ellen shivered at the thought. It wasn’t possible! He was a poor unfortunate young man, not right in the head, who despite his illness, had touched her heart, her soul. It was probably because of his illness that she cared about him. He was like a child, wanting so much to return to that innocent relationship between mother and child which had escaped them both for so long.

She was too old for this sort of emotional upheaval. She had to get out of that hospital. Thank goodness, she hadn’t turned in an application for the job. If only she hadn’t met Randy. Tomorrow, she would have to tell the doctors what he had said to her and then resign.

Next morning, she arrived early at the hospital. The outer doors were still locked. The key refused to turn at first, then at last the door opened, and she entered the silent hall. Randy stood at the opposite end. It wasn’t his time! He never came to the fountain this early.

She stood watching as he stared at the running water like so many other times. Water glinted in the morning sunlight slanting through the window as it shot up from the faucet, arched over to fall toward the drain. The glistening stream was fuller than normal. It flowed silently as it gushed from the spout and hit the metal pan to disappear through the holes smoothly, without a splash. The color darkened to blue-green, matching the color of his eyes. The flow increased, running so fast it must soon fill the pan and spill over onto the floor. He released the valve, but the water kept running.

Randy tensed, then raised his left leg, trying to reach the top of the fountain with his knee. It was slightly too high, and he tried again and again. She wanted to give him a boost, put an end to his struggles, then her better sense took hold. “Randy!” she called, and moved forward to pull him away. Just then, his knee settled onto the cool metal. His right foot extended so that only the tips of his toes touched the floor.

A smile lit up his face at his success. His joy stopped her. He placed his palms against the off-white cinder block wall, shifted his full weight to his left knee and he raised his right leg so that he balanced on both knees. He slid down the metal pan. The knees of his khaki pants turned dark where the water soaked them.

He’s going to pull the fountain from the wall. She moved forward again, determined to get him down. He looked down at her, the smile still brightening his childlike joy. Looking in her eyes, he mouthed one word: Come. His hand stretched out to her, inviting her to join him. Water dripped from his fingertips. A rippling distorted his body, ran down his arm to his fingertips. Randy looked down into the drain.

His shape began to shimmer in the fluorescent light from overhead. His features flowed together. He mouthed, “Please,” as his image faded. Before she could react, he slid into the drain. So easily. Not a sound. Without a drop of water falling to the floor. He was gone into the blackness. His red cap fell to the floor on top of his plaid shirt. The khakis hung precariously from the spigot, dripping water.

A scream caught in her throat, on the edge of sound in her nightmare.

For weeks the nightmares. Seeing Randy sliding into the drain, his features blurred as if it were paint washing down a canvas. No one believed her, in spite of the evidence of his clothes, but everyone remembered her friendship with him, their meetings in the lobby each day after lunch. Dirty minds. They accused her of trying to seduce him. That got them nowhere in deciding what happened to him. In the end, they decided he had run away after the stress and trauma of his relationship with her. Reality slipped away from her.

##

IT’S DARK INSIDE AND out. A woman down the hall screams out her nightmare in unintelligible language. A horrible sound in the early hours of the morning.

The first time Ellen heard that scream she was asleep, in the throes of her own bad dream. That woman is caught here and knows she will never escape.

“Don’t worry,” Ellen whispers. “It will soon be over.”

Randy visited her last night. In her dreams. In her reality. He says she can still come to him and told her how. But no one else is allowed. The door is through the same fountain but the hour is different. Tonight is the last time, though, and the door will be destroyed. She leaves tonight. Alone.

Randy planned another way out for the rest. He felt so sorry for all of them, trapped for the rest of their lives without a way to get home. He can’t give them the same gift, but he can’t leave them to suffer.

Ellen stole the key to the door to the stairway the day before. She will be gone before anyone misses her. Just before she leaves her room, though, she will set the trash can on fire in the hall with a Bic she also stole.

Fire and water. The fire stays behind. It is their gift, setting free the hundreds of souls. A way out for them. The water wants only her. She hears it, soon she will join it.

The Dust

by William Stuart

It drifted in chaos and misery, birthed of hatred, mired in rage. There was something. From the nothing there was something, as in the beginning. It used whatever spark of fury that remained within its confused and swirling existence to try to find purchase, but all it found was dust. Yet there was something. This was new. Sensation? No. It had sensed, and it had awakened. Now it raged in its prison trying to ... focus? Trying to feel? Trying to ... Was the sensation found in the attempt? Was there something else, or had it awakened itself in vain? It did not know. It fell back into its madness.

“Coming up next we’ve got the Fill the Bag Campaign, and we’ll talk a little about the chick that’s blowing up Instagram right after Foo Fighters. Stay tuned right here, 94.5, The Buzz.”

The song began, and Hannah tapped her steering wheel in time. She moved her Corolla in and out of traffic, largely ignoring the progression of distracted and intentionally rude drivers on I-10. She came this way every day and had the route down pat. Ride the feeder entrances and exits until the 610 ramps forced you to get to the left, then go all the way left and stay with the fast traffic to I-45. Interstate 45 could be touch and go, depending on whatever they decided to block with orange barrels that day, but it was normally her final slowdown before arriving at the University of Houston campus where she was a professor of anthropology.

“Hey Hannah,” her colleague Jason said, another anthropology nut, “just left a message on your desk. Someone from the toll road authority called. Said they found something.”

“Did they say what?”

“Do they ever? Just asked that you get back to him ASAP so his crew isn’t shut down for too long.”

She rolled her eyes. These contractors would just as soon smash history to bits than wait for a historian or archaeologist to come take a look. However, she’d been doing this for years and had come to know several of the Department of Transportation contractors. She understood their frustration. Still, it was a bit maddening these guys were so uninterested in what made us who we are. She’d been obsessed with history and culture since she was a kid. While other girls were obsessed with Disney princesses, she’d pored over tomes about Cleopatra. When her peers graduated to music and boys, Hannah was studying ancient drum dance and mating rituals of long-gone African tribes. She checked her watch. She still had twenty minutes before her eight o’ clock, so she went to her office and made the call.

“This is Marc Davis.”

“Mister Davis, Hannah Harvey, U of H Anthropology. How are you?”

“Hey Hannah, thanks for calling me back so soon. I got something for you. How soon you think you can get out?”

“Uh, I guess that depends on what it is you got and where it is you got it.”

Davis laughed a little. “Sorry, got ahead of myself. Thought I told the other guy.”

Hannah picked up the Post-it and turned it over. “Nope, nothing but a phone number.”

“Okay then,” Davis replied, sounding annoyed. “We’ve got a box. It’s a crate of some sort but not like anything I’ve ever seen. If I had to bet I might say it looked like an old safe or something, but different. Whatever it is, you need to come check it out so I can get my guys back to work.”

Hannah glance up at the clock. Fifteen minutes until class. “Send me your location and I’ll be there within the hour.

It sensed. For the first time in ages, it sensed itself. Darkness. Confines. Dust. But it was no longer part of the void, and it could sense the darkness and the dust. It reached out through decades of silence to arouse its vessel, but it was of no use. The vessel was dry. Useless. Dust. Its prison infinite and unforgiving. Yet, it sensed something of itself. It waited.

“So what happened?” Hannah asked as she and Marc Davis shook hands. They’d known one another for years, as he was the foreman on many of the larger road projects in and around the city. If the excavation of an area revealed any sort of fossil or other traces of history, the transportation department was required to inform Hannah or one of her peers to have the site investigated and the items removed for study before work could commence. The two walked side by side in rubber boots through soupy mud toward an excavator that sat still, waiting for permission to move again. As they crested the berm, Davis pointed at a tarp that was covering something in the trough.

“Excavator didn’t do it. The box actually floated here from up there.” Davis pointed north. “Well, not so much floated as it was pushed by the current. Yesterday’s storm washed out the creek about half a mile up near the bridge that crosses old County Road 9. This thing had been buried up there somewhere, but I guess the flood uncovered it and brought it down stream here.” He shrugged. “We showed up this morning with it sitting in the ditch.”

Two men in hard hats walked over and removed the tarp. As Davis had described, it was a box. Roughly three feet cubed, it reminded Hannah of a shipping crate. But it was unlike any shipping crate she had ever seen.

“What do you make of it?” Davis asked.

Hannah moved closer to inspect the object. She had expected a wooden crate, but this was metal. Or at least it had a metal shell. “Looks like steel. Sheet metal of some sort. Welded shut.”

“Why do you think they wrapped it in chains?”

Hannah glanced at Davis and quirked an eye in thought. “No telling. Could be someone’s safe or vault. This used to be a rural area so it could have come from one of the few farmhouses around here.” She glanced back up the creek where the water had overtopped the bank. “Maybe it fell off a boat? We won’t know till we see what’s inside.”

“Are you going to need to set up a dig or any of that? I’m already behind schedule, and this weather’s not helping. I can’t afford to shut down for any length of time.”

Hannah looked up and down the construction zone. She was familiar with the area. She couldn’t think of anything of consequence that had gone on in these parts. She shook her head. “I doubt it.” She laid a hand on the muck-encrusted box. “This thing is not too old. Maybe a hundred years? Turn of last century? Won’t know till we see what’s inside, but it’s probably nothing. Let me get a truck out here to pick it up, and you just promise me you’ll call if anything else falls out of the mud, okay?”

Davis was visibly relieved. “This is why I call you instead of that other guy.”

Hannah smiled as she pulled out her phone to call the office.

Hannah and Jason stood around staring at the box, which sat on a steel workbench in the automotive department of the community college a few miles away from the UH campus. So far, their attempts to figure out what was inside had been rebuffed. X-rays had revealed little, as it seemed the inside was lined with lead. Other techniques had proven fruitless as well. Whoever shut this thing had wanted it to stay closed and its contents hidden. Finally, the decision had been made to just cut the thing open and look inside. A man with a torch stood by as the scientists prepared their cameras and their notebooks. When everything was ready, Hannah nodded and the torch went to work.

It was slow going, as the chains and the outer steel shell proved thicker than they had originally thought. After a while though, the cutter finally made it around the whole box. They let it cool for a few minutes, then pried the lid off to reveal another steel box inside.

“Russian nesting dolls? You ever seen anything like that?” Jason quipped.

“This is certainly weird,” Hannah agreed.

After several more layers were pulled back, the welder finally hit an empty interior chamber. “We’re in,” he said, stepping back and turning off the torch, “and it’s just a bunch of dust.”

Hannah and Jason both stepped forward to peer inside. Sure enough, the box held nothing more than dust. They looked at one another and shrugged.

“Cremains, maybe?” Jason suggested. “Did we just find an urn?”

Hannah shook her head. “No clue.”

“What now, fearless leader?”

“Let’s get this stuff to the lab for testing, see what it is. Maybe some rich guy’s idea of a joke?” She looked at the ruins of the box within a box within a box, all sealed tightly, welded, and obviously meant to stay that way. Whoever did this, and for whatever reason, this was an expensive project. She suddenly got goosebumps and the dread feeling whatever they just opened should have stayed closed.

It snapped awake, fully alert now. Something had changed. Water. The dust of the vessel, its prison for so long, so desiccated, so empty ... Now: Water. Life. Essence. Sensation. It was small; not nearly enough to rise, but it was something. And it rejoiced.

Once the steel was cool to the touch, Hannah and Jason set about transferring the contents of the crate to a plastic canister. There weren’t more than a few pounds of the stuff, which was surprising considering the vault had weighed more than a quarter of a ton.

“So how’s the puppy?” Jason asked absently as he used a brush to sweep up the remaining powder into a scoop.

“Not bad, not bad,” Hannah replied as she filled out the label. “He’s been pretty good with telling us when he needs to go outside, and he’s getting better with the leash.”

“How’s Freddy liking him?”

“Oh, he’s hot and cold. He’s not too much of a dog person so we have to be patient with Freddy, but me and Porkchop will work him down. He’ll come around.”

Jason laughed. “You named your dog Porkchop?”

“It was a compromise. Freddy wanted to name him Chopper because he thinks it’s funny to give small dogs intimidating names. But he’s just so roly-poly fat and cute that I wanted to call him Porky.”

Jason shook his head. “You guys are ridiculous. Y’all set a date yet?”

“We’re working on it. He’s working on it, I mean. It’s his mother that has all the demands. I’d just as soon go to Vegas and elope. So, since she wants a big wedding, he gets to plan it. I’ve got more important things to do. Like open mystery boxes full of dust.”

Jason looked at the canister and snuffled. “It’s four now. You want to get this started or shelve it for tomorrow?”

“I can’t cancel more class, and I’m not sure how much time we should waste on this thing. Let’s get it to the lab and see what it is. Shouldn’t take too long, you think?”

They covered the ruined vault with a tarp, promised the faculty of the community college they would have it removed in the morning, then drove back to campus. Within an hour they had parceled out samples of the dust and began analysis.

“Ash. Definitely,” Jason said, marking it down, “and something else.”

“Rust,” said Hannah, examining one of the samples through a microscope.

“Why rust?”

“Put a moisture meter on that. I’m just curious,” she said.

“It’s 0.000012 percent.”

“Interesting.”

“Enlighten me.”

“Freddy recently told me that if we wanted to, we could use those hand-warmer things as dehumidifiers. They work with oxidation. The iron reacts with the oxygen and absorbs all moisture, turning it into rust. Rapid oxidation causes heat, so they use them for pocket heaters.”

“So?”

“So someone put these ashes in here with a makeshift dehumidifier to ensure they stayed dry.”

“What is going on, Hannah? Did we just let out some kind of yellow fever or something?”

“Impossible. The virus, any virus, would have been long dead by now, even without the absence of humidity. But somebody wanted to keep whoever this was as dry as possible. Maybe this was a victim of disease, and they did what they could to keep it from spreading.”

It reveled in the moisture, however miniscule. For the first time in decades, it was alive. It reached out with its limited mind and sensed the other. There were two of them. It could glean no more than that. It needed. It wanted. It was fury and thirst. So dry, still. It needed a vessel. The old vessel was dead. Dry. Useless. The new vessel was close. It could feel the vessel move nearer. Still too weak to listen, too weak to hear the vessel. But the vessel was close. It turned inward. Concentrated. It focused on the new vessel. Too weak? Perhaps. But the new vessel was near, and it must try. From somewhere in its tortured mind came the simple command: Touch me.

“I’m going to hit the vending machine. You want anything?” Jason asked.

“No thanks,” Hannah said. “We’re almost done here, and I want to get some real food.”

“Suit yourself,” he said as he went out the door.

Hannah went back to the microscope. Ashes mixed with iron filings to make rust. To keep the ashes dry. Sealed three times and chained up and buried. It made absolutely no sense, and she had no frame of reference for it. It was an unsolved, and perhaps unsolvable, mystery. She turned the scope lamp off and peeled off her gloves when something caught her eye. Something, there in the canister full of ashes. Something glinted. Startled, Hannah paused and stared, saw nothing. But as she turned away, there it was again. She moved closer. What was that? Was it ... glitter? Gold dust? When she stared straight ahead it eluded her, but anytime her eyes moved away it came back even brighter. She needed to prepare another sample.

Hannah kept the canister in her periphery as she retrieved a slide. She then moved slowly toward the canister and, holding the slide steady, uncapped the top. She felt around on the table, trying to find a scoop or something to grab a pinch of the ash where she had the bright point located. She dared not take her eyes off the light. After two failed attempts, and although it was against policy and something she could never have explained to anyone, Hannah gave up and reached into the canister with her fingers for a pinch of the ash. It was hot to the touch. Very hot. She gasped in shock at the sudden pain.

Success! The new vessel had complied! Ecstatic, it burrowed deep into the flesh of the new vessel, thrusting and expanding, riding through capillaries and embedding its essence into the very fiber of the new vessel’s being. It was still weak, but the vessel was strong and soon its own strength would grow as it melded its mind into this body. It reveled in the fluids of its host. It had been so dry for so long. It looked through the vessel’s eyes at the dust in the canister. It felt the pain in the new vessel’s extremity where it had burrowed in. It wondered if any of its own essence was left in that dry pile of ash; if it was leaving any strength behind. It willed the new vessel to touch the ash with its other extremity. Nothing. Still ...

Jason returned to the lab eating a Snickers and holding a Diet Coke. “So what you think, Doc? We any further on than when we started?”

Hannah quickly shoved her burnt hand into her coat pocket and stared at the ash for a moment before answering, “I really have no idea what to make of all this. None of it makes any sense. Could be a joke played by a long-dead prankster for all we know.” She sighed. “What I do know is we’ve been at this all day, and all we’re left with is a can of ash. I’m ready to call it quits.”

“Me too,” Jason replied. “So what do you want to do with the samples?”

“Leave them here. I’ll figure out something to do with them in the morning.”

It watched the human from behind the new vessel’s eyes. The new vessel was not aware of its presence yet. Good. It would need to draw strength, read the new vessel’s mind and memories. Learn about the world in which it lived. Then it would take control. The human removed a garment, then moved out of the chamber. The new vessel turned back to the canister of ash. Had it wished this? It did not matter. The new vessel was suddenly frightened. And fear was a delicacy. It had been so long since it fed.

Hannah heard Jason hit the exit door down the hall. Alone in the lab, there was a sudden and overwhelming feeling of being watched. She turned to look at the canister and shuddered. As quickly as she could manage, she capped the canister, picked up her notebook and purse, and then followed Jason out of the lab. Her footsteps echoed as she walked to her car, adding to her dismay. Sometimes these large buildings had a sinister feel when it was dark and the courtyards were empty. She picked up the pace. The sensation of being watched had not diminished, and the need to be away from here was bordering on panic.

“And coming up next we’ve got your Mandatory Metallica, so keep it right here. The Buzz.”

The chattering DJ gave way to a car commercial, which gave way to an invitation to join a class-action lawsuit against a pharmaceutical company. Hanna tried to ease her mind with the mundane, but it was not working. Her finger still burned. What had come over her to make her touch that specimen? She’d never made a mistake like that in her life. But at the time, it was as if she could not control herself. And why was it hot to the touch? That was weird. She looked at her finger and thumb. There was no mark or blister or any outward sign she’d been burnt, but she could definitely feel it. The commercials gave way to songs, and Metallica kept her company the rest of her way home.

By the time she got home, it was past eleven, and Freddy was already asleep. The light snoring coming from the bedroom gave her some comfort. Hannah set her stuff down and then looked in the fridge. She was famished, and also strangely thirsty. She uncapped a bottle of water and as soon as it touched her lips, she sucked it down. When it was empty she grabbed another and finished it just as quickly. Thirst momentarily slaked, Hannah went back for some food. There were various leftovers from the past few meals she and Freddy had shared. She pulled them all out and looked under their lids. Baked chicken. She began tearing the cold flesh from the bones and taking the meat down in large, raspy gulps. She opened another that contained two pork chops and finished them both in short order. She tipped a container full of roast beef and vegetables into her mouth and chewed through it like some kind of starving beast. When Hannah had finished with the beef, she guzzled down two more bottles of water.

She stared at the empty containers in horror. What the hell was wrong with her? She moved the empty Tupperware into the sink, ran some water, and poured in soap.

“Hey babe,” Freddy’s sleepy voice called from the back.

“Hey,” she answered. Oh God, please don’t let him have just seen that!

“You gotta take Chopper out before you come to bed, mkay?”

“Okay.”

“Love you.”

“Love you too.”

Not five seconds later, he was snoring again.

The new vessel fed well. It had also forced the new vessel to consume water. Although the host’s body did not need the fluid, it had been so thirsty for so long that it had rewarded itself. The new vessel moved through its chamber and retrieved a small animal from a cage. What was this? Fresh meat? It could not understand why humans burnt the flesh they consumed. Stupid, stupid creatures.

It watched this development with curiosity. The new vessel attached a lead to a cuff around the animal’s neck. Then it led the animal out the door and into the grass. How quaint. The animal defecated and sniffed around a little more, then the new vessel led the animal back into the house.

So this animal was not food; it was a companion. Interesting. In a few moments, the new vessel would sleep. It would then tap into its memories and knowledge, its essence of self, and learn what it needed to know to thrive in this world. And the new vessel, in turn, would be rewarded with its own memories. So much beautiful slaughter, chaos, and agony ...

Hannah dreamed of dark stars, of worlds falling to floods, boiling rain, crushing waves, cities collapsing into the sea. She saw through the eyes of a shark the size of a city bus as it attacked and sunk ships. And she saw the delicious fear in the eyes of the sailors who simply could not believe the thing that attacked them was real. She relished in the fear. Frightened prey tasted better. She was a colossal squid tearing flesh from baby sperm whales. She was a swarm of piranha peeling meat from living bone in frenzy. She was flesh-eating bacteria scourging the body of a child. She was the vessel, blessed by the master to carry it through this phase of its existence. She was nothing but flesh and fear and pain now. And she was thirsty again.

It studied the new vessel in the looking glass. Female. Good. It preferred the female of this dreadful species when it was forced to use one as a vessel. It could use the sexuality of the female to attract prey, to influence other humans. Its previous vessel had been male, and it had needed to resort to more cunning and subterfuge. This was easier. Humans were stupid, base creatures. It preferred to exploit those base urges when it could. The new vessel was young and healthy; attractive by the standards of its kind. Dark skin, light eyes, a mane of tight curls framing its face. It used the new vessel’s extremities to explore its body. The new vessel’s form was lithe and supple. Healthy. No disease. Uncorrupted. (Yet.) It was pleased with its acquisition.

Hannah awoke staring at herself naked in the bathroom mirror. Her own hands moved against her will, feeling, probing. Her left hand came up and cupped a breast, giving it a firm, almost clinical squeeze before moving to the other. Her right index finger was in her mouth, feeling her teeth and gums, stopping at her canines. She forced her eyes to meet those of her reflection. She could not move, could not speak. She was like a marionette, being controlled by some unseen force. She cried out in her mind, “What are you?”

It paused. The new vessel had awakened and was attempting to communicate. Delightful. It looked through the new vessel’s eyes and connected with itself in the looking glass. “Greetings, swine.”

In the mirror, Hannah saw the expression on her own face change from one of terror to one of malevolent glee. She tried once again to speak, but her body was not her own. She thought, “Am I crazy? Am I dreaming? What is this?”

Immediately, a dry, raspy, hacking voice replied, “No, your body and mind are in perfect order. You, vile abomination of the Creator, are my new vessel. You are my servant. I am your master.”

“You are the thing in the dust ...”

Her face cocked a sardonic smile.

“The dust is that of my previous vessel. Damaged, corrupted, captured, and burnt. Abhorrent. You are the new vessel. Young. Healthy, Uncorrupted. Unburnt. Still Abhorrent.”

“What do you want? What are you going to do to me?”

“I want humanity to drown. I want a billion bloated corpses floating on the tides. I want to rend and tear your species, to remove it from creation like the cancer it is. I want to spit into the face of the Creator using the lips and tongue of one of His own. I want fear and pain and ruin to reign. I want to fill the seas with your blood and shit on your bones. You stupid, vile, disgusting things ...”

She felt her own blood rise as the presence ranted.

It continued, “You are my vessel. You will do my will. I control your body. You may try to resist, but you cannot. I exist in every cell of your pathetic human form. My will is absolute.

“Yet, as I am merciful, I will allow you to watch as I torture, murder, and consume other humans. You and I shall revel in their cries of fear and pain and grief. You shall not be allowed to close your eyes nor your mind to what is happening around you; to what horrors your own flesh is enacting. This is my blessing to you, Hannah Harvey.”

At the back of the house, the puppy stirred in its kennel. It needed to go outside. It let out a quick pleading bark followed by a whine. Hannah and the thing inside her regarded the sound. Hannah’s mind recoiled as the voice whispered, “Ah yes, we are a bit famished. Let’s get started, shall we?”

Freddy half awoke and glanced at the clock. He had heard Porkchop crying to be let out. It was nearly four in the morning. He listened but did not hear the dog repeat its call. Rolling over, he realized Hannah was not in bed either. Knowing her odd hours and seeing nothing amiss in his sleepy haze, Freddy fell back into a deep sleep and dreamed he was sailing on stormy seas.

William (Billy) Stuart lives in Houston where he spends most of his time trying to get his kids to take naps. A few of his hobbies include writing, collecting comics, wood working, playing guitar, building monsters, and pretending every day is Halloween. He also runs the SCARYDAD PODCAST where he and his buddy discuss all things scary.

www.scarydad.com

instagram.com/Scarydad

facebook.com/Scarydad1

twitter.com/@Scarydad1

Floating

by Rick Powell

I am floating in this lake,

Warm in its embrace,

The coldness of the night,

Brushes against my face.

The fog swirls around me,

This autumn’s tender kiss,

Leaves cling to my hair,

All alone in this mist.

Waiting for my lover,

Whisper from the deep,

In the murky depths,

Fitfully he does sleep.

My nipples do so ache,

Exposed to the night air,

Aching for his touch,

Flesh tender, his to tear.

My secret place throbbing,

Like his ice-cold heart,

My thighs start quivering,

They slowly begin to part.

Feel the ripples underneath,

A dim remembered song,

Mouth a sigh of rapture,

I know it won't be long.

His tendrils wrap around me,

His burning, wanting grip,

Into my place, so deep,

One does gently slip.

As I swiftly go under,

My heart starts to burst,

I smile, to die, knowing,

He was always my first.

Rick Powell lives in Oak Forest, Illinois. He is a lover of horror and dark fiction and his poetry and stories have appeared in The Nightmare Engine, Don't Look Back: 13 Terrifying Tales of Urban Folklore, The Ladies & Gentlemen of Horror 2014 & 2017, and Infernal Ink Magazine.

All the proceeds from his first book of poetry, My Soul Stained, My Seed Sour, will go to The American Heart Association.

His other books include his other poetry collection More Regrets Than Glories and his first book of short stories A Vault of Whispers.

He could be found on Goodreads at:

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/8442207.Rick_Powell

or Facebook:

https://www.facebook.com/tenebraerick

Adrift

by Peter Molnar

He felt the flaking wooden slats against his left cheek, roused from what felt like a decade in a coma. It was the steady lapping sound of something fluid and restless slapping against the slats where he’d been lying on his side.

He lifted his head. There was a cross beam of white-flecked wood right by his head and he smacked the crown of his skull against it. Another crossbeam ran overtop of where his legs were curled up. He tried to raise himself up. Something like the hand of

God pressed him back down into the bottom of a boat in which he had come awake. A flash of pain tore up the back of his neck.

Whatever it was, something persisted with its gentle and playfully rhythmic slapping along the bottom of the—

Boat! Goddammit, I’m in a boat. He tried to spread his arms wide to gain some sense of his surroundings. On either side, his knuckles cracked against the sides as they rose up from the concave wood surrounding him.

Narrow as hell. A lifeboat!

(That’s great ... L for Lifeboat ... what about W—)

“Water,” he mumbled and knew he was right. “A-gua. It’s slapping against the bottom of the ... bottom of the ... boat ...”

He’d come awake on the floor of an adrift lifeboat.

He stiffly drew himself up into an unsteady sitting position, finding some headway. Still, there was something else pressing he would have to contend with, now that he’d deciphered the Where of his dire straits. Daunted, he slumped backwards against the rigid slats of the boat’s bottom. Hell, even Robinson Cruse knew his fucking name was Robinson Cru-soe when he got shipwrecked! I don’t even have that going for me. I don’t know who the hell I am!

The small boat tossed and shuddered. The current was cloying and free of swells. It could’ve put him to sleep.

He found his voice. It was hiding at the bottom of his dry throat. “I hit my head and ... and now I can’t remember—”

A rough-hewn voice broke above him. “You never struck your head on anything.” Then, as if regretting having said anything at all, the speaker paused, and then muttered, “That much ... I can tell you.”

He felt his heart flutter in his chest, a caged pigeon batting its wings against the branches of his ribcage. He craned his neck and lifted the cleft of his chin upward to have a look at who the voice belonged to.

The boatman was seated at the edge of the prow, naked with waxen white skin and sagging muscles that clung to his bones like dead animals in rucksacks. His toes were cloven-hoofed and profoundly elongated. The boatman’s chest was tufted in thick, kinky black hair. Long and clumped tendrils of brown hair hung in his face, the top of his head revealing a maddening patchwork of hair that has been unbrushed since the moment it began to grow. Aware of the slow study the man was engrossed in, the boatman shook the hair out of his eyes and lifted his face up, for better scrutiny, perhaps. His eyes were sunken, two black onyx stones anchored to the watery depths of a well. Cheeks sunken and a pointed, pencil-thin goatee that did not so much encircle the boatman’s curt, pink lips as it ensnared them.

The boatman croaked his next words, as if choking on them. “You don’t know me. Stop trying to identify me. You can’t. Take your eyes off of me, jackanape”

Flinching away from the boatman’s command, he rolled his head away and lifted his gaze skyward. The sky above looked hopeless as it pitched and swirled impatiently. No break in its bloated and black clouds. They crowded out any notion of what may have once been a fathomless white summer morning. He suddenly knew this sky had never known such brightness. A deep wave of depression washed over him.

The knocking he’d been hearing against the slats of the boat floor was too ... what was the word? ... aggressive! They were not the teasing ebbs of waves lapping up the sides.

“Fish,” he said, to himself. Then, he added, “Sharks.”

“Sharks swim in your oceans. This is a river.”

He blinked, vapidly, suddenly determined to swivel his entire body onto his belly. He meant to sit up, even though the nervy swale of his back cried out in resistance.

“You’ve come from somewhere else, young man,” the boatman said. “Now you’re here.”

“Who are you?” He pitched flat along his midriff and pressed his hands down against the floor of the boat, shoving himself upward like he was doing a military push-up. It was the way he splayed his hands instinctively, with his thumbs and forefingers forming a diamond with one another. Shit! Shit! I’m a ... I was a ... oh, I was in the army?

“You were,” the boatman muttered.

That’s all, though! That’s all I can remember? The rest is just like a run-off of rain over the edge of the cliff and if I want to chase it, God knows what waits for me just past the edge!

He became aware of the cut of his clothing, the unspoken majesty of the ensemble. He was done up from head to toe in his army uniform, a soft hunter-green hue with a starched collar that grabbed at the base of his throat, just as it had when he’d worn it the times before. Anxiously, he hauled himself upward and back down into something of a sitting position. It occurred to him how drenched he was beneath the clothing. It was not sea water. Sweat! He had not swum this body of water, fairly certain if he had he would not have lived to be so confused at the present time. One of those rambunctious things bumping the bottom of the boat might’ve done him some irreparable harm; the kind you don’t walk away from.

Or swim from!

He turned halfway towards the boatman. “It’s just ... did we capsize? And ... who are you—”

“This is not a lifeboat, Private Carpenter.”

When the boatman called him by name, it awoke certain circuitries in Carpenter’s mind. That’s right! Okay, so I’m a private and I was in the United States Army. I joined right after Jan got pregnant. I’m twenty-two years old and my name is ... well, I know my last name’s Carpenter ... I could ask him—

“Don’t bother,” the boatman said, tucking his chin back into the deep crook of his throat and shaking his head. “Your first name isn’t important anymore. In fact, neither is your last name. Or your rank, for that matter. Only what you’ve done.”

“I’ll figure it out.”

“You’d better do it soon.”

Carpenter hugged his knees against his chest as a cold wind blew across the stern of the rowboat. “I can’t remember anything about myself other than a few spare details. I mean, I remember my girlfriend and I got pregnant. I had to make it legitimate or her father was going to make her get rid of it. So, I put a ring on her. Then Uncle Sam came calling. Something about this Hitler character gassing a bunch of German Jews.”

“You remember more than you know. Just remember to yourself, alright?”

“What?”

“I said I want you to shut your mouth and let me think, you jackanape!”

“What’d you ... call me?”

“Don’t sound so offended, Carpenter! You’ll only seem weaker than you were before.”

“Before what? What the hell are you talking about? What did you call me?” Carpenter felt the knot form in his stomach, but refused to acknowledge it for what it was: fear.

“Nobody ... nobody rides for free, Carpenter.”

“Don’t you understand what I’m—”

“In fact,” the boatman groaned, and on either side of the rowboat the oars went still, “this is as far as I’m willing to take you.”

At first, Carpenter didn’t believe they’d stopped. It wasn’t until the boatman let go of the oars and folded into himself, sucking his shoulder blades inward like a lotus closing its petals forever, that he knew. His hair had resumed its role as cloak of the boatman’s thin, starved face. He put his head down and it almost appeared he’d gone to sleep.

Carpenter made a careless grab for one of the oars. He grazed it with the bumps of his knuckles, but it was enough to startle the boatman. He hissed down at Carpenter, and said, “Don’t do that again.”

“Why are we stopped?”

“Did you hear what I just said?”

“Yeah, yeah, for Chrissakes, where the hell are we?”

“You haven’t paid the fare,” the boatman stated flatly. A strand of greasy hair slipped between his lips and stuck there, opening a window onto the man’s odd lower face. “So ... this is where we stop.”

“What?” Carpenter cried, his face a mask of confusion. “What fare? I don’t even know you. I don’t even know how the hell I ended up lost at sea! Goddammit, I don’t know much of anything other than that ...” Carpenter felt a shudder of recognition nudge the side of his brain, and he shut his eyes to see it more clearly behind his eyelids.

It was a sharp jolt of pain swirling around the bridge of his top and bottom rows of teeth, as if someone twisted his back molars around in their sockets, attempting to unscrew them. To unseat them. His hand flew to his mouth, absently, and he saw the silhouetted figure leaning in towards him. No definition, although its smooth and unreserved actions betrayed it as being the shadow of a human. The head was shorn and hairless in his vision. A bald, shaved man who was terribly interested in him. For reasons unknown. Then, the pain. A pain that summoned tears to the corners of his eyes.

Carpenter’s eyes flew open, and he wheeled on the boatman.

The boatman smiled savagely.

“What are you staring at?” Carpenter said, but he knew.

“You men ... what are your limits?”

“I don’t understand.”

The boatman scoffed and leaned in closer to Carpenter. “Is there anything safe from defiling and degradation when ... when men are afoot?”

Carpenter meant to say something, but he bit his words back. He swiveled around, scanning the blur of horizon, a soft hallucinogenic melding of coal-stained sky with black, tossed seas. Hopelessness like nothing else he’d ever known.

Why not do what you’ve been trained to do, huh? Take the oars and take charge.

“Don’t be stupid,” the boatman said.

“You can read my mind, you shitheel?” Carpenter felt the sting of insult. He was certain this was comparable to what it felt like for a woman after she’s been violated.

Stay the hell out of my head! I don’t even know who you are! “Alright, what do I have to do to get us moving again? And ... where would we be moving towards? Or ... away from. I don’t have any idea!”

“No idea?”

“Yeah! No idea! Come on! Level with me here!”

“Are you scared?”

Carpenter balked. “What in the hell kind of question is that?”

“You’re dead,” the boatman said, glancing left to right. “You ought to be scared.”

“I ... I ... wha ...?”

“You died, jackanape.” The boatman sucked wind and exhaled heavily. “You want to know?”

“I ... uh ... I can’t—”

“I’ll tell you how you went.” The boatman glanced once more at the horizon. Another sturdy thump smacked the bottom of the boat, and that time a shrill wailing took up in the distance, sending a shudder up Carpenter’s back. It called to mind the old sailor myth of mermaids beckoning lost ships into the rocky crags to their deaths with the sounds of their sweet operatic singing.

The boatman began. “You remember Dachau. That’s where you were going. You remember trekking through the Amper Lake and your boots filling up with muddy water. You remember that there were thirty railroad cars lined up just outside the camp, and the smell drew you over to have a look inside one of them. The bodies were waist-deep inside and in all manner of falling-apart at the seams. They were the lucky ones because they missed the Death March right before your cavalry arrived. Your commanding officer handed you a small microfilm camera. You remember he told you to climb inside to take pictures, but he would not tell you what for. You remember you never found it. The car was cooking in the southern sun for days, and you grew light-headed standing in there and taking your pictures. You nearly passed out. That’s when the scavengers were upon you. They held their quiet inside the car when they heard the Americans arrive. Their pockets. Their satchels were heavy with the gold-filled teeth of the dead. They snatched them out with their bare hands, the ones who neglected to bring pliers along. One of the scavengers stood tall behind you and struck you hard in the back of your head. You remember they knocked you down and there were five of them and one of them clamped their filthy, copper-smelling hand across your mouth. They took your teeth before they murdered you. Unscrewed them from the sockets. Then, they piled onto your chest and clamped your nose and mouth shut until you suffocated.”

“My fillings.”

“Your gold fillings,” spat the boatman. “My fare!”

“Then ... then they killed me?” stammered Carpenter, shuddering from head to toe. They fell silent.

The water was suddenly arcing to such a severe angle the boatman clasped the sides of the vessel with his white, knobby fingers. Carpenter tried to grab onto something, the cross slats, the side jambs of the boat’s lip. Anything. He grabbed onto the end of what he had only come to notice as a simple black rucksack with a run of hemp-rope looped around the mouth. It yawned wide at his touch. Carpenter felt the stickiness on his fingertips before he saw what it was. When Carpenter was younger, maybe five, he used to relish taking little side trips, barely excursions as much as they were errands, with his grandfather. Grandpa Denali was a bachelor and had been ever since he’d lost his wife to double pneumonia shortly after Carpenter’s mother was born. Grandpa Denali went to 5th Street Butchers every second Thursday. Carpenter ended up tagging along. Carpenter used to stare slack-jawed through the plate glass that made up the entire back wall behind the cashier station. He’d stared amazed, his stomach lightly tumbling, at the hanging slabs of bloody, yellow and white, mucous-colored meat. Fresh off the bone. Freshly bared flesh. The curious thing of it was, Carpenter’s innocence, his naïveté had somehow kept him from getting ill at the sight of slaughtered beef. It wasn’t until he turned twelve that Carpenter’s stomach caught up with his age, and he knew sickness the likes of which felt as if it had turned his stomach lining inside out.

When Carpenter looked down at what had tumbled out of the boatman’s bag, what his hands had slid around in, he thought of the 5th Street Butcher, he thought of Grandpa Denali, and Carpenter waited for the sick to come.

It didn’t.

“You almost wish it would, don’t you?” the boatman yelled to be heard above the frenzied waters. The river had turned to tap water in a saucepan brought to a rolling boil. “You want to be sick! But you can’t!”

Carpenter couldn’t. But his stomach did not deny its own nausea, holding fast to it but never knowing the release of vomiting.

“We-we’re going to drown!” Carpenter cried, kicking the spilled cuts of meat and loops of intestine on the floor of the boat away from him. “Can’t you make it stop?”

“They’re coming.”

“Who’s coming?” Carpenter screamed, a swell tossing the boat nearly over and sending him headlong into the side of it. In the brief instant by which he was barely a foot away from the water, Carpenter came face-to-face with one of the things that had been slamming themselves into the hull of the boat. It surfaced, possibly enticed by the sudden vision of his face above the murky water. Carpenter saw a fanged, thousand-toothed creature with what were comparably three-shark heads mounted onto one torso that buckled and railed against the violent water. The creature was nearly as long as his leg.

He looped his arms around one of the closest cross-slats and glared upward at the boatman.

“Here ... they ... come,” the boatman purred. “More and more. More and more ... and more ...”

Then, the next fleet of rowboats bearing their passengers and their boatmen appeared in the veil of fog hovering in the distance. There were hundreds, barreling forward through the roiling river waters, veritable conjurings, as the fog softened their edges to swabs of muted watercolors.

––––––––

ii.

“MA-MA, LOOK AT ZE MAHN over der!”

Nine-year old Eliana Jobish exclaimed, clapping a small, dark hand over of her mouth. She nearly dropped her doll over the side of the rowboat, and hugged it closer to herself. Her grandmother had given it to her as a parting gift before they took her away on one of those trucks loaded with other people from the neighborhood. Those people who would not look up from their hands in their laps, as if their fingernails were suddenly the most entertaining things in the world. She drew out of her mother’s warm arms and flew to the side of the rowboat to get a better look.

Her mother erupted behind her, scrambling for her child. “Ellie-you come back to Ma-Ma—you going to fall!”

The mother, a shrunken woman in modest black garb and a navy-blue kerchief, had not been made to die alone. No, that last merciful wish, to not die alone and, if possible, to not die amongst strangers had been granted her in a final turn of events. She went into the gas chamber, shivering with lament and cold and uncertainty, naked and ashamed amongst the other prisoners. Then something of relief and revulsion met her inside the chamber. The mother had found herself standing beside her only daughter, Eliana. They’d stripped her daughter as well, Nazi golems! But, the young girl and her mother saw one another, and they’d fallen together in a mournful swoon as the guard slammed the door to the room closed and left the twenty-five prisoners to mutter their final Hebrew prayers. To make a final, lasting peace with their Creator.

“Ze mahn!” Eliana hollered, her voice pitchy and exuberant. “Don’t you see ze mahn izt waving to us?”

“You’ll fall overboard, Ellie!” The mother made a wide snatch for her daughter. She snagged her shaking fingers into the hem of her daughter’s sweater and yanked backward. Death was no longer a threat for either of them, but somehow the mother was not entirely convinced something altogether worse than death awaited them if they were to topple overboard. “Ellie, you zit ztill!” The mother pulled her daughter back into the folds of her heavy, dark clothing, making certain she had her arms wrapped around the doll squeezed into her daughter’s chest.

Their boatman grunted and bent to the task of rolling his oars to and fro at the front of the boat. He maneuvered the boat effortlessly amongst the traffic of the other boats rolling past them, and his arms and body moved together as if operating under the notion of muscle memory. He was a revolting and goateed naked man with straggly yellow hair that looked more like a thin layering of straw atop his head than anything else. He appeared starved, and the vision of the boatman’s countable rib slats pushing upward at the taut flesh of his chest reminded Eliana of something she could not quite align her memory with. Somehow, her mind felt scrubbed. Compromised.

The young girl stirred against her mother’s breast. “Zat mahn izt waving us over to him—”

The boatman raised his head and rolled his shoulders, aggressively. “That man has got nothing to do with you. He could be insane. He could be waving to another boat. It means nothing to you!”

Eliana narrowed her brown eyes. “He izt! He izt calling us because he izt scared!”

“Everyone is frightened by the boat ride,” the boatman said, sullenly. “They always have been. They always will be. This is nothing new to me.”

“Ma-ma, pleaz lizzen to me—”

“Eliana, you are making ze boatman angry! Zit ztill! Don’t you underztand? We are going to Heaven!”

“But what about zat mahn over dere?”

The boatman cleared his throat and barked, “He’s not going to the same place as you and your mother, now hush up! Unless you’d like me to take your doll away from you and feed it to the river!”

The young girl’s eyes brightened. She wriggled loose from her mother’s insistent grasp and held her doll out before her. It was a sorry-looking thing, all kinky fly-away black stitching around its mouth and loose, flapping plastic limbs that seemed incapable of a firm hug ever again. The only aspect of its countenance which had somehow preserved itself over the past two weeks of Hell on earth was the doll’s lucid, glowing, and detailed eyes.

Eliana Jobish stared up at the boatman, her eyes wide and shimmering. “I want to give de man dis dolly,” she said. “So he izt not so scared about where he izt going!”

––––––––

iii.

THE RIVER SUBSIDED evenly, the fleet of boats slithering by one another like strangers on the street at an odd hour.

Carpenter felt the sting of his own desperate tears, realizing one of the boats he’d been signaling like a madman had begun to cut a slow, methodical curve in the torrential waters. It arced to the left, weaving amongst the other boats and sliced through the river’s waters like a knife through warm butter. The nose of the boat nodded in his direction as if to say Yes! Oh yes, I am coming to meet you and to help you if I can ...

The boatman whistled through his two gapped front teeth and folded his bare arms across his narrow and bedraggled chest. “You have no idea what you’re doing. No notion at all.”

“I can see them,” said Carpenter. “They’re coming over. There’s a young girl and an older woman resting along the back of the boat. Someone is steering them towards us. The girl saw me. She’s making them come over.”

The fare. The fucking fare. You’ll have it ... help is coming ... they’ll help me somehow ...

“You think a young girl and her mother will be able to supply your fare?” the boatman needled. “Do you really?”

As if on rails, the other boat slid over to come to a soft, shuddering stop just a few feet from where Carpenter and his boatman floated idly.

Carpenter sprang to life, turning his entire body and attention to the young girl who sat perched along the side of her boat opposite. The woman behind her slipped in beside the young girl and slid an arm up her back. The woman whispered something hurriedly into the young girl’s ear and flashed angry, untrusting eyes at Carpenter.

“Make it quick, all of you,” the boatman on the other boat grumbled. Then, footnoting his impatience, he reached across the water to touch the pale and upturned palm of Carpenter’s boatman. Something unspoken and invisible passed between the two transporters, a surge that charged their already pale skin a starker white, like the glow of a light bulb. Carpenter’s boatman nodded, drew his hand back, and made an assertive grab for the black bag at the bottom of the boat. He tugged it all the way open, and shoving the spilled fleshy contents back inside, he snatched it up and laid it oblong across his bare lap. Roughly, he tore a swath of bleeding flesh away from a longer filet and with a blur of his right hand, the boatman flung it at his peer in the other boat. The other boatman seized the meat between his jaws in midair. Blood fanned backward from his lips. Together the boatmen chewed their fleshy snacks in unison while they waited for the exchange between their occupants to run its course.

The older woman stirred beside the young girl, curtailing her words to Carpenter. “Vot iz it you vant from us?”

Once the woman spoke, her accent rough-hewn and sharp as driven nails, Carpenter realized they could not possibly offer him what it was he sought. The mother and daughter had died together. Their accents were thick with German

pronunciation. They were Jews of the German Ghettos. The unfortunate. He could not bring himself to realize they had probably come fresh from the nightmares of the concentration camp and met a harrowing, inhumane end.

He wheeled on his boatman, eyes embarrassed and low. “Boatman, I was wrong. I shouldn’t have bothered these people.”

Nonplussed, his boatman sank his teeth into an especially fat-laced hunk of meat and didn’t respond.

The young girl spoke up, a quick and feverish chirp that drew Carpenter’s attention to her like a moth to flames. “Don’t be afraid, Mizzter! I want you to have my baby-dolly. Please ... take ...”

Kid, unless your baby-dolly has a hollow head and there’s a couple of gold coins rattling around in its attic, I don’t know what more we have to talk about—

“I’m sorry ... I ...”

“Mizzter ... please take. Don’t be scared—”

“What makes you think I have anything to be scared about, little girl?”

Through a mouth clogged with glutinous meat ground to a paste, the boatman interjected, “You should be going. All of you. The next wave of souls may rock your boat all the worse than before. You do not want to go over into the water. Trust my warning.”

The young girl’s eyes were big and aware, glassy with the onslaught of tears. Tears of rejection. She blinked vapidly, and one of the tears leapt the distance between the two idling boats. It landed on Carpenter’s bare left forearm and awoke something of keen remorse within his fragile, desperate mind.

Carpenter reached across the water and took the doll out of the young girl’s hands.

The boatman on the opposite vessel tipped a knowing, almost gloating nod over at Carpenter. Then, his hands fell to the knobs of his oars, and their boat drew away from Carpenter and his apparently ravenous boatman. The young girl offered him a dreamy wave. Suddenly enshrouded in the swirling mists, the young girl was cast in something of an ethereal light.

A bitterness took hold of him. The doll was useless. The girl had known something about him, about his future. Something of his fate. His heart burned and turned black, and he suddenly felt it would make him feel so much better (at least for a short while) if he were to stand up in the damned boat and pitch the ugly damned doll-baby into the river.

I think I will throw this goddam—

The boatman’s hand shot out and seized the doll by its limp throat.

“By God, what is the matter with you?” the boatman roared. He wrested it from Carpenter’s hands and placed it beside him in the narrow shelf of slatting where he’d been sitting.

“Damn you to Hell!” Carpenter cried.

“No thank you.” For the first time the boatman smiled. “I’ve been there. It is not such a nice place. But ... you’ve paid your fare. So, we move.”

“How do you figure that?” Carpenter groaned.

“You’ve been given a destination.”

“What if I don’t want to go now?”

“You wouldn’t have paid your fare if you would’ve rather drifted.”

“I didn’t pay a damned thing—”

“Not exactly,” the boatman said, bending at the oars with fervor like never before. “The young girl paid for you.”

Carpenter stared at the blur of horizon. The other boat was definitely gone, or shrouded. Or both. “I don’t ... I don’t understand—”

“Have a look at the doll’s eyes, you jackanape!”

Before Carpenter knew it, the boatman had taken up the doll and thrown it square at his chest. It struck Carpenter in the breastbone and toppled into his lap.

“What am I looking for?”

“JUST LOOK!”

A hearty thud smashed at the wooden flooring of the boat, and Carpenter felt the surge of its motion rocket up his shins and become absorbed in the knobs of knee joints. He brought the doll up to within a few inches of his eyes and stared intently into its left, unblinking eye. The doll’s eyes were easily the most ornate and interesting aspects of its appearance. The body was beaten and in shambles. It’s threading was untying itself, as if of its own volition. But its eyes? Carpenter touched the tip of his index finger along the surface of one of its eyes. Smooth. Concave, with a slight raised circle where a myriad of different paints had been applied to the glass of the eye itself. The combination of colors had been mixed to describe what was a rich green and hazel hue.

The boatman shook his head and spoke in a gruff voice as if something were lodged in the back of his throat. “The paint used to color the doll’s irises?”

Carpenter stared at him, vacantly.

“Gold-based paint,” the boatman said, stretching his arms before him with the oars dancing in his hands. He looked like an eagle testing his own wingspan. “She paid your fare, jackanape. She and her mother are rowing to a better place because their deeds have called for it. Their deaths have made it essential.”

“And me?”

The boatman paused, and then said, “War-hero? That means nothing here. Nothing to anyone.”

“But I did what you asked, boat-man—”

“Men ... a scourge upon the Earth,” the boatman scoffed. “Now, give me back that doll.”

The rowboat pressed onward.

In the Shadow of the Equine

by Kenneth W. Cain

(First appeared in the Post Mortem Press Anthology Torn Realities)

––––––––

WHEN I FIRST HEARD the man rambling about the sordid details of human nature, I intended to ignore him. My son and I had come to this island to camp. Not to be annoyed by unwarranted sermons.

Our hope was to behold the island’s main attraction: the wild horses that sometimes graced the hillside across the small channel that separated this island from the next.

At the foot of the other island rested a detailed statue depicting a stallion in full stride. If we did not see a single living equine, this statue would have to suffice as our glowing reminiscence.

The ranting man was old, his face riddled with the scars of someone who once committed the very crimes he now so passionately spoke against. A pinch of skin creased between his eyebrows, demonstrating the contempt he held for most of mankind and the sins they perpetrated daily against his God.

As I scanned the campground, I identified a few dozen tents. Some chose to make their camps close to the channel, separating us from the equine habitat, so they wouldn’t miss the wild beasts should they appear. Others took to more remote locations away from the water. Perhaps thirty to forty people made up the entire population of the island for the night, hoping to catch a glimpse of one of the wild horses. I was quite certain none had anticipated the lecture we all now endured.

His testimony amused my son, Parker, and before I knew it, I found myself alone by the fire. My son’s disappearance brought me a moment of shame for having lost sight of him. Why I should be so shallow to disapprove of my own flesh and blood being allured by the word of God I do not know, but I regretted letting him venture closer.

It wasn’t until the fight broke out that I realized it had been an error. Before I could reach my son’s side, my remorse for the neglect became intolerable.

The first words I heard came from a younger man, who appeared to have reached his wit’s end with the good preacher’s feverish judgments. This man antagonized the elder pastor to no end. And, dissatisfied by the response, he drove the preacher back with a forcible blow.

Arms wailing, the crowd caught the old man, aiding him back to his feet. Although outmatched, it did not keep the older man from lifting a condemning finger to the skies in an effort to detail the sins this young man had engaged in.

I searched the mounting crowd of campers for my son. My eyes wide with panic, my heart throbbed within my chest, worried he’d been hurt. Relief washed over me as my son came into view. But he was closer to the ensuing scuffle than I preferred.

A second later, the younger man leapt forward, knocking the elder man down by the channel. The crowd encroached upon the brawl, enthralled by the spectacle. Once again, I lost sight of my son. All I could see was Parker’s ball cap billowing into the air and then drifting into the throng as the fight continued to grow in intensity.

Uncertainty overcame me; my anxiety now doubled. This lasted for a moment until the tussle broke up in the oddest fashion, without a single bark or threat. No one had stepped in to intervene. It simply ended.

What did I care? My only concern was for my son.

I found Parker sitting in the sand, his hat snug upon his head. His eyes were wide and gaping at the strange old man, seeing what I should have noticed right away.

Parker wasn’t crying. He didn’t scream. This might be the sole reason for my initial lack of perception, ignoring the others and their gasps.

When I finally saw what they observed, an empty feeling ate away inside of me like the atrocious fury of a brush fire through a drought-ridden field.

The elder man’s pallid face reflected the trepidation struck in Parker’s eyes. The man’s eyes were dark. Before long, all eyes would be as filled with shadows. I might not have noticed the difference in his eyes if it hadn’t been for a brief hint of sunlight illuminating him as dusk approached.

They appeared sunken and vacant. Black pools of still water that reminded me of the back canals under the light of the brightest moon.

It was my belief he was readying to unleash the full power of the Lord upon his adversaries; redemption by detailing various apropos scripture. But what had forced everyone’s emotions to go awry was the thing the preacher now wore upon his head.

At first, I thought it a strange hat. Perhaps some religious token, or maybe even a ball cap like Parker’s. Upon closer inspection, I identified the dangling tentacles waving back and forth in front of his face and realized this was some sort of sea creature.

It looked like a small starfish or perhaps a tiny octopus. But neither image of those creatures fit what I was seeing. This creature didn’t struggle for breath as any sea critter would in an effort to exist out of water.

What I once thought a separate entity clinging to the elder man’s skull, I stood corrected; seeing the infernal damnation had somehow attached itself to the man. Had I been able to pull myself away from this astounding visual, I might have seen the younger man suffering an equal fate.

I burst through the crowd, shaking away my shock and dismay in an attempt to help the man. I took him into my arms and tried to ease him to the sand. However, we never reached the ground. The man stiffened like a board and with defiance, stood before us. To my utter surprise, he spoke.

“Now you see the failings of mankind has forced God’s hand! He recruits me to do his bidding.”

His tone was far deeper than before, far more convincing. The creature upon his head moved, and I shivered when its two precarious glowing eyes found me with a dull-red gaze. They continued to scan the rest of the crowd before closing, as if praying for their souls.

“Listen to our brother.” The younger man that moments earlier had attacked the preacher now stood by his side, lifting his arms in praise. “I have seen the error of my ways. Be with us. Join us under God’s protection.”

The elder man opened his arms to the hesitant crowd, and I found myself backing away toward Parker. I wanted nothing more than to escape this madness.

As I retreated, I swayed my hands out behind me, searching for my boy. When my hand brushed against his arm, I could tell he was on the move.

I seized Parker and wrapped my arms around him. I held him back from joining the others. To me, it seemed as though he was in a trance, not only dazed by the scuffle, but also by the creatures attached to these men.

Being skeptical, I was not one to place my faith so blindly. Instead, I watched as a friend of the elder man—his followers appeared the apparent majority of campers this night—joined him by the water.

This woman bowed before him and allowed him to push her down to her knees. “I’m with you, Abraham,” she said willingly.

Abraham bent and scooped up some of the still ocean water into his palms. The liquid came alive in his hands. I saw the creature writhing and twisting, anxious for a place upon the woman’s crown. With great care, Abraham rested the creature upon her head. Within seconds, it had attached itself there with an audible sucking noise.

She twitched momentarily before standing and then opened her eyes. The creature seemed to sense this and did the same, glowering upon the crowd for the first time from this vantage point. The creature’s eyes closed, as if entering deep thought, and she sidled up beside Abraham.

“I feel his kindness,” she said. “He is upon me, part of me. Do not be afraid, brothers and sisters.”

One by one, the people who had come to this place with the weathered, old man took a knee before him. They allowed Abraham to fetch a sea creature and place it on their heads, as if he were knighting them into God’s kingdom. After each crowning, they took their place at his side and spoke of their conviction.

I lingered, my son in my arms. I was terror stricken and rooted to this place in the sand.

In the background, waves crashed upon the shoreline of the nearby island, sounding faint and distant. The statue leered down at us, and I saw it then as a thing of sacrilege upon this Earth: a glorious golden calf. Beyond the statue, I caught a glimpse of movement, the very creature we’d come to see. Yet I could not stop gawking at the oddities unfolding nearby.

A shiver of cool washed over me as I realized the sun had set. We were now in the darkness of the ancient stone lighthouse, which shrouded the campsite in its eerie shadow.

If it weren’t for the lighthouse’s lantern being out of commission and its entrance locked, I might have sought refuge there. But, I had yet to find the ability to leave.

I looked across the short span of water to the shore from which we arrived. A ferry had brought us to this island, but it wouldn’t return until daybreak. I thought of attempting to swim the distance, my son in tow, but I didn’t dare brave the water for fear one of those horrid creatures might secure itself to my head.

It was futile to continue observing these people and the way they received these monstrosities. Already more than half of the population of the island had been converted. More waited.

I spied our vehicle back on the mainland. My eyes lingered upon it.

When I turned back, the younger man’s wife and child joined them in line. It reminded me of communion, where believers awaited their pastor to offer the wafer of God to their lips.

I tugged Parker back to our campsite, trying to regain some bearing on reality. Struggling to think of a way out, I took turns staring off in the distance at our vehicle and then over to the lonely island, inhabited only by horses and the statue. I longed for either destination, but knew I could reach neither without the necessity of confronting the dark waters from which the creatures arose. Who knew what else might be lurking within those depths?

The equine island was the closer of the two options, but there appeared no means of reaching it without a boat. I let my eyes linger upon the lighthouse, seeing the small balcony atop the structure. I wondered if we might be able to dive across the channel to reach the safety of that island. It wasn’t so wide as it was deep, in order to discourage the horses from crossing.

Maybe we couldn’t avoid the water, but could we get close enough to the shore that we could scramble to the sandy beach unscathed? I was uncertain if we could make it even half the distance.

I paced about our campsite and left Parker staring off at the phenomenon escalating nearby. I thought my son might have been traumatized by what he’d been party to. No doubt, at his age, it would have affected me in a similar manner.

I tried to refocus my thoughts on a means of breaking into the lighthouse. Then it dawned on me, and I dug through our gear for the battered hammer I’d used to anchor the tent to the ground. I tore through my supplies, throwing them aside until I found the essential tool. Hammer in hand, I held it to the sky like some mad warrior on the battlefield.

The worst part was the thought I might end up using it for that specific purpose. It would be no easy undertaking reaching the top of the tower, especially if the others tried to impede our progress.

It was probable they would want us to join them. Would these deranged people expect me to watch as my loving child knelt before their master to have some unknown demon placed upon his head? To stand by as my son was taken hostage, killed, and brought into communion?

I tucked the hammer into my belt and pulled at my son’s arm. The dazed boy came with some hesitancy. We fled to the lighthouse where I studied the lock on the door.

I glanced to the crowd in the distance. Of the few who had resisted, they were now being forced to their knees before Abraham. Their cries of pain and terror went unheard by those already transformed. Abraham smiled, content with his work thus far. He dipped his hands into the water, fetching one of the tentacled creatures.

As they finished converting all but my son and I, they turned their attention to us with horrifying indignation. One by one they found us. The strange creatures upon their heads woke. A field of glowing red eyes blinked off and on, as if they were communicating with each other.

I stood frozen, having to force myself to break free of this mesmerizing vision. Then I brought my hammer down upon the lock. The first two tries proved unsuccessful. I grew impatient, uncertain if we would be able to escape. It was the third try that offered me hope as the lock began to separate.

From the corner of my eye, I saw them approaching, and something else. It startled me enough to draw my attention away from the door. Parker had begun walking toward these people.

“Parker?” I struck the lock, this time without looking. “Parker, get back here!”

They were close, so I needed to break free of the door. I lunged out and snatched Parker’s wrist. He staggered back when I pulled. I led him back to the lock and struck it as hard as I could, finally freeing it from the latch.

With the door open, we entered the darkness of the lighthouse. I hurried to close the door, but a single foot stopped it from closing.

“What are you doing, brother?” an unfamiliar man asked.

An unseen female voice added, “Are you not one of us, brother?”

I brought the hammer down on the toe of my enemy. No cry of agony resulted from the blow. When I looked into this man’s face, I glimpsed the creature on his head and felt my world slipping away.

The man continued his effort to pry his way inside. The beast’s glowing eyes regarded me, and I saw a visible hunger. The tentacles slithered about its host’s face, sustaining a position close to the bone of the man’s skull. A sick sucking sound arose from under its rubbery body, as if it were draining this man of the fluids in and around his brain. The man’s gaunt face stared back at me, his eyes sunken and dark.

I shook loose, turned and found Parker at the base of the stairs. His silhouette was motionless in the sliver of moonlight stealing its way down from above.

I twisted the hammer in my hand, this time bringing the claw down upon the intruder’s foot. After some effort, I was able to force the foot free of the door and shut it hard against the man’s knuckles. Two severed fingers fell to the floor, but again there was no shriek of pain.

In the dark, I worked to maneuver the hammer through the handle and braced the door shut. It wouldn’t hold long, but it would have to do.

As we ascended the stairway, I heard them clawing and banging at the door. I surged up the spiral staircase, dragging Parker behind. It seemed he resisted more and more with each step.

At the top of the lighthouse I spotted the moon, and it offered enough light to see around the room. I examined the old cobwebbed lantern. I glanced to the small balcony that extended out over the channel and then to the equine island across the way. From this vantage point, it seemed even less likely I would be able to reach the island safely by diving; let alone while holding Parker. But then I saw something else, too. A thing so out of place and unusual.

A wooden handle stuck up from the shadows. I approached it, thinking I might have uncovered some weapon to better defend myself. Yet, when I began to pull it free, I discovered its true purpose. The wooden pole was long, stretching far into the base of the lighthouse. It came away easy, but only if I walked it out toward the balcony.

Once there, I identified a rusted metallic foothold at the base of the lighthouse and thought it the place to slide one end of the pole into, in order to vault across.

The lower door burst open, and they clambered up the stairs by the time I freed the pole. I pulled Parker in close and struggled to maneuver the pole into the foothold, missing several times before sticking it.

They reached the top of the stairs and a few pairs of those unusual glowing eyes found me.

Panic seized me, and I moved fast. Holding Parker tight, I lowered my chin against the top of his hat. With one arm, I took the top of the pole and thrust myself outward, off-balance, but at least on a path to reach the island.

We landed with a crash, our bodies flung apart. I hurried to position myself on my elbows, and it surprised me to find Parker already upright, his hat still upon his head.

“You okay?” I asked.

No response. The boy sat staring back at the lighthouse, watching those awful, blinking red eyes.

I helped him to his feet and placed a loving hand upon his head. I took in a deep breath as our eyes met those across the channel together, and then each other. This was when I felt it move.

I yanked away his cap. When I saw its glowing eyes, a scream started somewhere deep inside me, trying to force its way out.

And then I was screaming. I did so without end. Parker’s gaunt, black pools peered back at me with a distinct emptiness.

The moon, so full and bright in the sky, beamed down on the statue of the horse, casting an uncanny shadow upon me. It was there in the shadow of the equine I promised myself I would not harm my child.

As Parker lowered me to my knees, readying to make me one of them, I whispered this promise over and over in my thoughts.

I wanted to make it truth, but I knew it would never be.

The Last Wish of Seymour Moss

by Robert Freese

It was a stormy night. No action. It had been raining so hard all day the city started shutting down early, first schools, then post offices and government buildings. Everyone else followed. It was graveyard dead throughout the city.

Usually the rain didn’t keep his regulars away. Archie, Booth, Mr. Garrity, and poor Ms. Cuberle, who thought she was perpetually twenty-nine and insisted on wearing her eye shadow too thick, like it was still 1981, and could always be counted on to stop by for a drink or two no matter the weather; but it was getting on 7:30, too late for any of them to stop in now.

When a storm blew in with this intensity, Sloan knew if it kept the regulars away, then the storm would bring in dripping wet weirdos and lost souls, people who never came out any other time. He swore one time on a similar night when Jimmy Bevis came in after wrecking his car the really bad storms seemed to pick up these fringe people, swirl them around the city, and send every last one of them into his bar, soaking wet. That was the night when the little kook came in swearing the guy behind the counter at the diner down the block was a Martian with three eyes.

There was no end to the weirdness on a stormy night.

Tonight was no exception.

Sloan had been watching the local news, seeing all the places closing up and the warnings about flooding and the alerts to stay away from certain parts of town. They had all but shut down the city, and just about the time Marty Sloan had himself convinced he ought to shut down early and head home to eat a pot pie and listen to some jazz records, the little bell over the door tinged, announcing a patron. The rain had delivered its first lost soul of the evening.

At first glance, the old man looked like a miserable wet cat. He shuffled in, dripping wet, looking around like he’d never seen the inside of a neighborhood bar before. Maybe he was wondering where all the people were.

“Not too busy tonight, Pop,” Sloan had said in greeting. “All the up front seats are open.”

A crack of thunder boomed outside and the lights flickered. The rain sounded angry, like it had a vendetta against the world it was crashing down upon.

Shuffling to the opposite end of the bar, the old man hoisted his tired bones onto the spinning barstool. It seemed to take him a minute to find his balance.

“And freak night begins,” he said under breath as he wandered down to where the old man was seated.

At closer look, Sloan saw his initial thought of a “lost soul” was an apt description of the old man. He looked like a breathing ghost. There was something sad about the old guy. He laid some napkins on the bar so he could dry his face. Water dripped from the tip of his crooked nose.

“Welcome, my friend, to Marty’s Bar. We might not be the city’s most famous watering hole, but we do offer a warm place to sit and get out of the rain for a while.” A peal of thunder boomed as if on cue.

“What can I get you?”

The old man looked around some more with his hollow eyes, still like he wasn’t sure where he was. Finally he said, “Ale.”

“Ale it is,” and Sloan was off to fetch a mug.

Usually, when a patron simply said, “ale” or “beer” or “whiskey” or whatever, not saying exactly what brand, Sloan always fulfilled their demand with the most expensive craft ale or beer or whiskey he had. If they had anything to say about it when it was time to settle the tab, he would politely remind them he served them what they asked for, and they drank it. No exceptions.

For the old man, he just poured a mug of beer from a popular brewery. It was nothing special but not the absolute bottom of the barrel. His clothes looked new, just soaking wet. Poor guy looked like he was having a really rotten day. Maybe someone died. He’d seen a lot of widowed people on the other side of the bar in his time. There was no point in pouring him a glass of eight dollar craft ale if he might already be having a bad day.

“Here you go.” Sloan set the mug on a napkin. He noticed the old man hadn’t bothered drying off with the napkins he’d left.

“Thank you.” The old man reached for the mug with wet, shaking hands.

Thunder boomed again, and again the lights flickered.

“It’s one heck of a nasty night, huh?”

The old man didn’t appear to pay him any attention.

“Gotcha.” Sloan went back to the other end of the bar where he’d been when the old man first entered. That’s where he stayed. He watched the old man nurse the beer until he imagined the remains were at room temperature. Twice more he tried starting a conversation, but was met with the silent stare.

“Typical rainy night freak,” Sloan said to himself before at last turning back to the TV news. He liked the anchor woman reporting on the storm. Unfortunately, she was warning possible thirsty viewers to stay home and not to venture into the city. “Appreciate that,” he mumbled.

At some point, he looked up and saw the mug was empty. He made his way to the end of the bar.

Gray and wrinkled, the old man stared vacantly at the empty mug.

“Another?”

The old man nodded.

Sloan filled a clean mug from the tap. Before he could make his getaway, the old man finally spoke. His words were like his eyes, hollow and empty.

“I lost my job today.”

Sighing inwardly and offering a sympathetic smile, Sloan said, “Sorry to hear it.” The old man looked like he should have retired a century and a half ago. At least it was nothing more severe than that. Guy probably lived off a fine pension and was let go from some part-time job he worked so he’d feel his life still had some purpose.

“I don’t know what to do.”

“Maybe you just enjoy your golden years.”

Snorting, the old man drank.

Sloan turned but the old man caught him again. “I did that job forever.”

There’s nothing else going on, Sloan thought reluctantly, and turned back around. He strained to hear the little bell over the door announce another patron, but only silence and the raging storm met him. He leaned on the bar and gave the old man his full attention. “What did you do?”

“I granted wishes,” the old man said without hesitation, with the seriousness of a doctor delivering a terminal prognosis.

Sloan decided to play along. “So you were a genie?”

“That is exactly correct, sir.”

Why me? This is what I deserve for trying to be nice to a sad looking old man on a rainy night. Thunder boomed in the night and a crack of lightning lit up the window panes.

“You get laid off at the genie factory, Pop?”

The old man cut him a look, his blank eyes now filled with contempt.

Sloan saw he upset the old man and immediately felt bad for doing so. He quickly tried to keep the old man talking. “What happened?”

“Seymour Moss happened.” He drank. Sloan waited for him to continue.

“The miserable little squirt wasn’t even surprised when I appeared from the pop bottle he’d been rubbing in that antique store.” Again he drank, finishing the beer. He motioned for Sloan to fetch another. When he came back, the bartender was holding two mugs.

“This one’s on me.” He held up his mug but the old man just stared at him. Finally he shrugged his shoulders and drank. The old man followed suit, and the storm outside continued to rage. It would be flooding soon. He needed to get home while he still could, but he couldn’t put the old guy out just yet.

“Have you ever thought about all the forgotten money in the world, sir?” The old man’s words were tinged with anger. “All those dropped coins and jars of forgotten bills buried in backyards and hidden in attics, simply forgotten to time? All the money slipped into coat pockets or a cigarette boxes for later and then forgotten forever; all the money that has been lost or dropped or misplaced, from everywhere? Wealth lost at sea, stolen and sequestered all over the world. Have you ever thought of that, barkeeper?”

“Not really.”

“Well, Seymour Moss had. He had thought about it for some time. That was his wish.”

“So?”

“So?” The old man looked at Sloan with tired eyes. “It’s not about the wish, but learning a lesson.” He could tell the bartender didn’t get it and continued. “The first wish is something insignificant, to prove I’m genuine. They wish for something simple, like a sandwich or a mug of ale, and it’s enough to convince them I’m the real deal.

“The second wish is the deal breaker. It’s always something irresponsible. Even if they think a long time about it, there is always some way to twist it, corrupt it, and make them wish they never made the wish. That’s what the third wish is for. It fixes everything. Lesson learned. With great wealth comes the death of a loved one. With great power comes the death of one’s self, and so on.”

“So?”

The old man sighed heavily, as if the burden of the world was upon his frail shoulders. “So, it’s not about granting wishes, it’s about teaching a lesson. That’s my job.”

Sloan didn’t see where it was the old man’s responsibility to make sure anybody learned anything. Then he thought how strange and sad it was that he was buying into anything the senile old nut was telling him.

“Seymour Moss wished for all that forgotten money without a second thought and then poof; he’s rich beyond his wildest dreams.”

“Good for him. We should all be so lucky.”

The fire of contempt blazed momentarily in the old man’s eyes. He drank it away quickly.

“I tempted him, tried to turn it around, but he was just delighted. He said it was all he needed. He said it would fix all his woes and ensure a nice life for him and his family. He wanted nothing more. He said the first wish took care of all his needs. No one has ever bested me on a wish of wealth.” The old man looked beaten. He finished the beer, and Sloan topped it off.

“It’s on me again,” he said with a little awkward smile. He topped his own mug off while he was at it.

The old man thanked him with a nod.

“So what was his second wish?”

“His second wish was for me to have a good life as a human. Just like that, he doomed me. He cursed me beyond my wildest imagination. Then he gave me a jar of money and bid me farewell. He never even made a third wish. I couldn’t grant it now even if I wanted to.” He looked incredibly defeated and weak.

Sloan wasn’t sure what to say. The only thing he was sure of was some nurse somewhere was going to get in trouble when they didn’t find this old coot in his room at bed check. The old guy was starting to give him the creeps, but he wasn’t so cold hearted to put him out in the storm. He heard the wind whipping up and becoming fiercer and the rain sounded like it was coming in sideways, pelting the windows.

“I’ve been a genie for three thousand years, sir. It’s all I’ve done.” He was talking into his mug. The amber liquid was swirling around the mug in the old man’s shaky grasp.

He looked up, caught Sloan’s eyes, and mumbled, “I’ll die now. I’ve never died before.”

Sloan found himself suddenly choked up. It was a chilling thing to say and the raging storm outside just seemed to make it seem more ominous.

“Well, you know, Pop. They say no one gets out of life alive.” He tried to smile and failed.

Finishing his drink in one long pull, the old man at last hoisted himself up on rubbery legs. He dropped a handful of coins on the bar and left without another word or glance behind.

Rain and cold wind blew into the bar, and a stack of napkins took flight like a flock of blind pigeons. He’d be surprised if the old man didn’t get blown away halfway down the block.

“Find a warm place and sleep it off, Pop,” Sloan muttered, collecting the empty mugs and dropping them into the bar sink.

When Sloan was again alone, he was wiping down the bar top only to feel a great chill run down his spine when the coins caught his attention. Reaching for them, he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The heft of the coins in his palm was significant. When he looked closer at them, the breath caught in his throat.

Marty Sloan knew nothing about rare coins or coin collecting, but he knew when he was holding the real deal in his hand.

Two coins were brand new shiny silver dollars dated 1860 and the third coin, with its Spanish writing and date of 1785, was a solid gold doubloon.

Forgotten money.

The Old Man

by Jason Morton

The old man rises up from slumber

To visit his lost love’s grave;

The unfortunate will cross his path today,

And all will be led to ruin.

Souls bleed under his scrutiny

As life upon life is sacrificed to bring her home;

Sadly, he ponders this situation

As he awaits the high tide.

Will she rise from the sea by all the blood he has spilt?

Will she recognize him after all these years?

Will she even care that he is sorry?

Will she grant him an ounce of absolution?

He stares at the rolling tide,

Wanting just a minute to compose himself;

The darkness is slowly coming,

And the bodies are lost forever.

He sees her slowly rising;

On his knees he cries out, "I'm sorry."

She laughs as she walks towards him;

The old man now realizes evil is her form.

A seductress, a siren, calling to him to kill,

To raise her from the land of death.

Now he has fallen over, clutching at his chest,

The killer, this siren, goes back to the sea.

Now this is sadly over,

He watched her drown those many years ago;

She received her just vengeance.

The story is told

Jason Morton is a poet who has been working on perfecting his craft for thirty years.  Look for his poetry to be published by Stitched Smile Publications next year, 2018.

High Tide Coming

by Kenneth C. Goldman

Long Beach Island, Late Summer 1975

Leah could watch the undulating Atlantic for hours. In the distance, the white caps danced, rolling slopes that pressed toward the shore and just kept coming. Throughout the summer, the young girl stood hypnotized by the sea’s ever-changing motion as if it were some moody living thing. A child with imagination, she would have sworn sometimes the ocean called to her. But she was much too smart to tell anyone.

Tonight, Leah could not resist the temptation to answer, although the beach lost its friendliness once the sun descended. She removed her sandals and, looking over her shoulder, crept off the screened patio while her parents entertained their dinner guests. She ran towards the surf the moment her bare feet touched sand. Its coolness at first startled her because she had been used to sand baked by the sun, but the unfamiliar sensation did not slow her pace.

Small for her nine years, Leah seemed so much smaller compared to the vast Atlantic. She paused to sniff the salty air and watch the ocean swell. Twinkling beneath the beacon of a full moon, each breaking wave offered a new invitation. At the shoreline, the surf crashed in a crescendo, then hissed softly as it withdrew from the beach. Leah loved the sea’s smells and sounds.

Ordinarily, she would never consider going into the surf without her father by her side, but Leah felt emboldened by the cover of night. The water’s coldness tickled her toes, and she had to suppress giggles, although her parents’ summer cottage sat a long way up the beach, appearing as a shadow from where she stood. It seemed unlikely anyone could see or hear her. To Leah, this was a good thing.

She didn’t want to anger her father by returning to the cottage dripping wet. Slipping out of her shorts and tank top, she tossed clothing behind her as she waded into the ocean’s black ink. She didn’t care that the water was so cold. Nothing in the whole world could beat this feeling. Leah ventured a few more steps until the water lapped at her waist.

Tickled, she laughed full out now. She couldn’t help it. The dark water called to her more loudly than before. With awkward movements that seemed neither wading nor running, she pressed forward with more confidence than she had ever felt, her I-love-summer-vacation smile still in place.

“Oh ...! “

The Atlantic aborted the girl’s utterance, and she suddenly plunged into a liquid hollow. For a few awful moments Leah panic-thrashed wildly. She managed to reclaim the surface, bobbing amid the waves like some discarded water toy. Salt water filled her mouth and stung her eyes. Gagging, she spat out as much as she could. Her toes located a squishy bottom, but just barely, because the surf was nose high now. Leah tried to pull her thoughts together and realized she no longer could determine which way led back to shore, nor could she empty her mouth to call for help. She could only cough sea water before the rumbling surf pelted her again.

Walloped almost into insensibility, she clawed her way to the surface in time to see the biggest wave in the history of the world. It grew higher as she stared, beading in on the girl like some murky creature nourished by the darkness. Leah found enough wind to gasp, then gagged as her lungs sloshed with salt water.

The roaring surf sounded like some enraged animal.

“I’ve got you now, girl ... Oh, yes, little Leah, I’ve got you good.”

The wall of sea water hovered, pausing for a millisecond, before it claimed her. It crashed upon her skull, inverting head with toes and flooding the world, spiraling her down down down to the bubbling darkness below.

“Got you, little girl ... Got you ...”

––––––––

LONG BEACH ISLAND, Summer 2003

The weekly ritual began as it always did.

“Miss Sanders? I have your groceries.”

Inside her beach cottage, the woman stood motionless, rigid against her front door as she tried to control the runaway speedboat inside her chest. She leaned against the entrance as if blocking some unseen force on the other side. Although Walter’s voice was familiar, she could not bring herself to swing the door open for him.

Another few knocks, more insistent.

“Miss Sanders ...?”

It took her best effort for the woman’s breathing to return to normal, or to something close to normal. Without releasing the chain lock, she opened the door partway, passing a five dollar bill to the boy. She could see only the kid’s knuckles as he accepted her gratuity through the aperture, mumbling something she couldn’t hear clearly.

“Thank you, Walter. You can just leave the bags on the patio for me.” The kid added no further response, having grown used to the drill. Leah waited until she felt certain the young man had disappeared down the walkway. Crouching with her back against the door gave her the appearance of a woman much older than she really was.

“I can do this,” she muttered to no one. “Damn it. There’s nothing to it. I can do this.” She released the chain and cracked the door wide enough to see the two bags. They were just out of arm’s reach; she would have to step onto the patio to retrieve them. A gust of wind tousled her hair, and Leah almost slammed the door shut as if she had been touched by some filthy thing. Her heart’s wild race began again, and the woman felt perspiration bead her forehead.

“Shit ... shitshitshit.”

In one motion, she swooped the grocery bags into her arms and returned inside, snapping the lock shut. It would be all right now, she assured herself. She managed a self-satisfied half grin before unpacking her delivery and preparing a fresh pot of coffee. Although it was shaping up to be a lovely summer’s day, this didn’t concern Leah, although a dim memory stirred of a time when she enjoyed the sun’s warmth on her face and the wind in her hair. That time seemed a hundred years ago, because the ocean was always right there waiting.

“Daddy, no. Please, Daddy!”

“Lee, it’s only up to your ankles, honey. You used to love going into the ocean with me. Come on, just a little bit more—”

“No! No! Daddy, I don’t want to! I don’t—!”

Leah snapped on the radio hoping for some easy listening, but she got the weather report. High tide was due around 11:30 a.m. today. During hurricane season, if a storm were kicking up, the tides threatened the cottages along the beach with flooding. But this was still July. Even so, the woman’s hand shook as she sipped her coffee.

She flipped through the pages of House and Garden. The photos inside the magazine were the only evidence of a garden around this house. Leah’s back yard had gone brown under the summer sun and had seen only weeds since her parents had died. She had loved the beauty and color of her mother’s flower garden in this yard, but some things couldn’t be helped.

High tide was coming at 11:30.

The thought stayed with her.

From the kitchen window the Atlantic glittered. The surf seemed unusually strong, and the young surfers and swimmers were already out. Leah had abandoned any idea of joining the bathers. Agoraphobia, one therapist had labeled her fears; panic disorder, another said. Like the weeds that had eventually strangled the last of her mother’s azaleas, fear worked icy fingers around her throat whenever she ventured beyond the cottage door.

High tide. 11:30.

Her heart raced, and she was sweating. This was a silly and irrational reaction, and the clear thinking part of her knew this. The ocean was out there, and she was safe, sheltered inside a familiar home. Her parents’ beach cottage provided the last remaining portal to the woman’s girlhood pleasures, memories of cherry popsicles shared with her father and of castles they built together in the sand. More than one therapist had assured Leah living close to the water was the only way to confront her anxiety while reviving some of her more positive memories. But with each new sunrise, pleasant remembrances seemed to slip further into a dark antechamber inside her.

She tossed the magazine onto the end table near her assortment of benzodiazepines. Already, the day’s first migraine had kicked in, and she was in no mood for another panic attack. Rifling through the pill bottles she selected two capsules, some extra strength Tylenol followed by a Xanax chaser. She swallowed both with what remained of her coffee. Lifting her feet upon the small divan and closing her eyes, Leah waited for her meds to do their thing. Sleep came quickly.

So did the dream.

... the surf, like the roar of some enraged animal. So cold in the moonlight.

“Got you now, little girl. Got you good.”

“No ... No ...”

She is going under for a third time. Like the older kids on the beach have told her, you get only three chances before you go down for good. Three strikes and you’re out because the third time, that’s the charm. One for the Father, one for the son, and one for the holy ghost. Hail Mary, full of grace.

“Yes, little Leah. Oh, yes.”

Something cold touches the pad of her foot, something slimy and fish-like. Icy fingers lock around her ankle. They yank at her and will not let go. She is too weak to resist.

Her chest has filled like some water balloon. She can’t breathe, and soon her lungs will explode. She hasn’t any strength to fight her way back to the surface, let alone to shore. The beach seems a million miles away. The churning ocean is everywhere around her, swallowing the girl with a gaping maw that also is everywhere.

But there is something much worse.

Cold fingers are grabbing her ankle and then her thigh. Something is pulling her down, some finned creature twisting her into a forever hole that has no bottom. She has no struggle left in her. She knows she is drowning, but the sensation isn’t as she expects. It would feel almost soothing if it weren’t for those fingers that refuse to let her go.

And then something changes. The girl can’t quite make it out. Something is happening from deep within the abyss into which she sinks, a series of echoes reverberating beneath the waves. The vibrating ripples travel along her spine. The echoes become voices. Angry voices.

“Give her back!”

“Mine! Damn you, mine!”

The ocean churns, whipped into frenzied bubbles. Leah has the sensation of being lifted, scooped by something unseen and powerful, as if she is one of the small clumps of sand she has shoveled into her pail on the beach. It occurs too quickly for her to understand exactly what is happening.

The girl finds herself returned to the shore, spitting up sea water. Her hair is sopping and she has no strength to do anything more than lie there while the ocean is nibbling at her toes.

Something touches her foot ...

Leah awoke. Something wet and fish-like brushed her ankle. Then it was gone.

“What the—?”

She had been in a thick sleep for maybe an hour, enough time for the anti-depressant to play booga-booga with her head. The sound of sloshing water returned her to reality, but the accompanying image did not immediately register. A rush of sea water lapped along the hard wood floor and had reached the couch where she lay. The entire room had flooded and water was still pouring in, tiny breakers pounding against the walls. The Atlantic Ocean had come through her door to say howdy.

Leah couldn’t recall any tidal warnings having been mentioned on the radio, nor flood warnings in any recent forecasts. But that was irrelevant since the water was there, and it was just going to get deeper the longer she waited. If she acted quickly, acted before a full throttled terror kicked in ...

She removed her sandals, preparing to slog towards the bay window to have a closer look outside but stopped herself cold before her foot touched the floor.

No. Can’t do that.

“It’s summa-time, summa-time, sum sum summa-time—”

The radio had remained on even while it floated past her. Leah remembered the large Sony she kept in the corner was battery operated. But the electrical outlet to the TV was already submerged, and she turned to see if the lamps’ outlets were also under water. They were. It would be a bad idea to chance sloshing around if the power were on, but she had no way of telling. Leah wasn’t about to try any of the switches to discover what remained working. For now, she would have to stay put, a crouching prisoner confined to her own couch.

“It’s time to head straight for them hills,

“It’s time to laugh and have some thrills ...”

From her window, she saw the surfers were still out there. She craned her neck, noticing the beach had not been significantly overtaken by the tide. But water was still rushing inside the family room, and it had to be coming from somewhere. Once her father had mentioned how the ocean could seep into beach cottages from below the homes’ structure, at least into those houses that had not been built upon stilt pilings. The Atlantic’s ability to do that had given Leah nightmares. But how could the sea water be pouring in so damned fast? Already it looked to be a few inches deep.

The water burped.

There were ripples near the divan where the water bubbled as if something very large lurked beneath the surface. Leah’s imagination conjured some awful gilled creature, but she had taken medication and realized maybe she didn’t really see anything at all. More likely, it could have been some hapless jelly fish carried along for the ride. She waited but saw nothing more, clinging to the divan as if to a life raft. Remembering the relaxation exercises learned during one long ago therapy session, Leah took a moment for some controlled breathing. When a semblance of rational thinking returned, she reached for the phone on the end table, trying to keep her hand steady as she dialed 911.

“Hello? Hello?”

There was no dial tone. There wasn’t anything. After a minute, she returned the receiver to its cradle. Her watch read 11:15, and Leah didn’t feel like waiting until the rising tide forced her decision. Only one alternative remained, although the thought terrified her. Leah’s mouth had gone dry, and she felt uncertain she was up for this. She shouted anyway.

“Help! Can anyone help me?” She received no response. Trying to keep the panic from choking her, she cranked it up a few decibels. “I’m trapped in here! Can someone help me? Please?”

Another burp, louder than the first, and a dozen expanding concentric circles worked their way outwards around the small cottage’s family room. Something was in the water. An image forced itself into Leah’s brain. A little girl, unable to breathe, was going downdowndown into a bottomless pit of water.

... because something was pulling her!

Leah’s breaths came heavy, and for a moment she thought she tasted sea water. She shouted again, kept shouting even while her throat burned. There were many bathers just outside. Someone would hear her. Seen through the bay window, children splashed about with parents. Kids were playing water polo, and a teenaged boy held the waist of a young girl. But no one came.

In small waves the water inside the cottage kept rushing in and it was rising, permeating the cushions of the divan. Leah felt dampness soaking through her jeans.

“Help! Help me!” Her shouts were more urgent now, and when they became screams she didn’t try to keep the accumulating panic from her voice. Still no one came.

Water submerged the cushion. Pulling her knees together like a frightened child, Leah perched in fetal position upon the couch’s back support to avoid the murky liquid touching her. Leah’s heart felt like it might escape her chest. Shaking with cold and terror, she gasped for breaths that wouldn’t come. She imagined the worst.

Salt water filling my mouth, stinging my eyes. Gagging, spitting. If I try to escape now, if I have to go into that water ...

Oh, fuck. Please, no panic attack. Not now. Please not now.

The water was rising, but more than that was happening. Trying to focus, Leah searched for whatever levelheaded thinking remained inside her. The water heaved and fell in advancing swells, breakers reduced to a miniature surf before her eyes.

Not now ... not now ...

“No, Daddy! I don’t want to!”

Leah chewed her lip. No one was coming to rescue her, and she couldn’t save herself if she remained here frozen with fear. Once panic overtook her she knew it would never let her go. Closing her eyes, she forced herself to lean forward.

“One ... two ...”

... third time’s the charm.

She released her knees and stepped into the water.

The bottom fell out of the world. Downdowndown Leah fell into the blackness below.

“Got you now, little girl. You’re mine, and I got you!”

Covered with slime, the creature had been waiting like a patient lover. Claiming the prize, it held fast to the woman, disappearing with its catch into the dark water.

***

“LEE, IT’S ONLY UP TO your ankles, honey. You used to love going into the ocean with me. Come on, just a little bit more—”

“No! No! Daddy, I don’t want to! I don’t—!”

Leah stopped herself, suddenly aware of the child-like voice coming from her own mouth. She looked around. The familiar summer cottage sat just over her shoulder. She was on the beach with her father towering over her, the young and handsome man of her girlhood.

“Dad? You’re—”

... alive?

Her father smiled as only he could. Leah always loved the way he smiled. That was one memory she had never lost. She managed a smile too.

“Dad? You’re—You’re sure it’ll be okay? You promise?”

He kissed her forehead. The familiar sensation almost made her cry.

“Have I ever lied to you, honey?” He squeezed her hand.

“No, Dad. You never did.” Her tiny hand squeezed his in return. “Let’s go for a swim.”

Together the two walked into the pounding surf.

***

NEAR THE DIVAN, LEAH Sanders lay face down on the floor in no more than two inches of water.

“Dead?” Officer Dickerson asked.

“Drowned, looks like,” his senior partner answered, letting go of the woman’s wrist. “Go figure. She could’ve waltzed out of here any time just getting her ankles wet. Stupid way to die.”

The younger cop turned towards the kitchen.

“Okay, so she pours some water and makes herself a pot of coffee, forgetting to turn off the faucet. Lounges here on her couch listening to music, drifts off to la-la land while the kitchen sink spills over and her floor floods.” He picked up the opened pill bottle. “Needed a little help nodding off, too.”

“Gilbert, you have a clear talent for grasping the obvious.” He lifted the woman’s dripping arm and checked her watch. It wasn’t waterproof. “Well we know she hit the water at 11:30 and stayed in it for three hours.”

“Could’ve been the drugs did it, Mike. Maybe she just rolled onto the floor and kept right on sleeping?”

Officer Michael Dubrowski shook his head. The woman would keep right on sleeping, all right. Knowing what had happened didn’t mean he had the slightest idea why it happened. But that was why God created coroners.

“It’s summa-time, summa-time, sum sum summa-time—”

Grimacing, the older cop pointed to the woman’s Sony still on the floor. “Christ, Gil, turn that thing off, will you? I’ve always hated that song.”

Hydrophobia

by Shemeeka Howard

based on the screenplay by Chris Courtney Martin

––––––––

“WELL, WE’RE GOING TO die out here within two days.”

Val gave a pointed glance towards the sky with a quirked eyebrow, the piercing there shifting over her eyes. Slowly, the bright blue clouds were eradicated by darker ones. She disliked that. Her legs shifted restlessly as she leaned back onto the seat, adjusting her seatbelt. The storm seemed to be chasing them through North Carolina and onward. Between the two, she looked to be the only one concerned. Barry tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, singing along to whatever song sporadically erupted from his worn speakers. He was entirely at ease, that famed southern disposition easily overtaking any care he had in the world.

“Aw, babe. We’re going to die tomorrow. But at least we’ll die together.”

She shifted to glare at her husband, brown eyes trained on his handsome face, inspecting the grin spreading across his thin lips. The tips of his pale ears flushing a shade of red. He was beautiful. Her love for him was one of two reasons she’d even be swayed into this idea. Even with her reservations, she’d gone along with the trip. She could remember the night months ago when he suggested it to her. He’d been down to South Carolina to personally tell his mother they were getting married, and it hadn’t gone well.

Suggesting they honeymoon on property she partially owned? Val wasn’t crazy about it. They even fought. But Barry assured her it was the smart idea. And besides that? Some part of her enjoyed the idea of his mother seething at her presence in the summer cabin. Driving south through rednecks, desolate towns, and his own mother’s hatred in order to honeymoon on his mother’s patch of land in Olaf, South Carolina. All because she loved him, in spite of his mother’s rage.

Moll Sommers absolutely hated Val. When they met, Moll greeted the young black woman with a derisive snort of condescension, a shake of her head, and then walked right past her. Val’s piercings, tattoos, and BMI didn’t fit the stereotype Moll expected her son to marry. It didn’t take long for Val to realize what their relationship would be like. She didn’t have very high hopes for anything resembling affection to blossom between herself and her new mother-in-law. It made Barry’s feat even more incredible.

“So you’re just going to laugh at my pain? Is that what we doing now?”

“Know what? You’re right, baby. I’m sorry,” he said. The raucous laughter leaving his mouth told otherwise as he leaned over to try to nuzzle his nose against her neck. Val swatted him before leaning further away. “I’m kidding. C’mon. We’re almost there, Val. We’ll be in bed before the storm even makes landfall.”

“It’s a hurricane, not a storm. We didn’t pass a single cell tower, phone booth, or police station, and now we’re driving into the forest. But it’s totally fine.”

“Did we or did we not want to be alone?”

“Yes.”

“Our wish is my command,” Barry said cheerily, not bothering to take his eyes from the road as he navigated his way through the dense woods.

The dusty Ford Bronco rounded the bend and brought a homely cabin into view. The windows were high and proud but slightly tinged with a touch of age. There were sheets covering them, making it impossible to see inside, but there was a sense of quiet. Surrounding the place was a small patch of land. Half of the grass stood green and tall, billowing in the building winds. The rest of it was brown, dead, and overrun with weeds. The only recent addition seemed to be the front door. It stood a stark white in contrast with the dingy gray that shrouded the place. It was nice. Just nice. Not ‘honeymoon in Hawaii’ nice, but nice.

The door to the Bronco opened, creaking as the Sommers’ stepped onto the badly paved driveway. Val lifted her hand over her eyes, peering up at the house with an assessing gaze. The gold band on her ring finger glinted brightly, a shimmering reminder of just why she’d been talked into traipsing down into the middle of Bumfuck, USA. Barry bounded across the grass, playful and lighter than air as he beamed at his wife. His arms spread wide, keys dangling between his fingertips, as he presented her with their slice of heaven on earth.

“Eh? What I tell ya? Nice, ain’t it?”

“You weren’t entirely wrong.”

“Gotta get used to that, baby. Here, take the key. Go look around. I’ll get the bags.”

Val shut the door to the weathered truck, hearing it clang shut like the demoralizing slam of prison bars. He was so happy, so optimistic about their honeymoon, Val couldn’t bring herself to tell him what she really thought. The place looked and smelled like the inside of an old woman’s purse. It looked quaint, downright adorable, but was the last place she wanted to be. But her husband was right. It was quiet, it was cheap, and it was theirs.

She took tentative steps forward, giving Barry an indulgent smile. He kissed her cheek quickly, handing over the keys before tapping his hand against her ass. If she were in better spirits, Val would have returned the favor. Instead, she began to trudge up the rest of the hill. “Lord, give me strength,” she whispered to herself as she slid the key into the lock, twisting it, and shoving the door open. Dust flew and she barely managed to avoid inhaling most of it. It covered her head wrap, jacket, and face before she’d even made it inside completely.

Lifting her hand to dust the dirt away, Val’s gaze was brought up to the ceiling, a pleasant surprise in it arched and rose beautifully over the small sitting room. There was a fireplace, a neatly assembled stack of chopped wood. The ax more than likely used leaned primly against the exposed brick. The furniture was dated. It had the look of sturdiness. Books lined the wall in a series of small bookcases, a television sat on a stand in the far corner. Past the television was a hall that led directly back towards the kitchen. From what Val could see, the bedroom veered off to the right while the bathroom veered to the left. The cabin was small but would suit their needs.

She heard the stomping of Barry’s feet before she saw him. Heard his typical soothing voice, cursing louder than she’d ever heard before. Where her mood eased, lightened despite the darkening sky, Val saw his mood soured. Before she could make it out of the house, he was standing in the doorway with a grimace, holding his left hand cradled against his abdomen.

“Stupid fuckin’ rodent!”

“What the hell happened to you?”

“Fuckin’ raccoon came out of nowhere,” Barry grumbled, stomping past Val and towards the bathroom. “Wait until I find that goddamn thing.” She quickly followed, trying to peer over his shoulder to see the wound.

“Barry, stop. Let me look at it. Come on.”

“No, I got —”

“Give me your fucking hand.”

Val’s tone made Barry peer down at her for a long moment before offering his hand. Two puncture wounds were on his wrist, his blood ran freely. There were other indentations of teeth marks, but none breaking the skin besides the other two. The skin around the bites was puffy and swollen, blistering a bright and vicious shade of red. It looked bad, and she could only imagine how it felt. Val hissed, feeling a phantom pain in her own wrist, as she directed his entire hand underneath the water to wash the blood away.

Val made quick work of cleaning the wound. She dressed it with one of her headwraps, twisting the bright fabric around her husband’s hand. They both leaned wordlessly against the bathroom sink. Barry’s eyes seemed to assess the wound as if he’d gone and left his wife behind in that South Carolina cabin. He was worlds away. When she was done, Barry pressed a kiss to her lips, mumbling his thanks. His feet shuffled towards the bedroom and Val followed, anxious at her husband’s new attitude.

“Barry?”

“I’m alright, babe.”

“You don’t look it.”

“What? You mean me with this wrap on my hand ain’t doing it for you?” he joked.

“I don’t know. I do love a man with a fashion sense.”

“Prove it.”

**

“BABE? YOU AWAKE?” VAL was met with a groan, the sound of blankets ruffling as she elbowed the door to the bedroom open, entering with a tray of food. Tomato soup, toast, and a glass of water. There was a bowl of water next to the soup, meant for cooling him down. Barry spent two days tossing and turning, his stomach pained him, and his forehead heated. Feverish. He couldn’t keep anything down no matter what Val made. A storm raged outside but it was ignored. She had to get Barry well again. Placing the tray on the nightstand, Val greeted Barry with a kiss to his cheek. His face lit up as much as it could but it wasn’t by much. His typically pale pallor was a light shade of gray.

“I brought Bojangles.”

Barry grimaced, intending to give her a smile. “Liar,” he whispered, “you got me slop.”

“We can pretend. Call it roleplay.”

“We were supposed to be improving on that this week.” A moment of silence between them, Barry’s attempt at a smile faded into a frown. He looked up at his wife with glossy eyes. “I am so sorry. You don’t know how sorry I am, Val.”

“Shhh. We’re going to be fine. We’ll take another honeymoon.,” Val replied softly, dipping a towel into the bowl of cool water. Every time she lowered the towel into the bowl, he winced. Seeing this, Val held the towel up to ease his mind. “It’s just water, baby. You need to drink something.”

Barry’s unease remained, marring his handsome features with distress, but he didn’t move away as she brought the towel near his head. He flinched as she spread the fabric over the skin there but eventually relaxed, allowing the coolness to soothe him. Adjusting his pillow, Val settled him comfortably against the metal frame of the bed. She offered him the bowl of soup, he attempted to eat. After three spoonfuls, Barry refused more. His head lolled over onto his pillow, and Val frowned. He’d eaten even less than yesterday. Anxiety gnawed in her gut as she nodded and put the bowl aside.

“You think you can handle some?”

Barry’s eyes went wide as his gaze shifted from the glass to his wife. Val could see the answer on his face, but if he didn’t drink, dehydration would attack his already frail body.

“Please?”

“I—Yeah. Yeah okay.”

The glass passed over Barry’s hand, held in Val’s stronger grasp as she lifted his head up gently. His lips met the rim, sipping once then twice. Val smiled in relief, resting Barry back against the bed frame. Barry tried to do the same, but out came a soft cough, quickly followed by another. And then he gagged, his hand lifting to his mouth. Barry loosed hacking coughs, his fingers weakly pointing to his mouth. Val sat in horror, watching as her husband turned over in bed, gripping the sheets. From his mouth emerged a wad of hair.

She watched it fall onto the pillow, his feeble fingers reaching up to tug until the rest fell onto the blankets with a plop. Barry blinked down at it in shock while Val’s expression was one of horror. The mixture resembled the contents of a shower drain. Val’s fingers flew to cover her own mouth, the bile rising in her throat. She fled the room, tripping over her own feet, and fell into the bathroom across the hall. The meager contents of her stomach emptied out into the toilet bowl.

Barry’s gaze fell on the glass in confusion. Dark strands of hair began to swirl in the glass, appearing from nowhere. The strands darkened the water and a fresh wave of nausea hit the man. Angrily, his hand darted out to out to send the glass crashing down onto the floor.

From the puddle, a hand white with death gripped his injured wrist. Barry’s mouth gaped, a scream of alarm dying in his throat. The ability to speak escaped him as he tried to free himself from the tight grasp. It didn’t look real, but the pain in his arm felt real. The skin of the hand was rotting, falling from the bone, and he could feel the stench of its rot invading his nostrils. The hand tightened, and Barry felt disjointed. Every limb in his body lost its strength, and he could feel himself starting to slip into darkness. He gave a strangled shout for his wife before his eyes rolled, his body twisting and thrashing against the bed.

Barry fell into a fit of seizures so forceful it sent the frame of the bed scratching across the floor and clashing against the thin walls. This time, the hand touching his body was warm and smelled of jasmine. Val was there. Barry let go, allowing himself to slip further despite the frantic note in his wife’s voice.

**

RED SPARKS FLEW FROM a match, sending a warm rush of heat across Val’s thumb. They uncurled, stretching as if the heat would give them strength. Her eyes shut pleasantly for a moment before she gave an exhausted exhale. It’d been five full days and nights of rain with no signs of stopping. The pattering sounded like thunder on the roof. Every drop that fell was like a nail in the palm of her hand, pinning her to fear. Just a painful reminder they were trapped and helpless. The electricity left them on day two but her phone, despite its lack of a usable signal, managed to hang on until day four.

She lit the burner of the small gas stove, tired eyes watching the vivid blue circle within the small ring. There was plenty left to cook. Cans of soup, potatoes, rapidly melting butter and ice cream. But very little of this would Barry eat. They could survive on the bare minimum for another week or so but Val didn’t know how much longer they would remain. She prayed it wouldn’t be much longer than that. Moll knew they were there, surely she’d send help for her only son? Their only hope of salvation would have to come from outside.

The water had easily inched up the hill towards the cabin, creeping forward like a wave of death. A continuously rising reminder they were in the midst of something dangerous. They wouldn’t be able to swim their way out. Not with Barry’s condition. The next day hadn’t been better. That was when the stomach pain began. It got so bad he hadn’t been able to walk. Val was left to pace the floors, watching the rain and water take turns destroying the land.

It’d become quickly clear driving their way out wasn’t an option either. Barry’s formerly dusty truck was now a clear vision of red, washed by the water that overtook it. Half of it was underwater, only the top remained in sight, mocking the desperation the cabin’s occupants began to feel as the days passed.

With a clang, Val put a cast-iron skillet over the flame over the stove. Tugging at the tabbed top of a can of soup, Val moved to pour it into the skillet, but a thump in the wall made her freeze. She held the can in her hand tightly, heart pounding while her gaze whipped over her shoulder and towards the wall. Another thump echoed throughout the kitchen, making Val flinch at the insistent sound as she sidestepped to distance herself from the wall. The more bewildered she was, the louder it came. The less she knew, the more anxious she was. Her full frame trembled as she tried to hold on to some fraying strand of calm.

A trilling noise followed, and it was almost as if a change pressed itself into her body. Something snapped. She threw the can of soup at the wall, anger etched across her face. Her hands reached for the cast iron skillet, and she threw all her weight behind it, barreling towards the wall as she yelled loudly, “Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!”

The thumping continued, resembling a battle of wills. Her swings matched the intensity of the sounds emanating from between the walls of the decaying cabin. She screamed once more, a cry of rage and frustration that masked the sound of Barry’s feeble voice calling out to her. It drowned out the noise echoing throughout the house. Nothing remained but her rage and frustration. It felt good to release it, and so she continued swinging, relinquishing the little slice of sanity she’d been determined to hold on to. Her foot joined the skillet, landing as high up on the wall as she could reach.

“Fuck! Off!”

Soon, it was only her making the noise. Tears of frustration filled her as she tossed the skillet across the room, angry at the whole goddamn world. It crashed against the back door and she crashed forward, fingertips clinging to the edge of the sink for leverage. Her free hand clutched her frame, trying to anchor herself once more. Trying to find whatever she and her husband needed to survive. Sanity, bravery, resourcefulness. It all seemed so far away in that moment.

Silence took over the room as she kneeled on the floor, trying to rebuild the fractured control she’d managed to create for the past few days. Realizations made the tears come harder, faster than they ever had in her life. Barry was dying. She was afraid. She’d die next if they didn’t get out. The water was rising, the rain wasn’t stopping. Help wasn’t coming. They were going to die there together. Oh, if only Moll could see her now.

The old bitch would probably die laughing.

**

THE CABIN WAS STILL, quiet. Only the rain made a sound. The same. The day began to shift into night as Val lay there with her husband, her body curling around his to provide warmth. His eyes hadn’t opened the entire day, but Val knew he was still alive. She could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, his breathing still present. Even if it was shallow, it was there. Her own eyes were red-rimmed, full of tears that hadn’t had the chance to be shed. Val sniffled lowly, pressing gentle kisses to Barry’s check. Her fingers clung to his side as she sighed softly.

“Don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me here alone,” Her eyes blinked towards the ceiling, unashamed of the tears now that her hour of need had come. Barry said nothing, her plea fell on deaf ears. Seemingly, so had her prayers. “You can’t do this. You can’t. Don’t ta—”

THUD. THUD. THUD.

Val froze, clutching her husband tightly to her chest. Help? Finally? It happened again. Three loud thuds banging against the door. Val scrambled out of bed, praying it was a rescue attempt. Trepidation sent a shudder down her spine as she leaned forward to look out of the roughly carved peephole. There was no one there. Nothing but the sight of water and moonlight.

Val fell away from the door, terrified once more. Had she imagined it? Was it real? The thudding happened once more. Each impact making her tremble with fear. She began to look about the room for a weapon, seeing the ax, and slowly grasping it in her hands. Val let it drag on her side, walking back to the door as she reached for the doorknob, steadying herself for whatever was behind the door. There was a moment of hesitation, and then the door was flung open, Val anxiously stepping out onto the small porch with the ax over her shoulder.

There was nothing. Not a soul. The moon shone brightly down on her, rain drenching her hair, water swamping her ankles as she took stock of its level. It’d reached the lower part of the house. Another inch or two and it would start to slowly spill inside the cabin. Dropping the ax to her side, Val turned to head back inside but felt a cold, tight grasp upon her ankle. Gravity worked against her as she was yanked back into the water.

Her ax fell in the water, and her head crashed down against the floor. Her vision became blurred, head ringing within confusion as she inhaled to scream but found she’d need that air to survive. Down into the murky water she went, her fingers clasping at air as she tried to pull herself out. Twisting her body, Val turned in desperation, attempting to free herself, and caught sight of unadulterated terror. A horrified scream left her lips, muffled by the water.

The face of her mother-in-law swam before her, twisted in death but still burning with hatred. Val could see it in her cold eyes. Moll reached out to her, and Val tried to swim away, desperate for air. She was caught by her hair in that instant, dragged back into the depths. Air bubbles left her, floating up towards the surface, but Val couldn’t follow. She was besieged by images, rapid flashes filtering into her mind as she struggled against the hold over her.

“I’m marrying her, Moll. And if ya had any damn sense, you’d accept that.”

“I fed ya, clothed ya, raised ya an’ you bring me home a fat, black—”

“You’re fuckin’ disgusting,” Barry hissed angrily in his mother’s direction, stalking back to his pickup. “This was a waste of time.”

Moll followed closely behind, yelling, “Keep ya lil’ half-breeds away from aroun’ here! I’ll blow ‘em and their mama apart.”

Barry froze, anger lighting his eyes as he advanced on his mother. “Don’t you ever threaten her again.”

Moll backed away, kicking up dirt as she went. “You don’t scare me none, boy. I brought you here, and I’ll take you right back out!”

“Enough with the bullshit!” Barry cried, advancing further, “I’m just asking you to respect my wife. That’s it.”

“You don’t respect me but—”

“No, I don’t. But I hoped you’d gimme a reason to now.”

“I gave you life, ain’t that enough?”

“Not if you wanna deprive me of it too!” Barry stated, eyes wide and silently pleading for understanding from his mother. “I love her. I really do, Moll. I’m gonna marry her.”

Moll was silent, her face the picture of disgust. Then she hacked up a glob of saliva, spitting it at her son’s feet. “Then damn you both to hell.”

“I’m sure you’ll beat us there,” he answered.

Moll stepped forward and slapped Barry across the face, hard. Blood rushing to the area, reddening his cheek. Barry stood silent, stoic for a moment as he and his mother blinked at one another. Moll gave him another hard slap against the same cheek, they were both stuck in this moment like records on repeat. Moll slapped him again for the third time; Barry turned, leaving his mother, but he felt her close behind.

Moll’s hand lifted to slap against Barry’s back. Hard. The next landed on his head as she circled him. Barry continued walking, ignoring the sting of his mother’s blows. He lifted his hands to protect himself, warding off the attack, and was met with another blow to the head. Her hand rose for yet another strike, and Barry finally retaliated, reaching out to yank her by the hair. He shoved her back forcefully, watching her trip over her own flood boots and crash into the ground.

He heard the impact, saw his mother shudder, and then fade out. Shock settled into his body as he watched the blood run from her head. Moving closer, Barry leaned down and saw the rock that had ended the life of Moll Sommers. All that remained was the sound of the rushing pond and the wilderness. Red stained the dirt and ran into the river as his mother’s life essence left her body. Barry’s face morphed from surprise to peace, a natural calm took over as he rolled his mother over and lifted her from the ground to shove her body in the trunk of his Bronco.

What she saw sent her body into shock. The lack of oxygen was killing her, water was filling her lungs. She saw Moll’s face snarling. The black hair that hung limply from her head in life was now an animated part of her afterlife, snaking around her face like a sickening team of tentacles. The frayed strands seemed to extend, part of the attempt to pull Val under, and she began to realize her death was coming. She fought desperately, trying to wrench herself free, the energy of the attempt draining her body. It was over. Death would take her.

Moll reached out to grip her neck, and Val was bombarded with more images. Her husband cleaning blood out of his truck. A shovel digging a crude hole, and then Moll. Unceremoniously dumped into the shallow hole ... underneath the cabin. Val felt despair in the pit of her stomach. She wanted this to be over.

On her last glance at Moll, she saw bright lights illuminating the ghoul from behind. It looked like a halo, and if she hadn’t known Moll she would have assumed it was a sign the woman was an angel. A hand reached into the water, easily pushing through Moll’s face and diluting the frightening image. It was salvation. And Val swam up to take it. She caught them by their wrist, feeling their fingers grip the collar of her shirt tightly. Within a matter of seconds, she was lifted out of the water and into safety. She fell to the floor of the boat, hacking and coughing up water.

“Alright, honey. You’re going to be just fine.”

The voice is soothing, almost motherly, and Val craves the comfort it provides. A hand pressed against her back, and the woman helped her bring up the water she ingested. There was peace. A peace she hadn’t felt in days and she weakly pointed at the cabin, wanting Barry to experience that too. “M-My husband. He’s sick,” she said, coughing up more water, “He can’t walk out. He—”

The woman nodded, pulling a blanket out of a lockbox. “Don’t worry. We’ll get him out. You’re safe. It’s okay.”

**

THE RESCUERS BROUGHT Barry out, entirely encased in blankets. They settled him against her chest. Val brushed her long, cold fingertips against Barry’s cheek. Dawn began to break, and the stillness of the night fractured against the light. She couldn’t help but look at him. At his hands. To remember what he’d done with them in her name. Barry’s eyes fluttered open, and he gave her a gentle curving of his lips. He smiled. Full of sweetness and love. So much kindness. It was the same as always. For him, very little had changed. When Val smiled back, hers felt strange. Shifted. What came for them in the water hadn’t washed away the love. She still desperately loved him. But now there was knowing. A knowing she wouldn’t be able to erase.

Shemeeka Howard is a former History and English major. In sixth grade, she won a small trophy for “Best Writing” and it’s fueled her lifelong dream of collecting more tiny trophies. She’s a short story author and aspiring novelist. If only the dangflabbit words would get out of her head and onto the paper. She works as a childcare assistant in the best city of Tennessee and spends her days reworking rough drafts. Her hobbies include wishing Paul Newman wasn’t dead, studying flowers, and adoptive dogs. Hopefully one day she’ll have more cool accolades to fill her bio out with. She is not currently a member of HWA (Horror Writers Association). Reach her here: https://twitter.com/ShaylaWrites

It Came from the Water

By Alex S. Johnson

It came from the water

With a raggedy grin

What sharp teeth you have

To start from the feet

And eat with frantic or leisurely pace

As it suits you

While they sound the lake

Looking for signs of life

And then—frankly, anything—

A cap, a suitcase, a waterlogged ticket

A message in a bottle

A parade of suspects marched back and forth

Before your family’s dazzled eyes

As they squeezed their tear-soaked handkerchiefs—

Could it be,

This eerie recording

With a rubbery sonar bleep

Contains the key

To your transformation—

Thought out and realized

As steps in a journey

Of backward evolution?

At some point you

Became obsessed with liquid, fluidity

Fins sprang from your side

Your wicked aquatic part

Grown to its fullest measure

And ever since

As a legend, a cautionary story

You’ve lived on to scare the children

Who late at night speak of the

Glowing bones

And your ancient homesickness

Streaks like an arrow in time

Back towards Oceania:

Brothers and sister, family and friends

Spawned in the waves

Leaping and diving

Far from monsters—enemies, or prey—

But like a vampire of the deep

Your change came freighted with menace

And made you dark

Now every other campfire tale begins

It came from the water ...

Alex S. Johnson is the editor-in-chief and publisher of Nocturnicorn Books, the author of a number of books including the official New Line Cinema novelization of Jason X, Death Moon, and a music journalist whose work has appeared in such publications as Metal Hammer, Metal Maniacs and Zero Tolerance. Johnson currently resides in Central California.

Undercurrent

by David Court

I must have been staring at the sign for nearly an hour before I realised I was trying to pluck up the courage to get back into the car, start it up, and drive across that threshold. I felt, as long as I stood on this side of it, as though I hadn’t broken the promise I’d made to myself all those years ago. Making the long eight-hour drive to get this far was one thing—crossing the border, however, was that final step I’d tried to avoid thinking about.

If anything, I’d tried to convince myself I’d never have gotten this far—that I’d have given up and turned around and gone home hours before. That way, I never had to confront the inevitability that I’d be here, now, stuck behind a sign.

The younger me—the more reckless me—even in the unlikely event he’d even managed to come so far—would have muttered, “Fuck this for a game of soldiers,” sat back in his car, turned it around, and driven home to the security of his wife and family.

But I couldn’t do that.

Like it or not, I had a duty to be here. “One of the signs of adulthood,” my mother had said, “is the ability and confidence to confront the things that would see the younger version of you run and hide. And one of the signs of maturity is the ability to recognise just that.”

The sign was a lopsided, wind battered, battle-scarred, rusted thing that simply read, “Welcome to Hyrdemouth.” Somebody had crudely scrawled “You’re” at the very top in red paint—a single word addendum that neatly said everything anybody needed to know about this bleak and windswept place.

As well as commending the artist on the accuracy and articulate nature of their one-word addition, one also couldn’t help but silently congratulate them on their correct use of the apostrophe as well. The kids I taught—despite my best efforts—would have struggled to even recognise an apostrophe, let alone use one correctly.

The journey here had been uneventful and effortless. Despite the fact I’d only ever driven out of Hyrdemouth and never back towards it, I’d spent most of the journey on autopilot—it felt as though I were being guided here, the traffic in my favour and the wind at my back.

Like a stream rolling into the sea.

And on that wind, another thing I hadn’t missed about Hyrdemouth—the smell. Even this far from the ocean and the town itself, it was an acrid and unpleasant thing. It was a vile combination of dead fish and salt—Hyrdemouth was a fishing town, and it forever reeked of its trade. The smell clung to the inside of your nostrils and the back of your throat, and that smell alone carried more memories than the sight of the place ever could.

As I said, I’d only ever left Hyrdemouth before, and this was the first time in more than twenty years I’d been here. Despite the protestations of friends and family, I’d always said, as soon as I could get away from Hyrdemouth, I would. Once Dad had left this mortal coil I used the reasonable sum of money he’d left behind to buy a car. It was a cheap, little, gaudily-coloured, rasping and coughing thing that barely made it to the nearest city, but early one morning two decades ago saw me hurtling at top speed away from Hyrdemouth, screaming to the heavens I’d never return. This was the best thing my father ever did for me—my memories of him were vague, but the few that remained were far from pleasant. He was a man both short on temper and bounteous in anger, the worst kind of drunk. As a child, my bruises from him faded quickly—the ones on my mother were better hidden and outstayed their welcome like uninvited guests.

And yet here I was. Definitely older and probably wiser, but here nonetheless. The sky was beginning to slowly darken as late afternoon drifted into early evening. I stared down the road and the hill towards the town itself.

The silhouettes of a few dotted fishing boats could be seen out on the dark and still ocean, lazily making their way back towards the town; and streetlights and windows alike began to light up one by one as the daylight dimmed, and the air grew noticeably cooler.

I pulled my coat tightly closed around me as an unexpected gust of cold wind blew through me. It came as a timely reminder to rouse me from my contemplative mood, and I walked back towards the car.

#

I DROVE SLOWLY THROUGH the town, past old familiar haunts. The town hadn’t changed in the slightest in the years I’d been gone—it was almost like travelling through a living snapshot of my past. Buildings that had been falling apart two decades ago were still there now in the same state of disrepair, and as I travelled, I recalled the thing I’d remembered about Hyrdemouth only in dreams.

Everything in this place—every person, every brick, and every single blade of grass—was faded. Like those old boxes of jigsaws sitting in charity shops that have been left out in a sunny window for too long, everything in Hyrdemouth had a bleached tinge to it. Being here was like seeing the world through one of those crappy filters you get in Instagram—reality here was in sepia tones. Darkness fell quickly, as it always did here. Daylight seemed reluctant to linger, and I couldn’t blame it.

In my melancholy, I’ll admit to not paying complete attention and, when something darted out onto the road in front of me, I reacted slowly and slammed down on the brakes, bringing the car to a halt only a short distance in front of it. It was a cat, an old and mangy thing covered in oily black fur. It was holding the carcass of a fish in its mouth and froze in the headlights to look up at me. We stared at each other for a few seconds, and I was about to sound the horn to scare it off when it turned away from me and, with a complete lack of urgency, slowly dragged the fish remains into the darkness of massed foliage on the roadside, a trail of offal in its wake.

I toyed with the idea of driving to the only bar in town but couldn’t face speaking to people quite yet. Remembering

I’d packed enough drink in the boot to allow me to drown the majority of my sorrows in private this evening, I turned the car towards the ocean and drove towards the family home.

As I turned off the main road and down the meandering wooded tracks that led to my coastal childhood home, my apprehension only increased. Halfway there, I realised I wasn’t even paying attention to my driving—even with so much time having passed I knew this path like the back of my hand. Every turn, every straight, every ditch—it was as though I’d never left. How many times had I hurtled down this track on my bicycle? If memory serves, I’d learned to ride it in the first place on these twisting, wood-lined paths. Confidently, I flicked the headlights off and navigated by memory alone. This is the moment where—if they’d come here with me—my wife would have been screaming with panic and my fearless son would have been laughing his socks off. The gnarled trees lining the roadside whipped past, the occasional branch scraping noisily along the car. With perfect and practiced timing the track opened up, and I slowly applied the brakes, bringing the car to a neat stop against the wall of the house.

I sat there for the longest time while looking at it. It was a simple enough looking, one storey building on the edge of the beach, but also the building I was born in and the place I’d grown up in. But always a house, never a home. I stepped outside the car and walked up the small flight of three wooden steps towards the door, the security light flicking on as I approached. As the area around me was illuminated, I heard something—presumably a stray cat or a fox—hurriedly darting back into the security of the woods, disturbed foliage and twigs cracking in its wake.

As they faded, the sounds of its movements were replaced by the gentle lapping of the sea against the shoreline. I looked out across the darkness of the ocean and watched the ebb and flow of the tide and realised—despite my loathing of this place—how much I’d missed the sea. For all the bad memories I had of this place, the ocean rarely featured in any of them.

My hand reached into my jeans pocket and pulled out the front door key, a copper thing dotted with specks of white paint. Despite my promises to never return here, I could never quite bring myself to throw it away. Perhaps I’d always suspected I’d return one day, but not for the reason I’m here now. I turned the key in the lock, the door creaked open, and my hand instinctively reached for a light switch I hadn’t touched in half a lifetime.

Mum was gone. The house lies empty.

To her credit, mum had never asked me to come back here. We’d stayed in touch with the occasional letter or phone call—I’d said I’d buy her a mobile phone or a computer so we could email or chat face to face, but she’d always outright refused. That said, my own mobile signal had died when the town was only a mile away, so it was probably pretty damn unlikely Hyrdemouth had even heard of the Internet.

When she got very ill a year or so back I promised I’d come back and see her, but the right time simply never came. I either fooled myself she’d still outlive us all or she’d simply get better or I’d bring the wife and kids to see her maybe next summer. There’s always the next summer.

Do you know what I learned the hard way? Phone calls that come in the middle of the night are never good. When the nurse—the same nurse who delivered you—from the building that passes for a hospital in Hyrdemouth started the conversation with, “It’s about your mother.” I knew very well what was coming.

I’d left it too late. Infinitely too late. She’d gone on to be with Dad, and I’d never see her again.

I hadn’t seen her for twenty years because she’d always been there, and in a foolish and naïve way, I thought she always would be. The fact I could never see her again filled me with a great despair, and I was depressed for the longest time. I couldn’t concentrate on work—barking angrily and raising my fist at a child in my class saw my bosses force me to go on leave, and my marriage suffered.

For the most part, her passing meant something else.

It meant I had to return to Hyrdemouth, and that thought alone terrified me.

***

I REALISED I’D SMOKED the last of my cigarettes as I cracked open the last can of beer from the cool box. I was sitting on the raised porch that faced the beach and had inadvertently surrounded myself with a shrine of empty cans and cigarette butts.

I’d spent most of the evening in silence, simply drinking and watching the sea. If you close your eyes and listen properly, it sounds like breathing—the inhalation and exhalation of a mighty ocean-dwelling leviathan. Are tides the breaths or the heartbeat of the sea?

And then, whispered on the sea and the wind, I heard it. My name carried on an incoming wave.

I opened my eyes and cursed my over-active imagination. No sound now, save the waters sluggishly sliding in and dragging themselves back out across the beach.

And then my name again, more pronounced and more clearly this time. I stood up and looked down towards the beach, but there was nobody there.

I stood there attentively for a while, but the sound was not heard again. I stumbled back drunkenly into the house and balanced in the doorway for one last glance back at the empty beach before I staggered inside and fell onto my old bed in my old bedroom, which I noticed—just before falling into a drunken sleep—is much like the rest of this town and is perfectly preserved, as though it were waiting for me to return.

My dreams were far from relaxing—they’re of pleading eyes, my wife and son begging me. They didn’t want me to return; even from what little I’d told my wife about my childhood here, she knew to return would not be good for my mental wellbeing. Her eyes stared at me, a mixture of anguish, confusion, and desperation. She knew something had been done that cannot be undone; from that moment, everything had changed. I couldn’t convince her otherwise.

I woke up, and for the briefest of moments, I was ten years old again. A dull afternoon sun tried its hardest to shine through grey clouds and through the slats of the blinds in the bedroom, casting solid lines of yellow neon onto the scuffed laminated floor. I sat up with a start, my heart racing, experiencing that horrible sense of confusion that often comes with sleeping in a strange bed. It was a few seconds before realisation dawned, and I breathed out a sigh of relief and looked at my hazy, sunlit room.

It was exactly as I’d left it, as though I’d ended up in some weird art installation celebrating my childhood. A faded poster of my childhood heroes Starsky and Hutch took up most of one wall, and I smiled to myself thinking how good it would look on the wall of my study. I got to my feet and instantly regretted it, as I was nearly felled by wave of hangover-induced nausea. I steadied myself against the wall—decorated in Empire Strikes Back wallpaper that would probably fetch a small fortune on eBay now—and wandered towards the kitchen to get a glass of water.

#

A FEW HOURS AND SEVERAL cups of strong black coffee and I was feeling human enough to face the outside world. The sun was doing its damned best against the odds to try and make its presence known through overbearing grey clouds as I drove towards the centre of town and parked in a vacant spot on the main street.

I remembered as a child watching a documentary about Westerns and marvelling at one scene in which it transpired that most of the buildings they used were nothing but painted fronts filmed from exactly the right angle that made them look like solid actual structures. Hyrdemouth felt like that—like as soon as my car had been spotted on the borders, an army of people had assembled the street in which I now walked and actors and lookalikes had been hired to populate it. There was a small queue gathered inside the local haberdashery—how many people in this day and age even know what a haberdashery is?

I wandered into a small shop where I’d spent many an hour in my youth, a familiar bell announcing my arrival. The sign outside had always proclaimed it was a hardware shop, but for all intents and purposes, it was that kind of place you find in small towns that does everything. It’s the local sweet shop, the post office, the dry cleaners, and much, much more all under a single roof.

The counter was unmanned as I wandered up and down the aisles looking at the products, many of which I hadn’t seen in an absolute age. Brands of varnish from manufacturers that must be long gone, chewing liquorice in a small glass bowl that was so far past its sell by date it resembled nothing more than knotted bark. I was holding up a packet of original Bazooka Joe bubble gum to the light when I heard a voice from behind me.

“Sam? Sam Dwyer?”

I turned around. The fact we used to call the shopkeeper Old Man Watson more than twenty years ago should be indication enough of the man’s age, but here he was—as large as life behind the counter, smiling at me.

I couldn’t hide my surprise as I stepped towards him to shake his hand. Even back then, we’d joked he was Old Father Time’s father, but the man I stared at looked barely different from the man I’d left in this town twenty years ago. A little more wrinkled, a smidgeon leatherier—but hearty and healthy. This was the Old Man Watson who’d sold the embarrassed sixteen-year-old me his first condom, the same Old Man Watson who’d sold me my first bottle of beer five years after that.

How do you politely mention to somebody you thought they’d have been long dead by now? True answer is-you don’t. You politely shake their hand and you talk about anything else.

“Sorry to hear about your mother, son,” he said, as he ducked down beneath the counter and returned with two ice-cold glass bottles of a brand of lemonade I hadn’t seen since the 1970s.

In a well-practiced manoeuvre, he leant back in his chair and opened each of them on a large metal bottle opener—some unsightly thing promoting a brewery that had long since disappeared—that was bolted to the wall behind him. Each opened with a satisfying carbonated hiss. He took a deep swig from one, and handed me the other.

I reached into my pocket for some coins, but he shook his head.

“It’s on the house, Sam. To be fair, I kind of owe you, anyhow. The morning of the day your mother passed on, despite being sick an’ all, she dragged herself in here to settle her bills. She gave me an envelope of money, and it wasn’t till I heard the news that I checked inside it. She’d given me at least double what was owed. It’s been sitting here waiting for you to return ever since.”

He opened the till, and the archaic ring the bell made conjured up such evocative memories I didn’t even realise his arm was outstretched towards me, clutching a small brown envelope.

“Your mothers’ debt is settled, Sam. I guess the excess should go to you.”

The earnest expression on his face was as clear as the lemonade we drank-he wouldn’t allow me to refuse it. I took it from him and put it in my inside pocket and he smiled a toothy grin.

I finished the last of the lemonade and handed him the empty bottle.

“In the good old days, I’d have given you some coins for returning the bottle, Sam, but times—”

He stopped abruptly as the doorbell sounded, signalling somebody new walking into the store. I turned to look at the newcomers, a husband and wife who’d wandered in from the street and were checking the anachronistic contents of the shelves with gleeful and eager delight. They couldn’t have looked any more like tourists if they tried, garbed in unseasonable clothing with the husband clutching a battered and ancient folded A-Z map.

The wife whispered something to the husband, giggling as she did so. He furtively wandered towards the counter as Old Man Watson stared intently at the paper that suddenly occupied his complete attention.

The husband stood there awkwardly for a few moments, his eyes wandering from Watson to me and then back to Watson. The atmosphere was suddenly too uncomfortable to bear, and I longed for anything to break the silence.

Old Man Watson—his mood now much darker than it had been mere minutes before—slowly looked up from the paper. His expression was one of utter contempt. As I watched him, the memories of this place came flooding back—there was a very good reason why strangers rarely came to Hyrdemouth, and the ones who did never moved here.

“Can I help you?” he asked, his voice soft, the words slowly escaping him as though saying each one was a herculean effort.

“Do you sell postcards? I can’t seem to ... see ... any.”

The husband hesitated. He’d clearly felt the shift in atmosphere. His expression was suddenly one of a man who would rather be anywhere other than here now.

“Yeah, we do. But we’re closed.”

“But the door was open, and the sign says ...”

“You think I don’t know what my own sign says? Do you reckon you’re dealin’ with some yokel who can’t read his own sign? We’re closed. I reckon you and the lady should just be on your way.”

There was tension in the air for a few seconds and something had to give. I’d seen this particular scene unfold a dozen times, and knew exactly how it would pan out. Without another word, the man turned to leave. His wife looked ready to protest, but something in the expression of both Old Man Watson and her husband caused her to hesitate. Her husband placed his hand on her shoulder, as though trying to exhibit some level of control and authority, and the two of them left without a word.

We both watched them as they stopped outside the window. The woman’s face was bright red with anger, but the husband looked as though he just wanted to leave this place as soon as he could. Their argumentative voices faded into the distance.

The mood of Watson changed in an instant, as though somebody had flicked a switch. He turned back to me, half smiling.

“As I was saying, Sam, times do change.”

We shook hands again before I left. As I stood in the doorway about to leave, I heard his voice sound out loud and clear across the store.

“Remember, Sam, it’s a good thing to settle your debts. But I strongly suspect that’s why you’ve come back.”

The door closed behind me and a bell rang.

#

LATE AFTERNOON COASTED into early evening as I toured the labyrinthine streets of Hyrdemouth, and it was as though I’d never been away. I was virtually dragged off the street by Old Miss Baird when she saw me walking past her bakery, and after more lemonade and sympathy and despite my protestations, I emerged blinking into the sunlight with a brown paper bag brimming with breads and pastries. In all honesty, I thought I bore little physical resemblance to the waif of a teen who’d escaped Hyrdemouth all that time ago, but almost everybody recognised me immediately and circled in for a chat or simply to pass on their sincerest of condolences.

There was an unusual quality to all the residents of Hyrdemouth. I’d heard it told as a child, but when you’re that age everybody is simply either old or young; you have no real concept of the complexities of aging. The residents always joked how it was the salt air kept them looking and feeling young—like how you’d preserve fish with salt. Walking up and down those streets and seeing people who, by any rhyme or reason, should be dead or infirm by now was nothing short of remarkable. You could probably tell by the nickname Old Miss Baird, in particular, was old twenty years ago, but she’d aged spectacularly well. Oh, she certainly looked older—a few more wrinkles and crow’s feet, and she’d become even more hunched from the arthritis she frequently mentioned but never complained about—but she didn’t look twenty years older. She looked five, maybe six years older than she’d looked since I’d last been here.

Oh, I heard about those who’d passed on since I’d left—a reassurance, if anything, that normality was still as I’d expected, and living in Hyrdemouth wasn’t any guarantee of immortality. Still, my mother alone was testament to that. There just weren’t that many.

I popped into the local bar for a quick drink and recognised the barman as being somebody from my old school of my own age—not a friend, but certainly an acquaintance—and he looked nigh on ten years my junior. No grey hairs on him and a youthful quality I hadn’t recognised in myself for an absolute age. We chatted about nothing for the briefest of times it took me to finish the bottle.

The moon was high and casting an iridescent silver reflection on the calm waters of the ocean by the time I arrived back at the house. It seemed much larger than usual and was so brilliant, the house was lit as though it were bathed in late afternoon light. Something cracked under my feet as I reached the top wooden step before the door and saw a huge pile of hundreds of assorted shells—whelk, periwinkle, conch, and cockle shells in an assortment of sizes and colours—had been piled up in front of the door. Strands of varying lengths of seaweed lie draped over them like dulled bunting.

I smiled to myself as I brushed them aside and off the wooden balcony, and as they clatter onto the grass, something stirs at the edge of my memory—some familiarity I can’t quite put my finger on. I marvel at the ingenuity of the Hyrdemouth youth—anything to pass the time in a seaside resort that feels permanently out of season. Some kids had certainly gone to an awful lot of trouble with this prank. I half expect to hear them giggling from the darkness, but there was nothing but the faint sound of the wind teasing the trees.

I sat inside in relative darkness listening to some of my mother’s favourite records on a gramophone player that was nearly as old as she was—everything in here is outlined with a bright silver border from the sentinel moon hovering in the windows. I was struggling to stay awake but decided not to fight it as I drifted off to sleep to the distinctive, sinuous, and supple tones of Billie Holiday singing “These Foolish Things.”

The pleading eyes of my wife and son haunt me again as I shift uneasily in sleep, and then something untoward at the edge of my consciousness roused me. There’s a scratching noise, followed by Billie Holiday singing a few words from the chorus of “What a Little Moonlight Can Do” and then that wonderful voice is replaced by that awful scratching again. I spent a few moments sitting there in the bewilderment that comes with being awoken with a start before I realised the record had become stuck.

I groaned as I lifted myself up from the chair, my tired bones protesting from the action. I made to move to the record player but I’m suddenly aware of another noise—the tip-tap clattering of rock against rock, as though somebody were slowly shaking a bag full of pebbles outside the door of the house.

I lifted the needle off the record, and in the silence that now filled the house, the noise from outside sounded again; but this time accompanied by gentle thuds against the door.

I began to walk towards the front door and noticed a pool of water was trickling through the slim gap between the bottom of the door and the frame, forming a pool of brine that glowed bright white in a moonbeam. The memories I’d struggled to remember, that are evoked by the strong odour of salt that floods my senses, all come flooding back as I turn the handle and open the door.

Bathed in moonlight, the awkward humanoid shape that stands in the doorway is both dreadful and familiar. It stands a few inches shorter than me, an animated mass of seashells bound together by a lattice of seaweed strands. Seawater pours from it with every movement it makes as it steps slowly towards me. Its head—an amorphous hollow mass atop broad shoulders—is only partly formed, and I could do nothing but watch in horror as moist shells slithered up the bulk of its body to complete the crude construction, covering up the seaweed maze of a nervous system that lined the interior of this shambling thing.

With a haste that belies the clumsy animated frame, two arms with narrow, conch-shell fingers reached out and wrapped around me. The thing turned and carried me out of the house as I struggled and kicked in vain. My glancing blows knocked shells from the thing’s surface that were quickly replaced, and I realised in horror that the thing was regenerating far quicker than I could ever hope to harm it.

I should know the futility of trying to resist. My father was a much larger man than I am now, and he fared no better. I remembered trying to turn away but my mother had insisted I watch as he was marched, shrieking and crying, into the ocean, an audience of townsfolk bathed in moonlight on the beach.

He screamed at the top of his lungs for a forgiveness that wouldn’t be granted before they were filled with the ocean. Everyone watched the sea for a few minutes before the crowds departed and life went on as normal.

The townsfolk were there for me too. The Bainham sisters were scattering a trail of petals in vibrant reds and yellows in front of it until they were standing waist deep in the sea. Old Miss Baird was there too, tightly clutching a small Pekinese dog to her chest, and unless I was very much mistaken, it’s the same dog she had twenty years ago.

I screamed a plaintive, “Why?!” at the top my voice and instantly regretted it as I realised I’ll be given an answer. Old Man Watson stepped away from the massed crowd and stood in front of the hulking golem and me. With a raised hand from him the creature stopped, and he leant in closer to whisper something, just as he did to my father twenty years ago.

My blood ran cold. He knows. They all know.

His piece said, he stepped back and turned to face the crowd. With huge strides, the creature carried me towards the sea where the tides were now lapping at its heels, and I could do nothing but cry.

I’d cry for myself, but I haven’t earned the right. I cried for my dead son, the life fading from his pleading eyes as my hands grasped round his neck and held him under the foamy bathwater. I cried for his mother who suffered the same fate when she found us both. Their souls draining as the bathwater swirled away, all flowing into the all-knowing ocean.

Like a stream rolling into the sea.

The small mercy is that I’ll be with mother—she who had walked into the ocean when she knew even her long time on land was exhausted, she who’d been granted a miraculous gift from this place that I had squandered. This was my punishment, and this was my reward.

The sea water filled me, and I was lost.

David Court is a short story author and novelist, whose works have appeared in numerous venues including Tales to Terrify and Strangely Funny, Whilst primarily a horror writer, he also writes science fiction, poetry and satire.

As well as being a member of the Horror Writer's Association (HWA) and a author for Stitched Smile Publications, David works as a Software Developer and lives in Coventry with his wife, three cats and an ever-growing beard. David's wife once asked him if he'd write about how great she was. David replied that he would, because he specialized in short fiction. Despite that, they are still married.

Connect with him at:

https://www.facebook.com/DavidJCourt/

https://twitter.com/FoldsFive

Splash

by C.S. Anderson and Rita Ohara

I love going to work with my Daddy; he doesn’t let me as often as I would like, but on the rare days he does, he always says, “Lydia, darlin, how would you like to help me out?” He always stares at me gravely, like he doesn’t already know the answer. Of course, I always leap at the opportunity, and he always treats me like any other of The Chosen, even though I am only eight years old. It makes me feel grown up and responsible and a part of the great work we do. It doesn’t happen all that often, a little more often now that my older brother Jimmy has been retired. We had a huge party for him on his last day of work. It was so neat to see everyone show up and congratulate him and see him off. Jimmy even put on his nice navy blue suit for the occasion.

Momma wasn’t happy at all about his retirement, but then again, she was never happy about much these days. I hear whispers amongst the other Chosen she has lost the faith and is too vain and ill-tempered for Daddy. She was always brushing her hair with that fancy pearl hair brush and refusing to go to the holy meetings. They used to say she flaunted her possessions in front of them. All she does now is drink coffee and listen to Bible sermons on the radio. She used to push me on the old tire swing in the backyard of the main house, but now she is too busy with her programs. It’s the same every day now. Drinking coffee, listening to the radio, brushing her hair, over and over again. I was afraid of what everyone would think of Daddy because of her, and confided in him about it. He said, “Now don’t worry yourself about all of that, your Mom has a purpose in our village, and one day you’ll see how important she is.”

We all work so hard all year long for this day, All Hallows Eve. I am proud to do my share of the work, even though my daddy is the head of our faith. He protects us and guides us, we even sing songs about him. We must obey him, because he’s our leader, but I listen to him, because he knows what’s best. We all do what he asks, without questioning him. Except for Momma, sometimes.

Lately, I have heard her complaining to Daddy about my having what she calls “A bigger role” in what we do. She says I am too young. I wasn’t spying, bless me no, I just happened to overhear them talking. I was surprised to hear anger in her voice, my father is not someone people raise their voices to. When her voice goes silent, I know he has used that special stare of his that people either adore or flinch away from. His choice.

So now I am helping him; I push the loaded wheelbarrow to the brink of the cliff that leads down to the deep, cold water below. My small frame strains to keep the wheelbarrow from tipping over as we go. Daddy sees me struggling and with a grin, he helps me tip the contents over the edge. I giggle as the body parts tumble their way down, arms and legs wrapped in navy blue clothing, flapping as they go over the edge. The sound they make is so silly.

Then Daddy looks at me and says, “You have done well today, I wish everyone were as devoted as you.”

We must feed the ancient thing beneath the water all year round, but tonight is special, tonight is the one night of the year the dead fail to keep the thing appeased. Live food is on the menu tonight.

So, now we are in the small rowboat we use once a year. She slumps in the boat, while Daddy rows out to the holy spot. Her hair is mussed up from when he hit her with the gaff. It’s her fault though, when you are chosen for such an important part of the ceremony, you aren’t supposed to be disrespectful and argue. They say it’s because she’s vain and ill tempered. Even so, I don’t want her to look all messy for the important event. As Daddy’s strong arms rowed us here, I used her pearl handled brush to bring a sheen to her dark hair.

Sacrifices should always look their best.

The oars splash in the water as we make our way to the center of the lake. Daddy smiles at me in the darkness and begins tossing a few random body parts from a shiny plastic bag, into the water.

Splash.

“Grab the legs, sweetie, I will grab the heavier end,” he says as he ruffles my hair fondly with his calloused hand.

Daddy shouts some words in the tongue of The Chosen I haven’t been taught yet, but my day will come.

Splash.

“How about some ice cream?” he says. I love going to work with my Daddy.

As he rows back to shore, the water boils all around us as the ancient thing beneath rises to the bait.

C.S Anderson is the co-founder of Alucard Press and the author of The Black Irish Chronicles, The Dark Molly Series and the Zombie Extinction Event Novels.

Find out more about him and Alucard Press at:

www.facebook.com/C.SAndersonNovels

What Came Ashore

by Ash Hartwell

Ask me now if I believe in curses, and I’ll tell you this tale. When my brother died, I didn’t believe in anything. One week later, I believed in everything.

The year was 1820, and the great Victorian age of discovery wouldn’t start for another seventeen years. I was eight and Foxwater was a busy fishing village nestled at the foot of the chalk cliffs, between the small fishing port of Deal and the larger port of Dover. The village had experienced two tragedies within a week. First, little William Fisher died in strange circumstances while setting the nets. The sea was calm, and William was alone on deck. The other men heard his scream, but when they hurried up on deck, he was gone. They searched until darkness fell, but failed to find any trace of him.

That incident alone troubled the locals. Everyone knew William was an experienced fisherman and a strong swimmer. People started to speculate about monster fish or a giant octopus dragging him down to the bottom of the sea, and even the roughest of fishermen started taking precautions; although, crazy old Arthur’s account of seeing a giant eagle circling the bay was met with some scepticism in the tavern where he spent far too much of his time. However, the events of a few days later put the fear of God into those same people, and talk began of a curse on Foxwater.

Three days after William disappeared, my brother, James, returned from the clifftop where he tended a small herd of sheep. That year, he was on the cusp of manhood, and he spoke excitedly of seeing a beautiful woman walking near the cliff’s edge. He was sure she wasn’t from Foxwater, saying he would have remembered her if he’d seen her before. He said she walked close to where he was sitting, eating his bread and cheese, and even gave him a smile before heading out towards the old monastery on the promontory overlooking the cove. He’d waited for her to return, wanting to find out who she was, but she didn’t pass back the other way. We thought this strange, as there was no other way off the headland, except over the cliff. And that will see your body smashed on the rocks below and washed up on the shore a few days later.

His friends in the tavern teased him all evening about his mystery woman, even our father said he must’ve fallen asleep in the heat and was imagining things. That night, James told me if he saw her again he’d talk to her and maybe, if she’d allow, walk with her to the ruins of the monastery.

The next day, James didn’t return from the clifftop. My father searched for him until it got dark, but without success. Believing my brother had filled his head with notions of love for the mystery woman, my father thought he’d wandered off in search of her and would return, sheepish, but with a good story to tell the next day.

James didn’t return the second evening. On the third day, his broken body washed up in the cove and talk of a curse spread. Foxwater was a small village, cut off from the rest of the world by the cliffs towering behind it. People occasionally came to do business but, because of its remote location, travellers between the closest two towns wouldn’t pass through. Because of this, village folk had a superstitious, old-world view when it came to events like this.

I didn’t believe in curses, not because I wasn’t superstitious, but because I didn’t know what a curse was. I didn’t understand what it meant to be cursed. I just knew my brother was dead, and I knew what it meant to be sad.

My grandmother, whether trying to cheer me up or because she thought I should know, explained what a curse was. She told me stories of villages which had suffered a curse and the gruesome events that occurred there. I thought at the time she’d made them up and they were just stories told to scare us children into behaving.

We buried my brother two days later within the cemetery walls of Foxwater church, and I have to believe his remains are still at peace there. The whole village attended a party in his honour at the tavern that evening. We didn’t know it then, but it would be the last time the village gathered to celebrate.

That night, a fog rolled up the English Channel and settled on the village. Although it wasn’t unusual for fog to drift over the water, obscuring the sandbanks and becoming a hindrance to the schooners plying their trade up and down the coast, it usually blew over as quickly as it appeared. But this time, the fog didn’t blow over. If anything, by morning it grew denser. The winds, which would normally blow the early morning mists back out to sea, were strangely calm.

The fog remained all day. A still, cold blanket that kept people indoors and prevented the fishing boats setting sail. A few hearty fishermen spent the morning repairing their nets on the beach, but otherwise, the village appeared deserted. By early afternoon, even they’d given up hope of landing a catch and returned home or headed to the tavern, in search of company and the solace offered by the bottom of a tankard.

One of these fishermen, returning home after losing a day in the tavern, spotted the fire first. It was late and the fog conspired with night to produce a darkness that prevented you seeing your own hand in front of your face. But the fire was clearly visible. It burned brightly up on the headland, illuminating the night sky, and casting an eerie orange halo around the ruined monastery. Strange figures appeared to dance in the air above the flickering flames, their shadowy forms climbed and swooped, span and twisted, but they never stopped or rested.

Awoken by the commotion, I watched the fire from our window while a few men visited my father. They were concerned the fire would draw ships too close to the cliffs, dashing them on the rocks. Fisherman would often follow the firelight home when they became stranded by fog, and these men thought a ship stranded in the fog may make for the first light it sees. My father agreed, but it was decided any attempt to douse the flames would have to wait until dawn, as no one felt confident being on the cliffs at night. Not with the fog making it so easy to lose your bearings and plummet to the rocks below, especially after James’ death, although no one was brave enough to mention this aloud within earshot of my father.

As dawn broke, two things became obvious. First, the fog still blanketed the cove. It just hung in the still air, turning everything it touched wet and cold. Looking out of the window, I couldn’t see the house less than twenty feet away on the other side of the lane. Second, dousing the fire on the headland would come too late for the schooner, whose wreckage had begun to wash up on the beach.

The menfolk, roused by the village warning bell, assembled on the seawall outside the tavern. The high tide had left clothing, driftwood, and part of a mainsail on the shingle, and as the men made their way down towards the water, they spotted more of the wreck’s debris floating in the inlet’s gentle waves.

I was always an inquisitive child, and one who never took direction well, so I crept out and followed my father to the tavern, where I remained, listening to the men’s voices as they scoured the beach. While shipwrecks were not uncommon on the sandbanks farther out to sea or on the rocks closer to Dover, it was unusual for the flotsam and jetsam to wash up in our cove. So this held promise of an exciting adventure to a boy of my age.

It was my father’s voice I heard suggesting they send a boat out towards the mouth of the cove in search of either the wreck or possible survivors. Looking back, as I have countless times over the years, I know it was the right course of action.

The men readied a boat, collecting blankets from the tavern to put around any survivors they pulled from the water, or to cover the bodies of the dead. They also lit six or seven lanterns. These would keep the boat visible from shore and aid their search of the waters closer to the cliffs, out by the headland. Once ready, the men gathered around the boat to decide who should go. Several men volunteered, all experienced seafarers, and the assembled crowd began pushing the boat down the beach.

I ran to help, eager to play my part in what I believed would be a daring rescue. The boat slid into the water, and the crewmen jumped in and began to use the oars to push them clear of the beach. As we watched from the shore. my father placed his hand on my shoulder. He gave me a disapproving look, although I could tell he was hiding his pride at my willingness to put my own grief aside to help mariners in distress.

The fishing boat disappeared into the fog until only the lanterns were visible as a dull glow in the grey mist. My father and I stood side by side in silence watching its outline fade, an unspoken acceptance that, despite my tender years, I was stepping in to my brother’s shoes. I was becoming, at least in my eyes, a man.

Eventually, the fog swallowed even the light from the lanterns. A voice, faint and muffled, hailed us. They’d found the remains of a schooner dashed on the rocks at the entrance to the cove. We waited. The sound of distant voices, echoing to and fro off the surrounding cliffs, reached us as the men on the rescue boat called to the crew of the invisible vessel.

From where we were on the beach, it was impossible to tell if their shouts were answered. The calm sea would allow them to get close to the stranded schooner with little risk to themselves. They sailed these waters every day and knew how to navigate the currents which swirled around the bottom of the cliffs. Yet still, I saw the tension in the faces of the men waiting with us on the beach. The crowd swelled with the arrival of some of the village’s women who brought more blankets, warm soup, and a few bottles of rum which the men passed around, swigging it straight from the bottle. My father made sure I got some of the soup, but none of the rum.

The distant voices fell silent. A few of the men shouted out across the water but received only silence by way of reply. We waited a while longer, all the time trying to hail the men on the fishing smack. The worry etched on people’s faces told me something was wrong.

The tide began to come back in, bearing yet more driftwood. Then, floating in the water just visible through the fog, appeared what looked like a body. Two men waded into the water with a boat hook to recover it, pulling it ashore where we all crowded around.

The body belonged to one of the fishermen who’d gone to the stranded vessel’s aid. He was dead, his body torn open from neck to navel. The women turned away with shocked gasps; one of them fainted. I heard someone retch, the contents of their stomach spewing from their gullet. I only realised it was me when it splattered on my boots. I wiped my face, embarrassed.

As I looked up, I saw the fishing smack’s darkened bow emerging from the silver-grey fog. It contained many figures, all huddled together to protect against the damp, cold, oppressive fog. I shouted to my father excitedly. Others taking up my call as the boat neared the shore. In that instant I believed, although someone died, many would be saved.

Three or four men, including my father, rushed into the freezing water to help land the boat. They waded out and grabbed its gunwale ready to guide it shoreward, their only aim to bring the survivors safely ashore. Next to my father stood a young lad, not much older than my brother. The figure hunkered down in the boat closest to him simply leaned over the side and, with one hand, lifted him clear of the water, hauling him over the gunwale. Then, before anyone could react, he slammed the villager’s head down on the boat’s unforgiving deck. The lad’s skull cracked like a walnut.

The men in the water, including my father, froze. It was like time stopped as everyone stared, confused by the sheer horror what they were witnessing. The figure in the boat, who’d so easily plucked the young man from the water, looked grotesque, his features rotting and decayed, the flesh hanging from his body like the skin hangs from a butchered calf. Ignoring those around him, he thrust his fingers into the lad’s cracked skull, forcing the fissure open, peeling fragments away like the shell of a boiled egg.

Then everything happened at once. The men in the water started shouting as more of the rotting creatures appeared from within the fishing smack, attacking the defenceless men in the water. They didn’t stand a chance. My father tried to wade ashore, but he got no more than a few feet when one of those creatures leapt from the boat, landing on his back. He stumbled, somehow keeping his head clear of the water, his eyes staring straight at me as the beast on his back tore open his throat. I tried to scream, but the sound died in my throat as I watched with mounting terror as the creature pulled my father beneath the surface.

Pink foam formed around the smack as the creatures ripped apart the men who’d gone to help. The creatures, who had the form of man but the look of death, tore at the men’s flesh with their bony fingers or ripped chunks free with their teeth, which they frantically consumed, obviously relishing both the kill and the feast it provided.

Women screamed as more men hurried to the aid of their friends floundering in the swirling water. The undead horde, now spilling over the smack’s side, met the men head on, waist deep in the bloody foam. Dead bodies, including the remains of my father, littered the water. A few made it back to shore, only to die on the shingle as the undead overtook them, dragging them down with ruthless efficiency.

The cries of the dying filled the air. The few women left on the beach stood paralysed with fear as the vile creatures waded ashore, advancing towards them, intent on continuing their hunt.

Tears streamed down my face. I realised I’d been shouting for my father, for how long I wasn’t sure, but I knew he’d never answer. Ashamed of my fear, I turned away from the carnage at the water’s edge and ran towards the tavern. The shingle slid from beneath my feet, and several times I had to use my hands to keep upright, to keep moving. My lungs burned with the exertion of running, my legs felt heavy and useless as the loose stones sapped my strength. I couldn’t see where I was going. Tears blurred my vision, and the saltiness of the sea air and rolling fog stung my eyes. I just knew I had to keep heading up the beach. At any moment, I expected the creatures to catch me, a scrawny hand grabbing my ankle as they dragged me to my death. The women’s screams had stopped, but I dared not look back. I didn’t need too, I knew their fate.

A dark shape swooped out of the fog, passing over my head with a rush of cold air. I heard what sounded like a sail flapping in the breeze, then a shrill screech. It sounded like a bird, but was unlike any bird I had ever heard. A renewed commotion broke out behind me, frantic splashing and more of the mysterious flapping.

I struggled on and had almost reached the narrow lane separating the beach from the tavern and the few other houses dotted along the seafront, when something landed in front of me. I looked up, my heart threatening to jump out of my chest, the fear balling in my throat. A head, violently severed at the neck, lay in the sandy dirt a few feet from me.

My stomach heaved, but as I’d already emptied its contents onto the beach, I just wretched and choked, coughing clear fluid from my lungs. I’m not sure why, even to this day, but I couldn’t look away. The head rested on its side, the right ear pressed to the ground, the lips pulled back from the teeth in an expression somewhere between a smirk and a sneer. It wasn’t a villager’s head, I could tell that from the pallor of the skin and the rotting flesh. The owner of this head was long dead even before its traumatic removal from his body. The skin, torn in several places, hung from the skull, the structures that once gave the face shape and expression gone. The lips were thin and dry, a cracked scab covered the corner of the mouth, and the smell ... like fish left in the sun.

Another shadow passed overhead and the renewed screeches broke my torpor. I scrambled to my feet and ran across the lane. The screeching increased, and I risked a glance back. The thick fog obscured all but the shadowy outlines of the creatures on the beach, but I saw something dive from the sky, something large enough to lift one of the Devil’s servants from the water and toss it skyward. The misty grey outline spun up in to the air, its arms flailing wildly, then out of the fog swooped another giant bird-like creature, except the huge wings arched outwards from a body that was human form. This abomination caught the tumbling figure in its talons and simply pulled it apart before dropping the remains in to the sea with a loud splash.

Reaching the tavern’s door, I fumbled frantically with the latch, but the door wouldn’t open. Tears of fear and frustration filled my eyes as I banged on the door with both fists, pleading for someone to let me in. But the door remained firmly shut; if there was anyone inside they were unable, or unwilling, to open it. I gave it one last thump, my arms heavy, my fists aching. Still, there was no response.

I turned, pressing my back to the door, and slumped to the ground. I’d seen more death in the last few minutes than a man should witness in a lifetime. I’d even watched my own father slaughtered like a fatted calf. I couldn’t even cry anymore. I was just numb. Numb and scared and too exhausted to keep running.

The first of the undead servants of Satan reached the lane. He stood motionless, head raised, then turned to stare directly at me, except his eyes were missing, rotted away with his innards. Yet I sensed, somehow, he knew I was there. All I could do was stare back, trying not to move. Hoping he wouldn’t notice me as I gathered my strength for one last attempt at escape, but knowing I wouldn’t be able to escape their clutches for long.

He lurched towards me, his mouth gaping open to reveal rotten, black teeth. I tried to get up but my legs were weak. I shook with a mixture of fear and exhaustion as I sank helplessly back to the ground. Weakly, I banged on the door one last time, hoping against hope someone would take pity on me.

The creature was getting closer; I could smell its decay. The door remained firmly shut. Then, from above the tavern appeared one of the great bird-like creatures. Its mighty wings were at least the arm span of four men when outstretched and its feet bore mighty talons that, as I’d already witnessed, were capable of tearing a man in half. But I scarcely noticed these, it was the body that drew my attention, the body of a woman. She wore a tight dress, resembling feathers, but I couldn’t tell you what colour it was, as it changed with every movement of her lithe body, one moment black, then a shimmering green, then blue. I had only ever heard tales, often from drunk fishermen, of these creatures. These creatures were not giant birds, they were sirens; a strange mix of powerful seabird and beautiful woman, who lured sailors to their deaths and feasted on their souls.

She hung in the air, her massive wings beating rhythmically, as she looked down on the creature advancing towards me. It somehow realised she was there because it tried to hold its arms up to protect itself. It proved no match for the strength of the siren. With a subtle shift in the angle of her wings she dived towards him, her talons grabbing his arms and lifting him skyward. His legs kicked in a slow helpless way, almost like he was trying to run away. I staggered to my feet, watching as the woman climbed higher, flying in a gentle arc until she faced the cliffs, then she pulled her wings in and dived towards the sheer rock face.

At the last moment, she soared skyward, releasing her prize so it smashed into the cliff face. I watched for a moment as the body fell apart from the impact. First the legs dropped away, followed by one arm, then the head. Finally, the broken body slid down the cliff face, leaving a horrible brown stain on the chalk where his body had landed.

I turned to look back at the beach. The attackers that came ashore from the fishing smack were all dead. Properly dead, their remains scattered across the shingle and throughout the cove; such was the violence the winged creatures had brought on them. The creatures themselves were gone as quickly as they’d arrived. I could just about make out the sound of their wings beating in the distance.

Something touched my arm and I spun around, still hoping it would be my father. The woman who’d snatched the creature and slammed it into the cliff stood next to me, her wings folded beneath a dark cape, her feet no longer talons. For the first time, I saw her face. She was beautiful. Fine cut features surrounded an angular, but not pointed, nose. Her eyes, the swirling colours of a stormy sea, demanded your attention; such was the power of her gaze.

She smiled and held out her hand. I took it, my fear gone. I instinctively knew I was safe with her, at least for now. It would be different when I reached maturity. I had experienced a maelstrom of emotions over the last few days, but in her presence, I felt nothing but love. Together, we walked away from the now-deserted Foxwater.

“It was you my brother saw, wasn’t it? You were the mysterious woman near the monastery?” I asked as we walked up the lane.

She was silent for a while and I could tell she was wrestling with the answer. When she spoke, her voice sounded like a harp; such was the way the words danced off her tongue.

“It was not me. My sister took a fancy to the young man on the headland, and it was she who lured him to the edge.” She looked at me but there was no hint of sadness or apology in her eyes. “It’s what we are.”

“But you helped us? You saved me from that thing.” I couldn’t understand why they tried to help if they were only going to smash us on the rocks.

“We need the energy of your souls to survive. We were merely protecting our livestock much like your brother did.” Her voice held me in its spell, made me feel safe, made me forget the carnage and misery I’d just witnessed. Whatever she, or her kind, had done to my village, to my family, was lost in the melody of her words. We turned to walk out to the headland and the fire that still burned beside the old monastery.

I realised they must’ve been responsible for the fire, a beacon to guide their sisters back to shore. What actually came ashore in the fog was not of their doing, they wanted the souls of young men, not the used vessels of the dead.

As we stood by the fire warming ourselves, I became aware of the presence of several sirens gathered in the shadows around us. They began to sing a song without words. To me, it was a beautiful lament to my father and the people of Foxwater, a sign these beautiful creatures of the skies felt responsible for what had happened to my village and my family. One by one, they took flight, until only my saviour and I remained. A tear trickled from her eye as she gave me a comforting hug, then she to spread her wings and soared out to sea.

I watched them go, knowing that although I was too young to fall under their spell that day, there would come a day, maybe when my life was lived, that I would return. I had heard the Siren’s call and it would only be a matter of time before I stepped over the edge and into her waiting embrace.

Category Three

by Lance Fling

From far away the sound appears, rattling windows as it nears,

A gale force wind blows at my tears, the day turns black as her dead heart;

Her words escape her brittle frame, now things will never be the same.

They spit out in tongues of flame, blame now serves to complete her part—

Coming for my burnt-out heart.

The venom spews and spittle flies, unholy fire behind her eyes,

A word inside my mouth just dies, I just stand still and play my part—

The anger rises like a wave, but I have no soul left to save.

This hurricane, it can’t behave, gave up on it from the start—

Coming for my burnt-out heart.

The eye it passes overhead, calling out to bring your dead,

The sudden silence fills my head, she’s surely practiced at her art—

An overwhelming urge to run, but I just stand until she’s done.

All her darkness blots the sun, a sun that seems to shine apart—

Her coming for my burnt-out heart.

The second wave comes on slow, the malice ebbs and then it flows,

And back and forth again it grows, lashing out in a needle dart—

My knees buckle as tree trunks bend, her seething rage to tear and rend.

With no honor to defend, I watch her demons stand apart—

Waiting to eat my burnt-out heart.

Finally now, the storm it clears, deflated clouds with rain like tears,

I sift through rubble of those years, searching for a missing part—

No love to find, just hate and grit, after I put up with all her shit.

For all that, what did I get, no chance to make a brand-new start—

No place to take my burnt-out heart.

She Who is Red

By Deborah Devitt

“You don’t have to do this,” Sydney Ramaker pleaded in Spanish with a fluency born of fear and three years spent in the Yucatan. Her wrists ached; they’d been tied behind her with electrical cords. But of far more immediate concern was the rifle butt poised just behind her kidneys. The slippery, leaf-strewn limestone underfoot. And the gaping chasm just ahead of her, where the rock gave way to empty air, revealing dark cenote waters sparkling like a mirror wherever the sun managed to penetrate the gloom cast by ferns and steep stone walls.

An emphatic nudge from the rifle, and Sydney darted a glance over her shoulder, trying to make her captors meet her eyes. To acknowledge her on the level of their common humanity.

But their faces were shuttered and blank. Behind the two men, she could see Dr. Gosselin, her Ph.D. supervisor, and Ramon Umaq Tapia. Ramon was native to the area, a Quecha-speaking descendant of the Maya. He’d started working with the archaeologists ten years ago. Now, his dark eyes had nearly swollen shut from the beating the other men had given him. Dr. Gosselin, older and frailer, slumped against a tree trunk, nearly as battered as Ramon. But the pain in his eyes as he met Sydney’s gaze had little to do with the physical.

The feeling of unreality that pervaded her began to lift like a cloud. Distant fear turned to stark terror. Oh my god, this is it. This is the moment where I die. This is when I stop being. Sydney gabbled in Spanish, “Look, we’re archaeologists. Ramon told us about a new site. Said it hadn’t been looted yet. We didn’t know—” The words cut off as the rifle hit met her spine, hard.

For an instant, she teetered at the cenote’s rim, all the words she could have said caught behind her teeth. We didn’t know a cartel had been using the area for producing and storing drugs. Drugs used to trade for weapons or lives. We shouldn’t be killed—I shouldn’t die because Ramon took us into cartel territory without paying someone off—

And then the thoughts died. Words were useless now. And how ironic that was, since she’d come here out of a love of words, a love of the ancient writing that defied modern understanding. The words that had been holy and worshipped almost as much as the gods themselves had been, long ago. Magic. Mysterious. Symbols imbued with power.

One of the men spoke now. “You were told to bring someone valuable, Ramon. Someone worth a ransom. Maybe if the woman dies, you’ll get the message, or next time, it will be you, understand?”

Her breath caught in her throat. He betrayed us.

“Please, they are valuable. The doctor is very important to his university—”

A snort. “Perhaps. But the woman is worthless. I think we will make sure you and the doctor both know we are serious. So when we ask his university for money, his voice shakes convincingly on the video, eh?”

A laugh from her other captor. “They say the Maya used to bring people here to sacrifice them. Now we do the same!”

A final shove. Her feet slipped. And then she fell through the air, a scream tearing from her throat, raw and painful. Scattered impressions, last thoughts of a doomed mind—

So beautiful the water, like a mirror of obsidian—

—waterfalls of stone, a tunnel into the womb of the earth—

—the cenote was birth water, a place between worlds, between life and death, where they came to speak with the gods—

—Diego de Landa wrote of how they flung women over the edge, and if they survived and called up for aid, they surely had passed into the realm of the dead, and learned secrets there, become the messengers of the gods—

—did he get the message? I am the message—

—oh god, this is going to hurt, I can’t make it a clean dive, I’m going to hit—

Then nothing but pain as she hit the water with so much force that its surface might as well have been stone, the frozen volcanic tears it so resembled from afar. Her head snapped back and she felt her ribs crack, her spine light up with fire. And then everything went black.

––––––––

WHEN SYDNEY OPENED her dazed eyes, pressure squeezed her like a giant hand. Fear flooded her as cold water slid into her nose and mouth, slipping down her throat insidiously. Her ears rang from lack of oxygen, and choking, she tried to kick for the surface, in spite of the pain of her broken body.

Except there was no surface. White light drifted around her in shafts through the black water, but there was no up. There was no down. I am in the mirror. I am in a well of obsidian, and I am dying.

The ringing in her ears became voices. Hypoxia. I’m dying.

––––––––

THE BROKEN BODY FLOATED in the dark waters, like a fly trapped in amber, until the way opened. Flashes of a life lived in distant lands. —seeing the words of the Maya for the first time, in a copy of the Dresden Codex on a library table. All the leering, alien, terrifying faces. But there were words hidden behind them, and she was fascinated—

The voices became louder, clearer. She opened her eyes, finding herself floating in darkness, but surrounded by people. Her dirty jeans and torn cotton shirt seemed out of place indeed among these others and their colorful skirts and their masks of jade and beaten gold, decorated with quetzal feathers. When she dared to raise her head, they struck her, forcing her to her knees in the mud and among the stones, while her hair floated around her face like seaweed.

“Who do you think you are?” someone demanded harshly. Antique Quecha. Intonations and inflections different from the modern variant of the language spoken in villages throughout Central America.  “Do you dare think yourself the equal of those who came here before you to serve the gods?”

“Who are you?” another voice demanded.

—flash of fluid pouring into her lungs. It seemed unfair that something so cold could feel so hot, like molten lead. Panic—

Reaching for the only truth she knew, trying to couch it in ancient Quecha. “I’m . . . a student—” English wasn’t a help. Modern Quecha wasn’t much, either. “Yacha-ko’h. Yacha-che’h.” Yacha-ko’h, the modern word for student, translated to “one who knows for him or herself,” where yacha-che’h meant “one who makes another know,” or teacher. Neither word seemed to register, but a third formed in her mouth, and understood as soon as she spoke them. “Acolyte.”

—dealing with first-year students. No respect for her in the classroom, protesting every grade. “There’s no difference between you and me, besides four years in age.” “Four years and a degree, you entitled idiot,” she’d wanted to say, but Dr. Gosselin told her female professors didn’t get respect from students until they had gray hair and wrinkles. It was just the way things were—

Buzz of confusion. “They’re sending priestesses as sacrifices now?”

“Not a kura ... not a priest.” Her words sounded thin, and their voices, loud and rich, just swept on, leaving her just as unheard as always.

“Things must be dire indeed.”

“There was one king, who did not receive any message from the gods, and so came for their wisdom himself. Suffered himself to die and be reborn. Hunac Ceel.”

The voices stirred vague recollections. Hunac Ceel had been in de Landa’s accounts of the natives of the Yucatan. Just memories. Reconstructed by a dying mind—

“The goddess! The goddess comes! She Who is Red comes!” Excitement now, among the shades of the ancient dead, whose jade masks and vivid quetzal feathers now faded into shadow, leaving them outlines in the water, in the obsidian—

––––––––

AND THEN she was there, old and terrible. A jaguar’s eyes set in a grandmother’s face, a jaguar’s fangs in a wizened old mouth, a jaguar’s furry ears poking through white hair. Her body, bare but for a loosely wrapped skirt of bright fabric, was slick with blood, in spite of the dark waters around them—white and red and black—and she lifted the woman’s face in clawed fingers, forcing the dying eyes to meet her own. Do you know me, child?

—in the jungles, working alongside people from completely different cultures, the men ignoring her until she invoked Gosselin’s authority ... but when she saw them in the villages? How they scurried when their grandmothers ordered them to do something. Not their wives, not their sisters, not even their mothers ... those women could all safely be ignored from inside a buoyant sphere of machismo. But their grandmothers had power. If I were sixty and had silver hair, and my life was over, then people would hear my words. Something to look forward to—

“Ixchel, Chak Chel.” she croaked, knowing the name suddenly. “The Red Goddess. The Red Rainbow, when the moon is dark. The White Goddess, the maiden, when the moon is new. Our Grandmother.” She who brings humans into the world through the rigors of childbirth. She who leaps into battle and tears the flesh of men with her teeth. She who sends all back into the earth. Beginning and end.

Then I am not forgotten. The jaguar teeth bared. Why have you been sacrificed? What answer do your people seek? When the rains will come? How to defeat their enemies?

She couldn’t speak. Awareness of the water in her throat and lungs, no longer as hot as molten lead. Cold. Chill. I’m dying.

No. You are dead. The goddess stared at her as the woman’s identity fragmented. How interesting. You seek knowledge. But these others, the ones who killed you ... they are servants of one who would be a king. And they seek power. They used your life to send a message.

—Like a piece of paper in a bottle, thrown into the sea. I am the message for the folks back home, the people they think are so wealthy, who send their children to universities—

That was their mistake. They meant to send a message to other humans. But you are not theirs anymore. You are mine. My words in your mouth. My thoughts in your head. My essence in your body. You were given to me. You are mine.

The clawed hand on her face dug in now, cruelly tight. The woman tried to resist as the goddess came into her. Possessed her. But how could she fight as her mind fragmented and dissolved under the weight of thousands of years of consciousness and power, leaving nothing but a tiny voice crying out under the surface of the goddesses’ will?

And even that voice, protesting feebly, saw something in all that power that was to be desired. Never to be ignored. Never to be disrespected. Never to have someone look right through you, with that dismissive contempt, because she’s a young woman, what does she know about anything ... how dare she get up in front of a class and teach? ... she’s no different than I am ...  what does she know about jeeps, about the jungle, about our culture, about our heritage, how dare she be interested in our ancestors, she’s not one of us ... and always the answer she’d wanted to scream, no, I’m no better than you, but I’ve put the work in, and why doesn’t that merit respect?

Amused scorn from the goddess. Because humanity fears knowledge. It always has. Knowledge is power. And seeing power and knowledge in the hands of one they don’t think deserves it? They seek to take it away, by any means they can. And you let them. Be not concerned. Having let power slip from my grasp as I dozed, unfed by sacrifices, I do not plan to make the same mistake.

The woman’s soul surrendered. Accepted the goddess’ judgment. Though her altars will run red with blood, does it matter? The jungles have fresher graves than those of the ancient Maya, and the earth’s stained with modern blood anyway. Why not let go? She’s theirs, and they’re hers, and maybe if I’m hers ... maybe I can share in her exultation as she bathes in blood and is renewed. And then a more insidious whisper added, And they all deserve her, don’t they? The whole world does. No one gives a better spanking than Grandma, after all.

Chorus of voices, and Sydney could hear her own voice among the ghosts’ now, Black and red and white, she comes, she comes! The death of the maiden is the birth of the crone, she comes!

––––––––

FROM BENEATH THE SURFACE of the black water, the obsidian well, something arose. Hands breached the surface, slick with red blood that didn’t wash away. Eyes that had not seen daylight, lungs that had not tasted air in a thousand years, feasted on the mortal realm’s sights and scents.

And then She Who is Red stepped onto the surface of the water, which under her feet seemed as solid and slick as polished obsidian. With a hiss, she crouched and leaped for the rim of the cenote, so high above. Clawed hands caught the limestone, and dug into it like the bark of a tree. A light scrabble, and then she was up and over, looming behind the two gunmen, who still menaced their remaining captives.

Red hands descended, gripping the shoulders of the gunmen. Blood stained their shirts where she touched, and both men swung around, raising their rifles reflexively—and met the harridan gaze of the oldest of grandmothers. Her wizened breasts hung free, covered in gore, and her white locks tumbled around her face. But instead of a richly-dyed cotton skirt, trimmed with skulls, torn and bloody jeans rode low on her lean hips. Her wrinkled lips pulled back from her fangs, and Ixchel snarled, You are warriors. Able ones. But you have served a bad king. Now, you will serve me. You will carry my message in your minds and in your flesh. You will carry my words to every soul you meet.

Under the surface of the goddess’ mind, a dying voice whispered, They killed me! Please, let there be some justice—

There will be. But it will be my justice. Not yours. The goddess flicked her hands and the two men dropped to their knees, eyes showing white around the rims. Their rifles slid to the ground, and Ramon, his eyes still swollen mostly shut, tried to reach for one of the guns.

Ixchel stepped on his hand, her heavy foot shattering the bones. Ramon screamed, trying to drag his hand away, but he couldn’t. You betrayed those whom you once served, to serve new masters. You led those who trusted you into the territory of your new masters. The Red One paused. The scholars I will spare. For their love of old words is worthy, and their love of knowledge pleases me. But for this traitor? Nothing but death.

The last remnants of Sydney watched as the two gunmen, Ixchel’s new priests, arched Ramon over a fallen log, and dug out his heart, weeping and trying to make the sign of the cross even as they sawed at his flesh with inexpert hands. He screamed like a hog, until he suddenly went silent, his body still twitching. Dr. Gosselin covered his face and wept, unashamed, and the tiny fragments of humanity drifting through the goddess’ consciousness ached to comfort him.

But the old scholar, while virtuous and wise, wasn’t relevant to the need to reach out to her people once more. To make the rains come. To build them back into the mighty empire they had once been. And ... yes. To teach them not to fear wisdom and knowledge. The goddess paused. It was a new thought tracing through her mind, and she knew its source. She struggled with it; fear was what had always bound her people together, unified them, made them the machine that had cut down the jungles, reshaped the lands, and conquered adjacent kingdoms, welding them into an empire. And yet ... the voice inside her still whispered. Showed the goddess the stars above, the splitting of the atom. Respect doesn’t have to come from fear ...

But fear remains a good start. I will have their love and their awe, in time. So Ixchel took the still-beating heart in her hand and smiled. Then threw the raw lump of flesh into the inky waters of the cenote. It is time to awaken the others.

Beneath the surface of the goddess’ mind, Sydney Ramaker’s awareness dissolved, no longer struggling. Content to be an eternal whisper in the mind of the Jaguar Queen, the oldest of grandmothers, She Who is Red.

Wake Up, Daddy

by Nicholas Day

In the early hours, Henry was hounded by the sound of young William’s voice. The father had begged the boy on several such occasions to leave him be and let him sleep, especially if the sun was yet to rise. Dark as the bedroom was, William’s eyes shimmered, catching light in a way that was both desperate and wonderful. Henry loved the boy despite his reluctance to take direction.

William’s voice was high and lilting. “I saw Chomp Chomp down by the river.”

“Jesus.” Henry sighed. “There’s no such thing, Billy. How many times am I going to have to say it?”

“But I saw it.”

“Kids at that damn school filling your head with stories.”

“You don’t believe me?”

Henry kicked the covers away and sat on the side of the bed. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands folded, his voice raised by an octave or two.

“Son, I have lived by the river my whole life. Kids have been telling that story since your grandpa was a little boy. You know how many times I ever saw Chomp Chomp?”

“You mean you saw him?”

“It’s a rhetorical question.”

“What’s that mean?”

Henry stood up. “It means Chomp Chomp ain’t real.” He pointed to the bedroom door. “Now get on out, and go bother your mother.”

William hung his head. “Okay,” he said, the lilt gone. “Momma’s making eggs.” The boy shuffled out of the room.

Henry listened to the creak of the stairwell. The boy’s steps had a cadence all their own, and the tune changed depending on his mood. This morning the tune was disappointment, and Henry’s annoyance quickly turned to guilt. He’d always been quicker to anger than compassion. He knew if he wasn’t careful that it’d be a trait passed from father to son.

He got dressed and went downstairs.

“Morning,” Ellie said, her back to him. She was washing dishes in the sink. “I made breakfast.”

Henry looked at the table. His plate sat alone. “You guys ate already?”

“I sent William up to get you. It’s not my fault you drag your feet in the morning.”

The bay window lit up the dining room, but the kitchen was still dark. Ellie had yet to look at him, and was practically a ghost, a dark silhouette framed by what little light crept through the small window over the sink.

“Am I a bad father?” Henry asked.

Ellie sat a dish on the drying rack and then shut off the water. She wiped her hands, letting the towel hang over the looped faucet. Her head glanced to her left and right.

Henry saw it at the same time she did. A glint of light reflected off the silver wedding band that sat on the windowsill. She couldn’t tolerate wearing the ring if her hands were wet. It was one of few quirks they shared as a couple.

“He loves you more than anything in this world.” She finally faced him. “Now eat that food before it gets cold.”

“That’s not really an answer to my question.” He walked to the table and pulled out his chair, stopping to look out the bay window before sitting down. William was walking back and forth in the backyard. “What’s he doing?”

“Looking for the damn dog.”

“Dog’s probably down at the banks sniffing around for dead fish.”

Ellie had joined him, sat at the table, unnoticed by her husband. “Are you gonna eat or stand there gawking all day?”

“If that dog is by the water, Billy will never find her.”

“It’s just a phase, Henry. He’ll get over it.”

“Maybe I ought to take him out on the boat. He liked fishing with me before.”

“You act like him being afraid of the water is a slight against you. Don’t make this about you. Has nothing to do with you. It’s a shock to any kid when someone so young dies.”

“Stupid teenagers should have never been farting around out in that river. Mississippi undercurrents are strong. Hell, you won’t catch me trying to swim out there.”

“Bullshit, Henry Biddle. You know those kids were swimming out to Turtle Island. I seem to remember going out there a couple times with a certain someone.”

“Yeah, well, that was a helluva long time ago. Should’ve known better then. Sure as heck do now.”

“I can’t imagine what that girl’s parents are going through.” Ellie shook her head. “How they must feel.”

“Probably feel like they should’ve taught that girl to respect the river.”

“You’re better than that,” she scolded.

Henry looked at his wife. She had sat back from the table. Her arms were crossed. She had even stuck out her chin. He obviously crossed the line. All her warning signs were present.

“Shit. You’re right. That was a rotten thing to say. I’m sorry.” He began to eat. The eggs and toast were cold by now, but he didn’t dare say so.

Ellie’s attention turned toward their son. The boy had stopped wandering the yard. He faced the river beyond their property.

“Did Billy tell you he saw Chomp Chomp?” Ellie asked.

“Ah, hell,” Henry took the cold eggs in small bites, “you know how kids are, telling stories. If they need a boogeyman to keep ‘em out of the water, then so be it.”

“You never did believe, did you?”

“In some ancient turtle the size of a Buick?”

“Your dad told me he’s seen it.”

“That old fart’d say anything if he thought it’d get him some attention.”

“He’s expecting you today.”

“I know it.” Henry took one last bite and then pushed the empty plate away. “Thought I’d wait and see the kid off to school.” He looked at his watch. “Speaking of, I’d better go round him up. He’s gonna miss the bus if he keeps after that mutt.”

Henry left the plate on the table. Ellie watched him walk out. She looked at the dish, the smears and the crumbs, and she shook her head. Grabbing the plate, she walked into the kitchen, looked at the sink, the clean dishes already dried in the rack beside it, and then in a fit of impulse she threw the dirty plate and fork in the garbage. It would be her small victory for the day, and her husband would never notice.

“Hey, boy,”—Henry whistled—“you best grab your stuff and get ready. Bus’ll be here soon.”

“I can’t find Sandy nowhere. I called and called. but she never came back.”

“You check down by the water? You know she loves sniffing around down there.”

William didn’t answer the question. He stood, in silence, only looking toward his father. Then he turned to face the direction of the river.

“I’ll go get my backpack,” William said.

“Alright, son. I’ll meet you out front.”

William ran back to the house. Henry waited for the boy to get inside before yelling.

“Sandy! C’mon, girl!”

No bark. No galloping, golden hair and wagging tail. Not even a whimper. Only the whispering rush of the Mississippi, accentuated by the occasional splash of water along the river’s edge, answered Henry’s call.

They lived north of town, itself a speck along the Western Illinois border. Grafton had been a prosperous fishing town, but prosperity was long ago. The area survived by becoming a minor tourist trap for sightseers and bird watchers.

Henry had grown up in the very house in which he now raised his own son. His father gave it to Henry after his mother passed. The old man moved into the town’s sole retirement community.

Once a week, Henry would bring groceries to his father. Eggs, milk, bread, and bologna. To his credit, the old man never asked for help, as was his way. He’d stretch retirement right into the grave, Henry reckoned.

Henry saw William get on the bus. They did not wave to each other. Henry nodded to the bus driver, a man Henry had known growing up.

A breeze rolled down the lane, carrying the smell of stale water and memories of snake skins along the riverbanks. Henry wondered if Grafton was a little like that, a living creature that stayed the same but necessitated change, regardless. It was a trait shared with the river, too.

Grafton had its own undercurrent. The town swallowed people up and kept them forever. Henry wondered what life would have been like if he hadn’t been sucked under.

Ellie came outside. She kissed Henry on the cheek, said she’d be home late, as they were moving the mystery section at the library, after hours. They were getting a donation of movies and would need the shelf space.

She got in their aging van and before she closed the door, she said, “You’re a good dad.”

He smiled. “That means a lot.”

“I know it does.”

“I love you.”

“I know you do.” She blew him a kiss.

He watched her drive away and knew that he had lost her somewhere along the way.

Henry went around to the side of the house, grabbed the red mountain bike, and peddled into town. There were all sorts of people milling about, which wasn’t a huge surprise. The weather was nice. The Bald Eagles were roosting up and down the river.

People nodded as he passed and he did so in return. It was important to be cordial to strangers, an unspoken rule. Comfortable people spent money.

Lunch was at Riverbender’s Café. The post office was next door, but the PO Box was empty. Another block south was the newsstand. Nothing much was going on in the world, at least nothing that would be making a bit of difference in Grafton.

Henry felt like he’d procrastinated enough. He rode up to the general store, grabbed what was expected, and headed to his father’s. The retirement community was off the main drag and partially uphill. It was a workout, but somehow that made the trip more tolerable, as if Henry got something out of the exchange besides being at his father’s beck and call.

No need to knock since Henry had a key. He opened up the door and let himself in. His father looked surprised.

“I’ll be damned, is it Friday?” the old man said.

“All day long,” Henry said.

“You get my bologna?”

“And your eggs and bread and milk.”

“How’s my bar doing?”

“Bar’s been doing great since I took over.”

“Eh, you were always smarter than me.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t drink my earnings, either.”

“Oh, now, I wasn’t that bad.”

“You keep telling yourself that, dad.”

The old man mumbled under his breath and went back to rocking in his creaking recliner. Daytime television was a soft hum of canned laughter and bad music. Henry started putting away the groceries.

The empty space of his father’s refrigerator never failed to depress Henry. It spoke of loneliness and the inconvenience of outliving your spouse. He hoped that Ellie wouldn’t leave him. And then he felt the distinct sensation of someone lurking behind him.

His father stood there. He wore a stained, off-white V-neck. He had on a pair of sweatpants that were nearly as old as Henry. A sour smell made Henry wonder how often his father bathed. The old man’s eyes were red. He was not inclined to cry, never was. The only time Henry had seen tears from the man was in the weeks after mother died.

“I am very proud of you.” The old man wiped his eyes. “You’re the kind of man I wish I could’ve been. You’re a great father, too, and that makes me proud. You have a beautiful wife and a beautiful boy and that makes me happy. Ellie loves you deeply and Willy thinks the sun rises and sets with you. You are a very lucky man.”

“I’ve never felt very lucky.”

“Maybe you need to wake up and look around, son. You have a good life.”

“I have your life.”

“You’re a better man than I was, even if you don’t see it.”

“Am I a better man? Or are you ashamed that I turned out just like you?”

His father turned away and walked back to his recliner. “That’s a nasty thing to say.”

Henry shrugged his shoulders. “You know what’s nasty? You filling a kid’s head with bullshit about monsters eating people in the water behind his house.”

“What are you on about now?”

“You know, I figured it was kids at his school playing a prank on him, being mean, but this morning Ellie mentioned you talking about Chomp Chomp. And I didn’t think of it till just now, but I bet those kids don’t even talk about that stupid old legend anymore. The only people that ever talked about it were old farts like you. I don’t want you talking to my son about fucking monsters. I can’t even get the kid to go out on a boat in that water.”

“I don’t know what in blue blazes you’re talking about. Ellie asked me about it when you all moved into that house years ago.”

Henry checked his watch. “Damn. Kid’ll be home soon. I better get going so he’s not by himself. Ellie’s working late.”

“Works late a lot for a librarian.”

Henry opened the door. “Always a pleasure, Dad.” He was about to peddle away when he heard the old man bark out his name.

“That big sumbitch is as real as the day is long, Henry. You’d better believe that. Paper said that girl got swept away in the undercurrent, but how come her body ain’t turned up downriver? I tell you, it never will, not a piece.”

Henry rode fast enough to burn his calves and thighs. He thought about what William had told him that morning. He thought about the missing dog. His father had always been something of a bullshitter, but those last words had a lot of conviction behind them. It was almost like Henry was a kid, again, getting reprimanded for some indiscretion. He suddenly wanted to be holding his son. He wanted to kiss his wife. He was nearly out of breath when he got to the house.

William’s screams tapped into reserves Henry never knew before.

He ran around the back of the house, to the screaming boy, to the banks of the Mississippi. There was no monster, no giant turtle preying upon his son, only a very dead dog.

“Chomp Chomp killed Sandy!” William cried.

Henry held the boy and brushed his hair. “Shh, calm down, son,” he said. “Calm down.” He repeated those words like a mantra, and when William moved as if to look back at the dog, Henry held the boy tighter.

“No, son, don’t look at it. You go to the house and you calm down, you hear me?”

The boy sobbed and nodded his head, and then ran to the house.

Henry sat there, trembling, running a hand over his face. It was a strange relief, finding his boy crying over a dead dog instead of hanging out of the mouth of some monster. Henry laughed at the preposterousness of it, and then found himself becoming angry at his father and his wife.

“Fucking Chomp Chomp,” he muttered. “Giant turtle, my ass.” He grunted as he got up, took a deep breath, and really looked at Sandy for the first time.

Henry spent his whole life by the river and around boats. He had seen what a boat motor could do to flesh, and this wasn’t like that at all. Sandy looked like she’d had a slice of cherry pie taken out of her guts. She had been bitten by something damn big.

“Daddy.”

Henry turned. William stood not ten feet away, white as a sheet. He looked beyond his father to the river. He pointed to something.

“Daddy,” he said, again.

A rush of disappointment flooded Henry. He glanced over his shoulder in time to see the dog pulled into the murky water. And then he noticed how dark the surface had become just off the bank.

Chomp Chomp was the size of a Buick.

Henry saw the animal’s yellow eyes. They were the size of saucers. And then it rose from the water like a revelation.

Chomp Chomp’s mouth opened with a hiss.

Henry turned to his son but never had a chance to say anything. Searing pain ran through his leg as muscle and bone were crushed and severed. He slammed into the ground, breaking his nose on impact. The force winded him. Nausea flooded him as bone marrow entered his blood stream.

There was the sensation of being dragged across the ground. The cold Mississippi was a minor comfort to the throbbing pain in his thigh. He wanted to say something but air had yet to return to his lungs. His first chance at a breath would be underwater.

There wouldn’t be a second breath.

He saw his son, even as Henry dipped beneath the surface. He hoped the boy would be a better man. He hoped his son would escape.

The undercurrent was as a liquid wind but the big beast was as steady as stone.

Henry was lulled by the sound of William’s cries. Dark as the water was, William’s eyes shimmered, catching light in a way that was both desperate and wonderful.

Henry loved the boy.

He was a good father.

Nicholas Day writes predominantly within the horror, science fiction, and crime genres. He is a member of the HWA and has studied creative writing at Southern Illinois University and at Seton Hill University. He co-owns Rooster Republic Press and its imprints.

Nicholas's novella, Necrosaurus Rex, and his collection of short fiction, Now That We're Alone, are both available through JournalStone and Bizarro Pulp Press. He is always working on something.

You can find him at:

facebook.com/nicholasdayonline

instagram.com/first_name_nick_last_name_day

nicholasdayonline.com

Alone, alone, all, all alone,

Alone on a wide, wide sea!

Part Four, Stanza 3

The Rime of the Ancyent Marinere

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

All at Sea

by H.R. Arwryd

“Gentlemen, shall we begin?”

There was a general murmur of assent followed by the sharp double-rap of a gavel, and the voice spoke again, “This board of inquiry into the loss of the steam merchant ship Manchester Prince on or about June twenty-second, nineteen-hundred and fifteen, is hereby convened on this eighth day of September nineteen-hundred sixteen in His Majesty’s Admiralty Court at Sydney Harbor, New South Wales, in the Commonwealth of Australia, under and by the authority of His Majesty’s Government. Present are: Commander Anthony Younghusband, Lieutenant Commanders Thomas Molloy and James Douglas, and President of the Board, Commodore Hobart Stapleton. Also present is court reporter, Warrant Officer G. Davies. Let the record so reflect,” Stapleton concluded. “Tony, do you want to go first?” he added.

Younghusband rose, cleared his throat, and read a short, prepared statement into the record: “On or about one forty, on the morning of the twenty-first day of June nineteen-hundred fifteen, the merchant steamer Manchester Prince, being then some six hundred miles south-southeast of Tonga, at or near 24°55’00.7”S 171°36’47.2”W, disappeared and is presumed lost, the cause of said loss being the subject of this inquiry,” he concluded and sat back down.

Stapleton gave him a quick look and a short nod of approval then said, “Very well, anyone having evidence to put before this board of inquiry please approach and identify yourself for the record,” he said.

Although there were half a dozen others in the room, only one person stood and stepped forward. He was dressed in his number one rig, in the spotless dress uniform of a commander in the nascent Royal Australian Navy. He snapped a sharp salute, then removed his hat and placed it under his arm with a long-practiced, graceful sweep.

“Please state your name, rank, and current assignment, for the record,” Stapleton said.

“Francis Rowland Townshend, commander, HMAS Parramatta,” he said.

“Swear in the witness,” Stapleton ordered and, after Townshend was duly sworn, said, “Please take your seat, commander. This is merely an inquiry, there are no charges or allegations, and certainly none against yourself or your crew. The purpose of this inquiry is to determine the cause or causes of the loss of the Manchester Prince on or about twenty-first day of June, last year. Given what we already suspect, this board is simply a formality. Although it is rather an unusual procedure to have a retired officer such as myself serving on such a board, the exigencies of the service, and the strain of the present war, call for every patriotic citizen to do their duty,” he concluded.

“Hear! Hear!” a couple of voices intoned.

“Is everyone ready?” Stapleton asked, looking left then right and receiving affirmative nods. “Very well, then we shall begin. Mister Molloy, you may examine the witness.”

“Good afternoon, Commander Townshend. I understand you are very busy, and I want to express the thanks of this board for your willingness to cooperate in this inquiry, given the rigors of command. We shall not detain you any longer than is necessary.”

More nods of assent.

“Please, in your own words, describe the circumstances by which you became aware of the loss of the Manchester Prince.”

“Yes, sir,” Townshend said. “On June sixteenth, we received orders to patrol the Coral Sea area around Vanuatu and New Caledonia, as far easterly as Fiji. We were given to understand there was some information the Imperial German Surface Raider SMS Seeadler could be in the area. We were ordered to rigorously patrol the area, taking special care to inspect all possible anchorages among the various islands and to monitor whatever radio traffic we might receive, as well as question, and board if necessary, all traffic we might encounter. This we did, however we obtained no information as to the Seeadler.

Lieutenant Commander Douglas interrupted him, “Please give us, to the best of your knowledge, the pertinent information regarding SMS Seeadler, if you don’t mind.”

“Certainly. SMS Seeadler is a 4,500 ton, 3-masted windjammer with a 900- horsepower auxiliary diesel engine. Since the Germans no longer have any bases for refueling or refitting, apparently, they hit upon the idea of using a sailing vessel to raid merchant shipping. She keeps her engine for emergencies I suspect and strips the coal, and whatever else may be of use, from her victims before she sinks them. She carries a pair of 105-millimeter guns as well as machine guns and small arms for her crew and boarding parties. Apparently, she managed to run the blockade of the German port at Tsingtao during the dead moon on the twelfth of that June and got out into the shipping lanes,” Townshend explained.

“Thank you,” Douglas said, as he scribbled notes.

“Please, carry on Commander,” Molloy said.

“Yes, sir. Just before dawn on the fifteenth of June, we were approximately sixty miles East-Southeast of Iasoa and preparing to cross over to Fiji. We picked up a partial radio signal in the clear,” here he stopped and drew out his pocket book and withdrew from it a sheet of paper from which he read. “This is a copy transcribed from the radio log, the message was garbled and incomplete but the text read: ‘...chester Prince 24°55’00..”S 171°36’47...atta...adler..o s.’ That was the extent of what we received,” he said, handing the flimsy sheet to Molloy, who passed it to the others for their perusal, after scrutinizing it for a few moments.

“We checked the registry books and the charts, and I, in consultation with my officers, drew the conclusion the ship was probably the Manchester Prince, which was known to be working the Valparaiso-Brisbane run. We presumed the message read something along the lines of ‘under attack by Seeadler SOS,’ since it was not inconceivable that Seeadler could have worked that far east and south undetected. We quickly plotted a course and sent our own signal to the flag, relaying what we had received and our intentions, which were confirmed by the return. We made twenty knots and steered for Fiji, and extended the receiving aerial as far as possible to pick up whatever additional radio traffic we might receive.”

“Some forty hours later we made landfall off Fiji, on the seventeenth, and I took the opportunity to enter the harbor and go ashore to speak with the port officials there, and have my coal bunkers topped off and resupply as far as possible.”

Molloy spoke, “Given the urgency of the situation, do you consider it was prudent on your part to make this stop?” There was no malice in his voice.

“I reasoned that if Seeadler were coming this way, there was no harm in it, and if we were required to sweep for her, then maximizing the cruising range of my vessel was a prudent precaution. I knew we certainly had the legs of her, and we out-gunned her. In addition, I was anxious to discover if anyone in port had any additional information; therefore, in my decision, the six hours spent in harbor were not wasted,” Townshend said.

“Just so, quite right,” Stapleton said, nodding vigorously. “Pray, continue.”

“We departed and made fifteen knots, steering southeast, toward Tonga, which we reached the next day, June eighteenth, pausing briefly to obtain any possible news, but there was no word of either Manchester Prince or Seeadler, so we continued bearing generally southeast toward the last known position of Manchester Prince.

“When we arrived late on the morning of the nineteenth, we found nothing of course, no trace of her at all, nor had we expected to find anything if she had been attacked by Seeadler, which was the working hypothesis at the time. At that point, I consulted with my officers. We looked over the charts and, from our position at the time, we were faced with two probably routes for Seeadler; she had either swung east-nor’-east toward the Cook Islands and French Polynesia to pick off stray merchantmen, or she had taken a more southerly course to prey on the Valparaiso trade routes or perhaps raid off the coast of New Zealand.

“As you know, we don’t employ a convoy system in this ocean, as we lack the resources to provide escorts, and the enemy threat is so minor at this stage. So, I considered the Valparaiso route to be the most heavily travelled, and therefore the most likely destination for a raider. Accordingly, we changed course more southerly, and doubled the lookouts. Near dawn the next morning—”

“I’m sorry,” Douglas interrupted, “which day is this?”

“June twentieth, sir,” Townshend said.

“So, five days after the distress message from Manchester Prince?”

“Yes, sir.”

Douglas scribbled a note, “Thank you, carry on.”

“Just before dawn, the port-quarter lookout spotted something six or seven hundred yards away. We made for the spot and discovered it to be a badly damaged lifeboat, half-swamped. It had been shot up by rifle or machine gun fire, and there were two bodies aboard, rather badly decomposed, but both with bullet wounds. We quickly identified the boat as belonging to Manchester Prince and took the names of the dead before giving them a proper burial. We then continued on course. At this time, I decided we should zigzag to cover more surface area in our search and two hours later came upon more wreckage from Manchester Prince. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind she had been sunk by Seeadler.”

“Why was that, exactly, Commander?” Younghusband asked.

“Well, sir, Seeadler was the only possible enemy that might be in the area. Then there was the partial message we had picked up, and the condition of the lifeboat; shot up.”

“Very good. I did not mean to interrupt your narrative or alter its flow. You are doing excellently. Please, continue Commander.” Younghusband replied.

“As we continued our search, we came across occasional other pieces of debris from Manchester Prince, and debris which we assumed had come from her. Throughout, I kept the lookouts doubled for any sign of survivors, wreckage, or Seeadler, however, although other debris was discovered from time to time, we saw no sign of Seeadler.”

“On June twenty-second, which was the solstice, we had just about arrived at our furthest point, based on our coal supplies, and I decided we should turn due south and make our way in a large loop, turning so’-so’west and steer for Auckland to resupply. I had plotted our course change to occur at twenty-two thirty that night. I should point out that on that night the Aurora was unusually bright and active, and the sky was absolutely clear, with an almost flat sea. It was one of those rare nights when we seemed to be floating in the limitless, starry void of the heavens.”

This was greeted with sage grunts and nods of appreciation.

“As we made the turn, an unusual phenomenon occurred which none of us had ever seen before. What appeared to be, pardon my description gentlemen, a pillar of golden-green fire, like that described in the book of Exodus, appeared almost due west of us. We had no way of judging its size, or distance, but it appeared to be enormous and towered up into the sky, or down from it, we could not tell exactly. More curiously, as it appeared, so did a strange sound ...” Townshend’s composure failed for a moment, and suddenly sweat began to congeal on his graying face and forehead as his eyes took on an unblinking, faraway look.

“A sound ... a sound like whale songs, but higher in pitch; raspier, flatter ... like a legion of demented, demonic bagpipers. It seemed to gradually rise from all around us and, as it rose, thousands of small pools of sickly green phosphorescence slowly appeared all ‘round us as well, gradually growing brighter in harmony with the increase in sound as they rose to the surface. And, as they rose, so did a stench. A stench like the primordial ooze from the very depth of the sea, filled with the rot and decay of millennia of death and corruption: a thousand times worse than the most abhorrent, nauseating sludge dragged up by a deep anchor.” Townshend stopped again. The room was deathly silent.

Townshend drew a crisply folded kerchief and mopped his dripping face, then gave a watery smile of apology as he slipped it into his cuff. “Pardon me, gentlemen,” he said softly.

No one spoke, but Stapleton nodded softly, urging him to continue.

“I stopped the engine and called all hands to action stations. I had no idea what was happening, and I did not want to risk the vessel or damage the propulsion or steering if we were heading into some uncharted anomaly like the Sargasso Sea. The vessel coasted noiselessly, the barest ripple from her bow. The hands were silent, and a feeling of dread seemed to fall over the company like a wet shroud.”

“The strange phosphorescent pools seemed to be on the surface now and the stench was almost overpowering. The sound, the noise, whatever it was, seemed to have hit its stride and above us the Aurora danced, as if to that cacophonous racket, growing brighter with the same sickly hue as the phosphorescent pools. Suddenly, the pools began to move, flashing and darting like a school of fish, tacking and turning in random uniformity, coalescing fifty yards or so off the starboard bow. As they collected, the light grew stronger ... and then we saw it. God help us, we saw it ...” He broke down again for a moment, drew his kerchief from his cuff, and held it to his upper lip, closing his eyes. No one in the room spoke, or moved, or breathed.

“In the center of the converging pools of light, we vaguely saw the lifeboat in the greenish hue from the spots. I ordered the searchlight to be brought to bear on it, and it was then we saw Manchester Prince on her sternplate. We hailed the lifeboat, but there was no response ... at first. On the third or fourth hail a man suddenly stood up in her. He was gesturing madly, but not to welcome us or signal us. He seemed to be waving us off, frantically gesturing as if he would push us away with his motions. Then he appeared to shout toward us, but with the cacophony raging around us, no one could make out what he was saying.”

“I ordered a boat lowered, and sent our marine contingent to man it. Not one crewman on HMAS Parramatta is ‘shy’ in the least, but these marines had a look of grim desperation as they clambered down into the launch. As it began to move toward the lifeboat, the man began shouting and gesturing even more wildly, but when it was apparent he could not stop them from coming, he ...” Townshend choked and gasped, closing his eyes tightly as if to blot out the scene that was replaying itself in his mind’s eye. No one in the room even blinked, Douglas was frozen with a water glass half raised to his lips, and even the scratch of the stenographer’s pen nib was silent.

“He ... he ... simply and calmly stepped out of the boat! We all saw it. He stepped out of the boat and onto the water and stood there. Stood on the water! The pools of phosphorescence swarmed toward him and, as he stood on the surface, he was slowly born away by them toward that great pillar of gold-green fire. As the searchlight found him, he turned his face back toward us, a look of transcendent, beatific, ecstasy on his features, and he pointed one long arm at the twisting, ascending, roiling, pillar seemingly impossibly distant yet palpably close at the same time. Then he was gone.”

The grip of silence and tension tightened over the room until Younghusband whispered hoarsely, “I, I beg your pardon?”

“Suddenly he just dropped. There was no splash, no sound, not a ripple. He just slid straight down beneath the surface, and with his disappearance, everything else disappeared as well: the pillar of fire, the stench, the noise, the aurora, and the phosphorescent pools, poof!” Townshend snapped his fingers, and in the tense density of the room, it cracked like a pistol shot. “Gone. The searchlight played over the waters, the launch raced to the scene of the disappearance, but nothing was found. We were all alone on a pitch-dark sea, with the derelict lifeboat from Manchester Prince our only witness to what had happened, to what we had seen.”

Townshend sat limply now and bowed his head, closing his eyes for a moment.

“This Inquiry will adjourn for one hour,” Stapleton said softly.

H. R. Arswyd lives and works in Houston, Texas, where he has been quietly laboring to unnerve, while surrounded by rescue dogs. His second collection, “Dark Homages II: Ill Met by Moonlight,” is scheduled for release later this month. He is not a member of Horror Writers Association.

Nessie Lives

by Calvin Demmer

Nightfall came for the bank by the river. Carlton Thompson proceeded with on-scene patchwork to a plastic dinosaur head. His best friend, Reed, was seated on a large broken branch talking to another of their friends, Aimee. Around them towering trees stood proud, while birds chirped, and the spicy earth smell of bushes and plants teased their senses.

The river was well known, but they knew of a remote area perfect for their plan. And now, the perfect night for their operation had come: Halloween. While the town was preoccupied with trick or treating, they set up an event, hoping it would become news enshrined in local legend.

Carlton, noticing darkness had fallen over him, lifted his head up. His eyes were drawn to the surface of the river. There were spots that glimmered, almost as if there were crystals reflecting the moon’s light just beneath the water’s surface.

“Hey, Reed. You’re meant to be giving me a hand,” Carlton said.

Reed looked up and frowned. “I did. I’m the one who found that old head after all.”

“Yeah? And who fixed it up to look more like a sea monster?”

“You did, but who mentioned this spot?”

“Yeah, yeah. Listen, I’ve attached the head to the plastic base, it should float, but we got to get a move on. It’s already night, and we need to take some shots.”

“Well, let’s do this then.” Reed reached into his pocket for his smartphone.

Carlton nodded.

Aimee looked uninterested. She wasn’t a fan of nature and preferred the hustle and bustle of town. Yet, she’d asked to come along, as usual, and Carlton already recognized the sulk that deepened on her visage. Soon, they’d have to listen to her complaints all the way home.

Carlton put her mood out of the forefront of his mind.

They had important work to do.

The river had been subject to strange legends before. None stuck. From a dreadlocked monster that sat in the trees, to a Bigfoot-type creature that roamed the shores, as well as spirits that lived beneath the surface. This time, however, Carlton and Reed, two veteran pranksters, believed they had the know-how for a decent crack at creating one that would live on. Sure, copying a Loch Ness monster-type creature wasn’t very original, but it had an allure and style the older people of town would fall for. Added to the romance of Halloween, the plan appeared foolproof.

Carlton, wearing cargo shots, waded into the water with the Plesiosaur-looking cryptid head on its base. They’d decided to name their creation Nessie 2.0, and he pushed it into the river. The current was weak, which he was glad about.

“Right. Take some shots. We can edit them later for the best,” Carlton said, making his way back to land.

Reed started taking photos. Nessie 2.0 seemed to stand stationary on the water, giving them time to take photos from different angles and distances. After a few minutes, Carlton tapped Reed’s shoulder.

“You done? I want to get it out before the current picks up and takes it away. It won’t help our legend if someone finds it.”

“Just a few more.”

Aimee let out a grunt. “Guys, let’s get going. It’s cold and dark, and I need to pee.”

“Almost done,” Carlton said, realizing it would indeed be a long journey home.

“You guys and your damn silly ideas. Don’t know why I said I would come along. No one is going to fall for this.”

Reed shook his head. “Damn it, Aimee. Go pee in the bushes if it’s such an emergency, and quit whining.”

A splash of water exploded mere inches from Nessie 2.0, both Reed and Carlton turned to look at Aimee, who picked up stones around her. Her cheeks flared red, and Carlton knew there would be no reasoning with her.

“Aimee. Don’t be stupid,” Reed said.

“Aimee. We’re almost done.” Carlton held up his hand. “Think how funny this will be when it makes the front page of the local paper. Just imagine the headline ‘Nessie Lives’ and hey, you never know, maybe it will make a few other papers. Oh, and just think of all the conspiracy sites that will want a piece of it.”

“No,” Reed said. “Stop sympathizing with her. She chose to come along. If she wants to throw a tantrum she should rather leave.”

“That’s not—”

“I’m out.” Aimee tossed the bunch of rocks in her hand toward them. She cursed them both beneath her breath as she left them in her wake, disappearing into the line of trees that surrounded the river.

“Women, huh,” Reed said.

“It’s not necessary to be so hard on her.” Carlton shrugged. “Anyway, I’m going to bring Nessie 2.0 in.”

“Just a couple more.”

Before Carlton could reply, a harsh rustling sound came toward them from the trees. The loudness suggested something large moved toward them, not a little critter. Carlton held his breath, exhaling when Aimee reappeared. He wanted to scold her for frightening him, but stopped when he noticed her face was drained of color and her clothes were dirty, as if she’d taken a few tumbles in the dirt.

“You okay?” Carlton asked.

“Oh my god,” Aimee said. “There are these things, like people, but they’re gray. They’re everywhere. Guys, something isn’t right. I’m scared. We have to get out of here, but we can’t go that way.”

“Funny,” Reed said, “but we aren’t falling for that.”

Something about her shaking hands and strained eyes didn’t suggest a prank. Carlton approached her, but she turned away and started running. Wondering where she was going, he watched her intersect him and Reed.

Fully clothed, Aimee dived into the river.

***

IT WAS AS IF CARLTON had left his body and was looking down on himself. The image he saw of his inert self resembled stuffed animals he’d seen in museums. Reed, however, jolted into action, running toward the water.

“Aimee. What the hell are you doing?”

Aimee didn’t reply. She seemed hell-bent on making it across.

Carlton managed to will reanimation upon himself; slowly, he turned around. He studied the trees, trying to understand what could have startled Aimee. The idea of it being a poor joke was long gone. He considered it being some type of wild animal, as that was possible all the way out here. Images of bears, wolves, and snakes came to the fore of his mind. But she had said people, gray people.

Reed came into his line of sight. “She’s gone mad. She’s really going to swim across the river. What do you think has gotten into her?”

A shadowy figure moved between the trees behind Reed. Another figure moved to the right. The blurry shapes stopped moving and began to form shapes he could recognize. He understood why Aimee had called them gray people, but as his eyes remained transfixed on them, he realized they looked more like something else: ghosts. Unable to speak, he managed to raise his arm and point.

Reed, frowning, turned around. “What the hell is it?”

Carlton mumbled, “I think, I think we have to run.”

He didn’t wait for Reed to agree; instead, he ran toward the river. Reed’s heavy steps trailed right behind him—at least he hoped they were Reed’s. He looked for Aimee before jumping into the water. She’d almost reached the other side. A sudden change in the weather came, and even though his body heated up from the exertion, it wasn’t enough to blanket against the new frigid chill in the atmosphere.

Carlton entered the water. When he was deep enough to swim, he launched his body forward.

In the middle of the river, he lifted his head up and caught sight of Aimee on land. She ran back toward him, waving her hands above her head. Carlton, who wasn’t as athletic as Aimee or Reed, felt his arms yearn for a rest, but the look on Aimee’s face told him there’d be no respite. His heart beat so strong he could feel it in his throat, and he stopped his splashing, attempting to float, hoping to hear what she said.

“They are coming from this side, too. We must swim. We must keep swimming down river,” Aimee shouted.

She ran and dove back in.

***

AIMEE HEADED DOWNSTREAM.

“Get moving,” Reed said from behind Carlton. “We need to follow her.”

Carlton, floating in the middle of the river, watched Reed pass him, swimming after Aimee. Carlton didn’t follow. His lungs burned and something ominous within him told him there was no escape. He thought about the failed urban legends that had been attached to the river, praying for a way out of the mess he found himself in. One legend, where the spirits of the dead were believed to live in a part of the river, kept hammering at a door in his mind. He opened the door, hit the light switch, and searched the room wherein the legend resided, trying to remember what he could about the tale. Only bits of info came into the light. One thing he recalled was spirits could only leave the river at certain times. But, these things were all coming back. Carlton wondered if they were returning under the shroud of night to wait until they could leave again. He wondered if they could roam on Halloween but had to return at certain time before the day’s end. If that was the case, his friends and he had picked the worst possible time to come to the river.

They were trapped.

He took short, quick breaths.

The gray people as Aimee called them, or ghosts, as Carlton now truly believed them to be, kept approaching. When they paused just before the water, Carlton found himself begging internally that they would halt their progress and turn away. The darkness of night only compounded the dread that held him, and he found himself with no plan of action.

One of the ghosts reached into the water with its arm. The water remained unmoved. When the ghost lifted his arm out the water and held it up Carlton saw a pale, aged hand and arm, different from the featureless gray blur of the rest of the figure. It seemed as if the water gave them some sustenance of life. The ghost then took a step into the water while the ghosts on either side of the river followed his lead.

Carlton’s chest contracted.

They were all coming in.

He’d forgotten about Reed and Aimee trying to escape as his brain still fought to find some rational explanation for the situation he was in. None came. The ghosts, however, kept coming. Carlton watched with mouth agape as they seemed to float with just their feet in the water. The longer they were in the water, the less they looked like gray shapes. They all started to lighten and clear. Carlton could see people, pale, translucent people that shimmered every time he blinked.

The legend of the spirits in the river was true.

Closer and closer they came.

All this would have intrigued Carlton had he not been fearful for his life. Yet, with the ghosts on him, no attack came. Instead, they started to sink, disappearing beneath the surface. It’d taken only a moment, and they were gone. A part of Carlton’s mind wondered if he’d really seen them. The rest of his mind knew he had. The fear that coursed through his veins confirmed it.

The urge to look beneath the surface was potent, but he forced himself not to. If he couldn’t see them, maybe they were no longer there. He remembered Reed and Aimee, and he searched for them, but saw no one. There was no way they could have swum fast enough to escape his view. The icy thought that the ghosts had taken his friends below the surface of the water sent chills all over his body. He wondered why the ghosts would take his friends and leave him. His body pumped adrenaline.

He needed to get to the shore.

He needed to get help.

Carlton was about to start swimming, when a cold hand gripped his leg. He attempted to kick it off, but the cold grip was too strong. He wondered if anyone would know what had happened here on this fateful Halloween night. How their attempt to create their own legend had seen them uncover one that was true, one that was dark, and from which there was no escape. He wondered how the ghosts of the river had managed to go almost undetected for so long.

Carlton cursed his bad luck.

Tears swelled in his eyes.

He gave one final attempt to swim away, only to feel another hand grip his other leg.

More hands wrapped around his legs.

Carlton was pulled under.

He saw the moon, high in the nighttime Halloween sky, as he went below. Focusing, he kept staring at the moon, which became blurry from the water. A shape moved overhead, and for a second Carlton felt the warmth of hope burn in his chest, but it was immediately extinguished, along with it any thoughts of rescue.

The shape was only Nessie 2.0 floating by.

Calvin Demmer is a dark fiction author and HWA Member. His work has appeared in Bards and Sages Quarterly, Empyreome Magazine, Mad Scientist Journal, Ravenwood Quarterly, and others. When not writing, he is intrigued by that which goes bump in the night and the sciences of our universe.

You can find him online at www.calvindemmer.com or follow him on Twitter @CalvinDemmer.

Bunny and Clyde

by Lisa Vasquez

Clyde was sitting very still on his bed, staring at the basket in the center of his floor. Mother had left it for him, like she did every year, for Easter. And every year, the baskets became a little more different. When he was younger, the baskets were dressed up in beautiful pastel colors. Plastic grass would cascade over the sides, topped with chocolate candy, a myriad of simple toys, and dyed eggs all arranged happily within its cellophane wrapping. At the very top, she would tie a giant bow.

After his younger sister died, Clyde saw a change in his mother, too.

The change was mirrored by the appearance of the black woven basket sitting before him, filled with dirt. Not just any dirt. Dirt from his sister’s grave.

It was still dark outside, and the half-light from the windows behind him caused long shadows to appear along the walls. Clyde could feel the fear rising within him, as his heart kicked up the pace, bouncing around his ribcage, like a hummingbird.

“Clyyyyyde.”

The whisper preceded the screech of nails on glass. Her silhouette loomed, filling the window frame and darkening the room.

“Not again,” he whispered. “Please? Not again.”

“Play with me.”

A chill trickled down the young boy’s spine, like ice water sliding over each vertebra, one at a time.

“Go away!” Clyde shouted over his shoulder.

“Get up, sleepy head,” his mother whispered from the door. “It’s Easter. Get up, and come down for breakfast.”

Clyde jerked with a start and looked over at his mother. Her dark hair hung like curtains on either side of her slender face. The absence of glowing warmth, where the sun had once kissed her cheeks, was replaced by pasty alabaster skin. Once, her eyes were bright and loving, but now they were ringed in dark, bruise-colored circles. The contrast in color made them appear more menacing, and she was staring right through him, as if he wasn’t there.

When she turned away, he climbed out of bed and tiptoed to the door. He watched his mother disappear down the hall and into the kitchen before continuing to follow. He could smell the coffee brewing and hear her rummaging for a spoon in the silverware drawer. Turning back toward his room, he saw black fingers curling around the door jamb, and strands of matted hair, before the dark, metallic eye of his sister locked on him.

Clyde’s lungs froze, and he backed up too quickly, bumping into the table of family pictures. The one of his sister fell over.

“Play with me Clyde,” she called softly to him, again. He could hear her faint and warbled voice, as if she was still under water.

Backing away, he shook his head before running into his mother’s room. The curtains were still closed, leaving the room drenched in darkness. Even at eight years old, Clyde was still afraid of the dark ... especially now that he knew what lingered in it. He just wanted to be away from her.  Running for the bathroom, he opened the linen closet and climbed in behind the laundry basket, making himself as small as he could.

Closing his eyes, Clyde tried to control his breathing. It was coming in loud, frightened gasps, and his lungs worked overtime to bring oxygen to his brain.

“I hear you,” his mother said. Her voice was muffled by the space between the carpet and the bottom of the door.

Unable to find his own voice to call for her, he stayed frozen by fear in the cramped fetal position. Every year that passed, his sister seemed to grow stronger. Her ability to manifest changed from a ghostly apparition and whispers, to appearing on the physical plane. There were even nights he woke to her sitting on his chest, with her long, dark hair tickling his cheeks. The smell of chlorine would be strong on her breath, and the feel of her skin was bitter cold: so cold it made him shiver.

When he tried to cry for his mother, nothing came out. Just like now.

***

AFTER WHAT SEEMED LIKE a few hours, Clyde jerked awake. He had no way of telling how much time had passed, but the absence of light coming from beyond the closet door told him it must be night. He pushed the basket away with care, trying not to make a sound, then went to his knees, wrapping his fingers around the doorknob. Rotating it slowly, he cracked it open an inch and peered out.

There was no sound coming out of the darkness.

Pushing the door open wider, he emerged and crawled on all fours to the doorway leading to his mother’s attached bedroom. With the help of the dimly lit lamp on her bedside table, he could see she was asleep. Lying there with such a peaceful look on her face, her chest rose and fell below the blankets. It made him sad to think he could not remember the last time he saw her this way.

Rising to his feet, he tiptoed to her bed and stared down at her, hoping to extend the moment. He reached out to touch her, but pulled back, afraid that it might wake her. Let her sleep, he thought, she’s been through so much.

He took a step back; his mother’s eyes shot open, and she sat upright. She looked around the room and then at him, but it was as if she could not see him. Looking straight through him, she called out in a voice still lost in a dream, “Who’s there?”

“Momma it’s ok, it’s me.”

Clyde reached out for her, but his mother’s eyes drifted shut again, and she sank back onto her pillow. The corners of his mouth turned down and he did his best to hold back his tears. When he turned to leave, he saw the bottles of pills lined up neatly on the nightstand beside her.

“You didn’t open ... your basket,” she whispered from her pill coma.

“Sorry, momma,” he whimpered. “I’ll go right now and do it. I promise.”

He waited for a response, but she was already gone from consciousness, once again. Wiping his tears, Clyde left her there and crept toward his room. The hallway seemed to grow longer as he came nearer to the doorway where he’d last seen his sister appear. Plopping down in front of the basket, he let the tears fall freely onto his cheeks, stinging his skin with their salty heat. He wiped his sleeve under his nose, and reached for the basket. His eyes widened, as he watched as water began rising and spilling out of it.

Shoving himself back, his eyes widened as a hand rose from where the water saturated the dirt, turning it to mud. The hand, on which fingers were balled into a fist, opened one finger at a time, stretching into the air. Inch by inch, it pulled itself up until the arm became an elbow and then, like a baby being pushed into the world, the head began to crown.

There was a gushing of water, and he watched on in horror, witnessing as the basket folded open, and his sister’s shoulders emerged. With one hand free, she used it to pull herself up from whatever Hell she came from. Her blackened fingers scratched and clawed at the floorboards. The same scratching noise he always heard before she appeared.

“Go away!” he shouted at her, huddling tighter to the wall behind him, “You’re dead. Stay dead!”

The more his sister emerged, the more the water from the basket crept closer toward him. Her body turned, and she flopped onto her back like a breeching fish. Wet, black strands of hair covered her entire face, except for the one, cloudy black eye always watching him. Her blue skin expanded and contracted in time with the opening of her mouth. Was she trying to breathe? Her body erected itself, and she stared down at her estranged sibling before she collapsed. Her body flopped to the other side with a loud thud, pulling her other arm out. With both arms free, she used them to escape from the invisible grasp on her.

Reaching out to Clyde, she opened her mouth.  Dirty water, soiled with algae, leaves, and knots of her hair came spilling out. She was trying to speak. Her little lips moved, and he expected to hear his sister’s voice. Instead, the voice that came out was monstrous and sent chills through his already trembling body.

“Clyde. Please ... help.”

Shaking his head, he shut his eyes tight and cried. Fear wore him down. He could no longer bring himself to run and hide.

“Bunny, I can’t. You’re ...” his words hitched in his throat and he choked out a sob before he could finish the sentence, “You’re dead.”

Bunny rolled onto her stomach and pressed her face against the floor, her nose and mouth submerged by the water. Clyde crawled toward his sister, unable to fight against all the warnings screaming in his head. When he was close enough, she reached out and took hold of his wrist. He smiled for a split second, feeling the touch of his sister’s hand. It was real. As frightening as her appearance was, he never equated with the monster being her. But when her fingers tightened on his wrist, his smile melted into a grimace. He could feel the flow of blood stop and the sensation of pins and needles creeping through his fingers.

“Bunny, you’re hurting me! Let go!”

With a sharp pull, Clyde’s body slid against the floor, his pajama bottoms soaking up the water as she began to drag him toward her. Panic swelling within his chest, he thrashed against the unnatural strength of her grip. Bubbles appeared around her face, which was tilted slightly so she could stare at him, like always, through the part in her hair, as she continued to draw him closer.

Letting a scream out, Clyde used his free hand to strike at his sister, filling him with guilt with each blow he landed against the back of her head. After the fourth or fifth one, her grip released, and he bolted out of the room. He ran as fast as he could until he crashed into the wall next to the sliding glass door. Wanting to put as much distance between his sister and him as he could, he slid it open and ran out. He could still feel her breath tracing against the exposed skin of his neck.

Clyde turned his head to look behind him, and tripped when his foot was caught by the leg of one of the patio chairs. He watched the sky pass overhead as he fell into the pool, neglected since the day Bunny drowned in it.

When his body hit the water, his head slammed against the concrete deck, sending lightning bolts of pain throughout his skull and forcing his mouth to open wide. Bubbles of air escaped and rolled to the surface. Looking up, he saw Bunny standing there, silhouetted by the porch light behind her.

With a mouthful of water and blood seeping from his cut, Clyde tried to swim up for air, but his clothes were too loose and tangled around him, making it hard to move. He felt something hook onto his foot and looked down to see it was Bunny. Her fingers hooked into his pant leg, and she began to pull him toward the bottom of the pool with her.

His lungs burned, and his oxygen was depleted; he was going to die. Clyde kicked at his sister’s hand with wild abandon, but her hold was too strong. Unable to hold his breath any longer, he released it and felt the cool intake of water rush in.

***

LUCY SMILED AS SHE listened to her two children at play, running through the yard and chasing one another. She peeked out the window and saw Bunny was bouncing through the grass, a blue ribbon on her dress floating on the wind behind her. Following her was Clyde, reaching out for the end of it in his best Sunday suit.

“Don’t get dirty!” she called out, with a laugh, “We have church in thirty minutes!”

“OK, momma!” Clyde called back, amidst the fit of giggles.

The breakfast dishes were washed and dried, and she was putting them away when the phone rang. She looked out the window one more time before she picked it up.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Lucy. It’s me,” her husband said on the other end.

Lucy’s smile dropped, along with the color in her face, and her eyes welled with tears, “Bill?”

With the static on the other end, she could barely hear him speak. Pressing the phone into her ear, she used her finger to plug the other, hoping it would help.

“Bill, I—I can’t hear you,” her voice was shaking, as she leaned into the receiver, “C—can you speak up, Bill? Where are you?”

The other end of the line seemed to go dead. Lucy covered her mouth as she pressed against the wall and slid down. Unable to hold back, she let out a sob and tried to blink away her tears. Behind them, the world seemed to be under water and blurry. When the tears would not clear and she could not breathe, she clawed at her eyes and throat with one hand, while still gripping the phone in the other. The static on the line grew louder, followed by a sudden, high pitched screech. The noise was so loud, Lucy pulled the receiver away from her ear.

Dropping it on the floor, she felt relief as air filled rapidly into her lungs, and she used it to scream out, “Bill!”

An angry dial tone chopped through the small speaker of the earpiece. Lucy reached out for it again then stopped.

“Lucy! The children! Save the children!”

She let out a scream and scrambled to her feet, realizing she had not heard Bunny and Clyde’s laughter the entire time. When she got to the sliding glass door, she threw it open and looked around. She couldn’t see either one of them.

Lucy’s stomach dropped, and her lungs constricted. It felt like they were squeezing her heart toward her throat. The pressure against the pounding muscle caused her chest to ache and her head to swim. Adrenaline jolted through her veins, flicking on the switch turning “helpless” into “action,” and she ran toward the pool. When she looked down, she could see the cover of the pool had fallen in.

“No!” she screamed, falling to her knees. Leaning closer, she peered into the murky water and saw a shadow. “Clyde? Oh my God, Clyde! Give me your hand!”

She reached out toward him, drawing herself nearer, until she could see his face. His big, brown eyes were open, but the light was gone from them. He was floating there, still and serene, as if suspended in time. For a moment, she felt like he was cradled in a state of serenity, waiting for her to save him.

“It’s ok, baby. Give me your hand,” she sobbed, “Momma’s here ... give me your hand, Clyde!”

There was a sudden jerk of his body, and a split second of awareness, before his final breath left his body, forcing a trail of bubbles to her. When his body went limp again, he floated down, lost to the black-green depths, out of range to the sounds of her screams, echoing above.

The scream from the dream was dragged out with Lucy into the darkness of the room where she was sleeping. It had been three years since she lost her children. They kept telling her it would get easier, but it didn’t. It only got harder.

After her husband died, and left her with two small children, and then to lose them three years later, she could only fall asleep with the aid of the medicine her doctor prescribed. It didn’t stop the reoccurring nightmares, which were progressing, and becoming more real. She focused on her breathing, a technique used to calm her down, when she felt a chill creep across her arm. Looking down, she could see by the light of the lamp on her bedside table, the fine hairs standing straight up. Her skin had dimpled to the drop in the air’s temperature.

Though she was afraid to look, she forced her head to turn. She could see them. They were real. A set of dirty footprints. By the size of them she could tell they were from a small child, and they lead into her room from the hallway, where her children’s room remained untouched.

Lisa Vasquez is the CEO of STITCHED SMILE PUBLICATIONS, the Publisher’s Liaison for HORROR WRITERS ASSOCIATION and the Founder of its local Houston Chapter, and the owner-dubbed, “Book Cover Goddess” -of DARQUE HALO DESIGNS. She holds court in the Houston Vampire Court, where she is known as “Countess Halo” to those who frequent NUMBERS NIGHTCLUB.

She began writing privately in the 4th grade until she decided to share her dark vision with the rest of the world, starting with her debut novella, THE UNSAINTLY, a prequel to the novel THE UNSAINTLY: THE ANTI-GOD due out in 2018.

She has a big, beautiful family-both in Houston, and in Chicago where she was born and raised. She dedicates her time helping other authors through mentoring, and volunteers as a Crisis Counselor for Crisis Textline during her downtime.

When she’s not writing, Lisa likes to collect spooky collectibles and geek out with her fans.

Links:

www.unsaintly.com

www.facebook.com/unsaintlyhalo

Twitter @unsaintly, Instagram @unsaintly

https://unsaintlybook.wordpress.com

Beyond the Ocean

by Lisa Lane

“This was a bad idea.” I went to the dresser and started moving my clothes back to the suitcase, letting Keith know with my abrupt movements I meant business.

Keith remained seated at the foot of the king-sized bungalow bed. “Will you stop?”

“We’re going to lose everything. Everything! We have nothing left to recover with. Are you ready to lose the house?”

“We’re not going to lose the house.”

“How? Would you please explain that to me? How are we not going to lose the house?”

He rose to his feet, his eyes wide and his jaw clenched, and I shrank back as he loomed over me. He looked like he was going to respond, only to tighten his lips and stare that way he did when he might or might not finish the disagreement with a raised hand instead of words alone.

“Would you just trust me?” he finally said.

“I want to, I really do.”

“But ...?” His eyes dared me to shoot him down again.

I wanted to. I wanted to scream at him for all the shady, underhanded dealings he’d made to get us neck-deep in so many holes. Choices he’d made, not me. I’d opened a respectable business, and he’d turned it into a chop shop. He’d brought in the “side jobs.” He’d done all the damage; I’d just been too spineless to get in his way.

And now, it was all coming crashing down—on both of us.

What was a week at the timeshare going to change? The ocean air wasn’t going to clear our names. Maybe he thought it would be harder for me to run away from him if he had me stuck on the beach in Cabo. Maybe that was what he’d wanted all along, to have me trapped.

I turned away, unwilling to fuel his anger. I’d learned I could only say so much before the man turned into a beast, and there was nothing I could say to satisfy it. The rages could be horrifying, and for that alone, I should’ve walked away years ago. His face would transform right before my eyes, shifting into something a little less human. His eyes would fall between angry slits and wild, gaping orbs. Sweat would trickle down the sides of his face, and the veins in his temples would protrude. He’d growl sometimes between fast, heavy breaths, panting until he foamed at the mouth.

If he got to that point, the man would be temporarily gone, and all the creature left behind would be able to see was red. I could plead, I could cry, I could shut down. It didn’t matter. Whatever he was going to do would have to run its course, and then the man would eventually return, and at the realization of what he had done, he would find it was his turn to cry and plead and beg, only to a different tune: Forgive me.

I had forgiven so much over the years. He’d called my kindness for the weakness it was, and he’d used it every chance he could. Took me a long time to realize I was being manipulated. Still, I didn’t walk away.

Maybe I’d turned a blind eye on the business for too long. Maybe I didn’t want to know how bad it really was, because money was finally coming in. Pouring in, actually. Who wants to admit their success all rests on a foundation built with someone else’s dirty money? What reason would I have to suspect? Keith insisted he had a keen business sense, and I trusted him. He was, if nothing else, a smooth talker.

Especially when other people’s money was involved.

“We’ll just lay low here for a while,” he said calmly, although I could tell he was still looking for a reason to explode.

Mindful of setting him off, I asked simply, “For how long?”

“However long we need to.”

I thought to remind him this was a timeshare, but then decided against it. I might not be able to diffuse him, but I needed do what I could to keep the situation from escalating. The control thrust from my grip, I struggled to keep from falling into a panic. Panic attacks really pissed him off. He said they were my attempt to make him feel guilty for getting angry. At least that’s how the monster-him saw it.

“We got enough to get by for a little while,” he continued. “Trust me, things’ll cool off, and then we can start over. A fresh, new start. How’s that sound?”

I nodded. What could I say?

“So, how about we get something that either comes out of a coconut or has a little umbrella—preferably both—find somewhere comfortable on the beach, and then watch the sunset?”

I nodded again.

We didn’t make it in time for the sunset, but we were able to enjoy a serene twilight. The fine, white sand was still warm on our bare feet, and we sat side by side in our little lounge chairs, pretending the tension between us wasn’t as heavy as it really was. The umbrella-embellished drinks didn’t help.

Out of the blue he said, “Don’t think about trying to turn me in to save your ass, because I will kill you if you try to pull any bullshit on me. Got it?”

He’d never directly threatened my life like that, and I didn’t try to hide my disgust. He’d crossed a line, one that spoke new volumes about his character. A knot formed in my throat, but I kept my thoughts to myself.

He grabbed my arm and gave it a light yank, forcing eye contact. “Got it?”

I nodded.

He let go.

Another couple passed by, waved and smiled.

Keith finished his drink and stood. “Let’s go back to the room, eh? We can try out that Jacuzzi bathtub.”

I didn’t want to go back. I could see him teetering over that edge, and the thought of being alone with him sent a cold flash seizing down my spine. He had an intensity to his face that told me he wanted to let the monster loose; he craved the release.

I stayed in my chair. “Couldn’t we stay a little longer? It’s so nice out.”

“I think we should go.” He tried to pull me up, but I shrugged away his hand. He stared for a moment, looked around, and then leaned in close. “We’re leaving.”

I stared back, hugging my seat.

He took another look around before he tore me out of the seat by my hair then flung the chair into the incoming tide. I went to chase after it, but he stopped me.

“Very mature.” I yanked free from his grip and retrieved the chair before a wave could claim it.

When I turned back around, he was right behind me, and he shoved me backward with a sadistic grin. I staggered, limbs flailing, but ultimately, I couldn’t recover quickly enough and a small wave splashed over me. I sat there, dumbfounded as the cold crest hit, leaving me shivering and wet.

He expected me to rush to my feet, seething into the breeze, sand everywhere it shouldn’t be. Instead I stared up, finding his eyes, and crab-walked into the tide. He tried to come after me, but I found a drop in the sand and kicked off. I watched his face go from angry to concerned while I floated on my back, fluttering my feet to add to the distance between us.

“What are you doing? It’ll be dark soon.”

“Come get me then,” I called over the water.

“You know I can’t swim!”

I suddenly felt so free. I could breathe. I flipped him off.

“Bitch!”

I dropped into a backstroke. “Sorry, couldn’t hear you over the waves.”

“You’ll have to come in sometime,” he yelled.

I stopped and shifted my body upright to tread water. I’d swam a good distance, but he was right. I would eventually have to swim back in. For the time being, I wasn’t going to worry about it. If he wanted to slap me silly once I finally went back, then that was what he was going to do. He wasn’t going to take this perfect moment away from me.

In a surprise move of his own, he pulled his keys from his shorts pocket and jingled them in a threat to leave early after all—without me.

I waved.

Then the son of a bitch called my bluff and walked away. I watched for him to return, and I could only guess as to whether he went to the room or the car, but I stayed just beyond wading depth until I felt sure he was actually gone.

I shook violently, wishing more than anything for a towel when the air hit my wet skin. With no signs of Keith, I found a small rock to sit on and wrapped my arms around myself. I hoped he might get in the car and speed off in an angry daze. I fantasized one of the many deaths my mind had concocted over the years, my wishful thinking. In this scenario, he’s so blinded by rage he doesn’t see a red light. He swerves, realizing his mistake a second too late, and wraps himself around a power line to avoid hitting some poor schlep. The guy, innocent as he is, would probably hate himself for the rest of his life for his part in Keith’s death, never knowing the favor he’d done the world by taking such a monster off the streets.

I’d be sad, of course, but also relieved. Keith wasn’t always terrible to me. We’d had some good times. Still, the fates would have done what I couldn’t. He’d be gone, and no one could demonize me for leaving sweet, charming Keith. I’d be off the hook, and I’d be free. No more mind games or physical assaults, no more lies or crooked “side jobs.”

I had a life insurance policy out on him, so I’d survive for a while. He probably had a policy out on me too, although I wasn’t specifically aware of one. I knew him well enough, though, and the better I knew him, the more I feared him.

I’d considered leaving whenever he got especially bad, but somehow, he’d always find a way to convince me things would be better next time. He found ways to soothe my memories, repaint the bad ones with softer versions of themselves that left me questioning my past judgments. Had it really been all that bad, or might I have been a little hysterical about one or two key points? And when it came to discovering my lover was capable of such criminal behaviors, denial was only a natural first response, especially after all that conditioning. No one wants to see something that dark in the person they love. But even in the face of that evil, something then makes the parts that aren’t evil more important. More denial, but on a much more profound level. Until the breaking point finally comes.

I can’t say what exactly I was thinking when I stepped back into the water. I knew logically I should stop, but I didn’t. In my mind, if only I walked far enough from Keith, I could find peace. Maybe there was a place beyond the ocean, somewhere I could hide away from all the pain and fear ... if I just walked far enough. It didn’t need to make sense. Emotion drove me forward.

I charged into the wave, gasping at the cold. My movements slowed, the undertow tugging at my feet. I walked until I hit a dip in the ocean floor, and then I went under, exhaling deeply to expel the buoyancy, letting my body drop far below the tide. My lungs didn’t hold for long before I felt the immense pressure to inhale, and then the panic hit me.

I clawed and kicked at the water, looking up, but it had gotten too dark for me to gauge my distance to the surface. I held out as long as I could, then even a few seconds longer, but the impulse became too strong. The salty water rushed down my throat, flooded my lungs, and my stung my nose. I coughed it out with a few last trickles of air, only to suck in another flood of water. The inhalation that followed came with surprisingly ease ... like breathing thick air. I breathed it out without another spasm, the urge to cough having left me the moment that last bubble exited my lungs. As relieved as I was my discomfort proved minimal, I could also feel the strength emptying from my muscles, the oxygen in my blood nearly at its end. I reached desperately for anything that might pull me up before it was too late, but the surface was still nowhere in sight. I kicked, I grabbed, I grasped. My limbs grew heavy. Movements slowed. Muscles fell limp.

Tunnel vision.

Darkness.

#

WHEN I BECAME AWARE of myself again, I could only vaguely sense my surroundings. Had I left my body? How could I be sure? Was I even dead, or had someone pulled me out?

No ... I couldn’t feel myself breathing. I couldn’t feel anything at all. I had no idea where I was. I couldn’t perceive anything but the darkness. I noticed a vague sense of motion every once in a while, but I wasn’t doing any of the moving. I became more acutely aware of myself, and I realized I was stiff ... and I felt fairly certain I was bobbing. As faint as the motion was, it was there.

But what was I doing, and how had I gotten there?

I felt something, but I couldn’t place it at first. The tug of cloth ... wisps of hair lightly brushing by. I was still somewhere in the water, and somehow, I was still conscious. A dying brain, maybe? But then why had everything gone black, only to slowly return?

I felt my body soften over the course of some time, then go limp. Still, I couldn’t move.

This is a nightmare, that’s what this is.

I waited to wake up. Waited ... waited.

I thought my mind was playing tricks on me when I caught the first glimmers of light, like random bursts of baby blue stardust flying across a black sky. I floated closer, only to find the specs of light enveloping me, surrounding me. They came in flashes and waves, and when they lit from the right angles, I could see I was indeed still underwater.

A pale hand ... my hand.

I wanted so desperately to scream, but I had no breath. I wanted to scramble to the surface, but my limbs betrayed me. The flecks of light flashed with the agitation of my clothing flailing through the current, and I recognized the phenomenon as one that naturally occurred with the red tide. Tiny organisms glowed for brief moments with the smallest agitation, lighting up the water all around them. They seemed attracted to me, and the glowing became more frequent and more intense, until all the water around me shimmered with an otherworldly brilliance. I felt hope fill me. This all seemed too perfect, too beautiful, and I became convinced this was what it had to look like when a soul was crossing realms. I was ready.

But then the glowing faded off into the distance, and still there I remained, locked in a body that couldn’t breathe, couldn’t hear, couldn’t so much as twitch a finger.

If I’m dead, how can I see? How can I feel?

I considered the possibility that my mind was playing more tricks on me. Had I seen what I thought I’d seen? Had I seen anything, or had it all been a phantom generated in my dead brain? Could dead brains think?

I felt my feet drag through sand and rock, but as much as I could perceive the snags, I didn’t feel any discomfort of any kind. No pain ....

But how long could this possibly go on? Something had to have gone wrong. No one had warned me this could happen, whatever this was. There was no possible way my brain could continue functioning this long. I’d been underwater for the better part of the night. When did the lights finally go out for good? I’d had enough of this. What was there left to see?

I waited for a dissolution that would never come.

Morning arrived, and I watched the sun trickle in from overhead. I could see how far below I really was, but I was grateful for the view, dim as it was. The darkness had been enveloping, like it might have the power to claim the remaining bits of my soul if it really wanted to. With the sunlight came new hope: This has to be moving toward some kind of end.

Fish casually swam past me. Some stopped to peck a bite or two of flesh from the corpse floating past them, and I’d have shuddered if I could’ve summoned the muscle response. One colorful little bugger felt it necessary to sample my eyeball, and I slapped it away in my mind. Of course, nothing moved the creature, not outside my thoughts, so I watched its little fish lips come up to the lens and ... peck, peck. Just a blink, a twitch of one muscle, would have chased it off. Why couldn’t I force just one tiny response?

Might this be Hell?

Seemed I’d been damned for my suicide, even if I had tried at the end to turn it around. I’d rejected my life, condemned my body. Now, I had no choice but to see it through. I worked out the logical punishment; for my great sin, my soul was trapped in this bobbing cell, and I would have to suffer through my thoughts until the fish picked me clean.

With that new goal in sight, I persevered.

The fish became more plentiful. A murky haze followed me wherever I floated, clouds of fluids and tissue collecting wherever a gathering formed. The sensation of endless picking over every possible inch of me grew maddening. While it didn’t hurt, I felt like my skin ... my eyes ... my insides, were crawling nonstop with tiny bugs. They rummaged through my mouth and part of my throat, picked under my fingernails, and squirmed up the caverns of my nasal passages. They ate away at my eyes in droves, and I watched my view diminish until nothing but blackness remained once more.

The feel of their feasting waned shortly thereafter, and I understood they’d reached my bones in many areas. When would they destroy my brain? This had to end soon. I couldn’t imagine that much of me endured, but then again, I wasn’t left with much for assessing it.

Time soon lost all meaning. Without the senses, what is a day? A week? A year? I couldn’t tell day from night. One moment simply moved into the next, and then the next ... and it kept going, going, going. Dread became my only companion, my thoughts fixated on that one important question: How much longer must I endure this?

I often went back to that night, replaying the series of events that led me out to sea. Sometimes, the end was different; I’d stop as the first reaches of the tide hit my ankles, I’d turn around, and I’d face whatever temporary horror awaited. I’d live to see another sunrise, even if my life had turned down such an impossibly dark road. Then the very permanence of my decision would bring swells of grief back through me, and the scenario would play out again—this time, the way it really happened.

I would try to remember what it felt like to feel—to really feel. So many sensations. I lamented them all, even the unpleasant ones. Even pain. Since time eluded me, I couldn’t know for sure, but eventually I had to accept that my brain couldn’t possibly still be intact. From the absolute lack of all senses, I had to have been skeletonized for some time.

Was my consciousness trapped inside my very bones, or had I moved on and just not realized it, my mind left forever in this senseless void? Was this to be the rest of my eternity?

My thoughts wandered for what had to be years. Sometimes I prayed for what felt like weeks on end: Please take me from this place. I would have taken being pulled entirely from existence over facing another second alone with my thoughts.

But it all continued on, and despair claimed me.

Then, a slight tickle ... and then a little more than slight. I honed in on it, struggling to identify the sensation, but I couldn’t place it. Another spot started in a different area. Soon after that, another. I still couldn’t tell what I was feeling—but I was feeling. I still desperately wanted out, but at least now I had this new distraction to process.

The spots expanded and multiplied, but unperceivably slow. If I pushed my thoughts elsewhere for an estimated few days or a week, I’d notice the difference when I went back to it. Something was growing into me, and somehow we were becoming a part of one another. As we progressed, I could tell the structure was hard, but sensations of softness also brushed through.

My solidity continued to develop until I could tell where my head had once been just as easily as where my limbs now piled over one another. The formations gave me a new body, one fastened to the ocean floor. With that new body came new life, but not like it had once been. I had become a part of something larger than me, a system rather than a single being. From my armored growths burst forth underwater blooms and spiny, wriggling creatures. Fins flittered against me and explored my terrain. The gentle current caressed me, calming my spirit. The music of whales ran through my pores, their songs telling tales of ancient mariners and hidden lockers and St. Elmo’s fire burning in the sky. They sang of secrets known only to the tides, our exclusive covenant. I sang back through waves of anemones and dances of starfish.

Sometimes, when we cease to be one thing, I realized, we become something entirely new. I had once defined myself by what I’d perceived as success: a thriving business, retirement investment accounts, things. Life had once been all about one-upping the Joneses ... having the better car, the better house, the better phone. It had all been so material. When I’d been stripped of all that, I realized I was all I’d ever had. What were all those trinkets, all those gadgets, all that trash worth to me now? What did they mean to the sea?

When the mind is all that remains, when day and night have fused into one endless loop and the world has fallen into quiet darkness, when you realize the reality you once knew has fallen to the wayside, beyond all recovery, that is when you understand: Our thoughts are all we really have; they are all we really are.

My senses have dulled. I’ve hardened. I’ve transformed. I can still feel the caress of the tide rushing past me, but just barely. In my thoughts, I can still see. I can still talk and move and breathe, but I can’t take any of those functions past that one small series of events. It is as though I’m trapped in time, the recollections coming in through a will of their own. I don’t fight it anymore. The punishment fits the crime.

Sometimes I wonder if I might have summoned the courage to turn around if only I’d dug a little deeper, really given myself a fair shot. But then, no matter how many times I replay it all in my mind, the outcome is always eventually the same.

I always end up here.

Lot’s wife transformed into a pillar of salt for turning back; I became this for keeping the course. While I grieved my old life for many years, I also found the human spirit has an adaptability we far too often take for granted. People learn to live without limbs; they cope after losing their eyesight or one of their faculties, because that’s what people do. We endure. To say I’m happy with this existence I’ve fallen into would be less than truthful, but I have learned to accept it, and acceptance is a good step toward inner peace.

There is nothing beyond the ocean anymore, not as far as I’ve found.

Just my thoughts. Just the tide.

Becoming one.

Leigh M. Lane has been writing science fiction and horror for over twenty-five years. While most of her works carry elements of dystopian and psychological horror, she is not averse to delving into the gritty and the extreme.

www.cerebralwriter.com

facebook.com/leighmlane

Dark Water

by Lillian Csernica

I’d been working in the parking kiosk by the beach for about a month when I started to notice little things. Clumps of seaweed spaced like footprints leading up to the edge of the sand in front of the kiosk. Seashells piled by the bench where I ate a sandwich before my shift. If I walked all the way down to the breakers, I’d find something washed up there, a diver’s watch or a sports bottle, or some other useful item.

At first, I figured I was just lucky. It kept on happening, and only to me. When I asked the guys on the day shift if they’d noticed anything weird, Chuck and Dave gave me funny looks and laughed, telling me I was crazy. Maybe they were right.

The kiosk sat at one end of the lot, next to the exit lane. Tuesday night, I chained my bike to the rack behind the kiosk then stepped inside and set my book bag on the shelf under the counter. On the back of the door was the bulletin board. A memo from my supervisor Roy was thumbtacked to it, reminding all of us to check the far corners of the lot. We’d had trouble in the past with bums sleeping over, kids necking, people doing drug deals. Lately, I’d been avoiding those corners. They were closest to the beach, right where I’d find the seaweed tracks. Now I’d have to go all the way out there.

I turned my chair sideways and faced the cars. The radio and my textbooks would keep my imagination busy. Only a few people came in and out of the lot. Roy had warned me how slow it would be Monday through Thursday nights. That was all right with me. The shorter junior college summer schedule meant tests were already coming up.

When the fog rolled in, it blurred the parking lines just enough to make the kiosk feel like an island about to be swallowed by the sea. At closing time, I had to check the lot for any last cars and hang the chain across the entrance. That meant walking all the way out to those corners. I felt a queasy flutter in my stomach as I stuffed the kiosk’s flashlight in my jacket pocket and stepped outside.

The waves crashed against the beach. They sounded louder, closer. All that stood between them and me were a lot of empty parking spaces. The fog was so thick it stuck to my face like spiderwebs. The salt taste made my stomach churn. I settled for shining the flashlight’s beam into the far corners, looking for the red gleam of taillights. I didn’t see any, so I circled back around the kiosk to the entrance. I fastened the clasp at the end of the chain to the pole on the other side of the entrance, then started walking back toward the kiosk.

The chain rattled. I spun around. Through the misty columns of light thrown by the streetlights, a thin shadow floated toward me. A hand, long-fingered and bony, reached for me. I jumped back.

“Have I startled you? Forgive me.” The hand was attached to an older man wearing a blue blazer over a gray sweater and slacks. His smile was friendly, but the angle of the streetlight hid his eyes. “I’m William Corbett. My friends call me Bill.” He sounded like one of my professors. “I take it you’re the new night man?”

“That’s right.” His hand was still out. I shook it. “Jim Thompson.”

“A lonely task this is, but fine if you like the sea.”

“I don’t.”

“No? What a pity. May I ask why?”

I shrugged. If Chuck and Dave thought I was nuts, I’d better not tell anyone else. “I just—I feel like it’s coming to get me. That’s all.”

“How sad. The sea is your friend. Your brain swims in it with every pulse of your blood.”

That thought was so repulsive I clenched my eyes shut against it. Bill chuckled.

“I suspect you have a touch of thalassaphobia. That’s the morbid fear of the sea.”

“What do you know about it?”

“Quite a lot. You see, my wife was just the opposite. She loved the sea, and it loved her.” His voice hardened. “It loved her to death.”

“Oh. Well. I have to go now.” I backed toward the kiosk.

“Are you tired of being a slave to your fear? I can cure it.”

That stopped me. “Are you serious?”

He pulled a gold card case out of his breast pocket, opened it, and held out a business card. I took it. He had a string of letters after his name, the address of an office in the expensive part of town, and three phone numbers. I recognized one.

“You work at North Valley?”

“On a consulting basis. Students are referred to me when their difficulties fall under my specialty.”

“What’s that?”

“Anxieties and phobias. Rather a lucky coincidence that we met, yes?”

“I don’t know. I mean, I can’t really afford—”

“Please.” He held up one hand. “Thalassaphobia is relatively rare. I’d welcome the opportunity to learn more about it.”

“You really know something that will work?”

“We can certainly give it a try. Say tomorrow night, after your shift?”

“Okay.”

“Until tomorrow, then.” He walked off across the parking lot.

I stared after him. The clothes, the fancy card, all those degrees: he had to be for real. Maybe I did have this phobia thing, but at least I wasn’t crazy.

#

MY WEDNESDAY SHIFT crawled by. The stink of the sea reminded me of my old Biology text, making me think of the nasty little monsters that live in coral reefs. In the back of my mind, I’d always thought something evil lurked down in the dark water, waiting for a chance to grab my ankles and drag me under. Its fishy, lidless eyes watched me. Now, I knew there was no monster. It was just this phobia thing.

By 10:30 the lot was empty. I fastened the chain across the entrance and hurried back to the kiosk, keeping an eye on the blurry shadows. Bill was waiting by the door. He pulled a flask out of his jacket pocket and handed it to me.

“Take a good dose of that.”

I took a sip. The scotch burned a trail down my throat and warmed my stomach.

“Now,” Bill said, “let’s get you out where we can do you some good.”

He led me along the empty boardwalk and up the pier to the railing. Bill stared down at the water, then up at the stars.

“It’s a marvelous world we live in, Jim. The more we make friends with it, the more it reveals its marvels to us.”

“Some marvels I’d rather not see.”

“You have to confront the fear before you can conquer it.” He stared out at the water. “The sea waits to conquer you. Any slip, any carelessness, and it will strike.”

“You mean—your wife?”

“We were out in the Caribbean, on a friend’s yacht. Rosalind insisted on going for a swim.” His breath hissed out between his teeth. “The seaweed trapped her. Before I could dive in and cut her free, it was too late.”

“How awful.” The weird look on his face made me nervous.

“The sea embraced her like a lover.” He glared down at the waves. “A cold, merciless, demanding lover.”

I backed off a step. That snapped him out of it.

“Let’s get started. Close your eyes and listen to the water. Can you hear the breakers?”

I nodded.

“They crest, and break.” His voice eased down to a deep whisper. “Crest, and break. Just like your breath. Feel the rhythm of your breath, Jim. Sink into it.”

I listened. My breath slowed until it matched the sound of the waves. I still felt edgy, but more about Bill than the water.

“Listen to the tide, Jim. Listen to your heartbeat, pumping all that salt water through your veins.” His voice rolled over me, heavy and soft. “Hear the gentle tide inside your body, and the gentle tide outside it too. All the same, Jim. All the same. Your heart and the sea’s, beating together.”

I listened, feeling calmer.

“The sea is your friend, Jim. You do want to be friends with the sea, don’t you? You want to be happy and calm, like you are right now.”

“Yes ...”

“Reach out to the sea, Jim. Show it you want to be friends.”

My right hand moved a little. I thought of Bill’s wife trapped in the seaweed, and those seaweed tracks outside the kiosk. I tensed up again.

“I can’t.”

“Tell me why, Jim. Why does the sea frighten you?”

The answer came out before I could stop it. “I keep finding things. Little stuff, just shells and tracks in the sand and little presents. I thought maybe they were for somebody else, but it just keeps happening. I mean, am I paranoid or what?”

“Not at all.” He didn’t say anything for a minute. “That’s how it always starts. The sea gives, but it always wants to be paid back.”

Before I could ask him what he meant, he pushed me closer to the rail.

“I suspect your fear of the sea might be just a symptom of something deeper. Think, now. Think back to when you were a little boy.”

His voice weighed me down again, sending me back through memories. I remembered salt stinging my eyes and a bad taste in my mouth as I threw up. Then it all came back. I was six, at the beach. My father hoisted me up over his head and carried me way out into the waves. We were both laughing. Then he threw me in. I kept fighting my way to the surface, screaming for help. Dad just stood there and yelled at me to swim. Finally, my sister swam out and carried me back to shore. Old shame and anger flooded me, hot and ugly. I shoved away from the rail. Bill’s hands on my shoulders kept me there.

“I’m right here, Jim. Everything is fine. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“My father—he thought it was so funny. He threw me in and left me there.” Tears welled up, choking off my voice. “I was screaming, thrashing around. He just stood there laughing.”

“I see. Could it be, Jim, that your real problem is your rage at your father? You’re really afraid of what might happen if you turned that rage loose.”

I stopped straining backward. That made sense. My sister and I weren’t allowed to get angry at Dad, could never show any sign of it. I started to cry harder, feeling stupid and awful and better all at once. Bill patted me on the back.

“You’ve achieved quite a breakthrough. All that’s left now is to replace your old fear of the sea with good associations. When I tell you it’s all right now, you’ll have no fear of the sea at all. Understand?” I nodded. “Wake up now.”

Bill snapped his fingers right in front of my face. I jerked back. My eyes opened.

“There now,” he said. “Have a look at the water and tell me how you feel.”

I glanced at the water, shrugged. “No problem.”

“Excellent. Shall we try again tomorrow night? We’ll have an opportunity we must not miss.”

“An opportunity for what?” There was something about his smile, a manic eagerness, I didn’t like.

“The moon will be full. The power of its light will chase the darkness out of the water and cure your fear.”

That didn’t sound like anything I’d read in my psych texts. “Sounds more like magic than psychology.”

He gave me an odd look, then laughed. “There’s a little of both in each.”

Something still bothered me. “I can see how Dad being a jerk started all this, but what about the stuff I keep finding?”

Bill waved that away. “It’s probably nothing more than a mild delusion. You wish your father would apologize, perhaps by giving you toys. Since you can’t confront him directly, you’ve transferred that wish to the sea itself.”

That made a strange kind of sense. “Look, I’d really like to thank you for your help. Can I buy you dinner or something?”

He shook his head, smiling that same disturbing smile. “Tomorrow night will settle a number of debts.”

#

THE NEXT NIGHT AFTER closing, I met Bill at the end of the pier. Over his sweater and slacks, he wore a poncho of black silk. Seagull feathers, fish bones, chipped seashells, and bits of colored glass decorated it. As I got closer, I could see silvery symbols embroidered onto the cloth. He had on a necklace of cowrie shells. A flat circle of mother-of-pearl hung off it. More symbols were scratched onto that.

“Hey, Bill,” I said. “What’s all that for?”

“The Orb of Dreams and the Sphere of Conquest stand side by side in the heavens, with Venus suspended between them. On such a night can miracles occur.”

“What are you talking about?”

He blinked at me, then chuckled. “Psychodrama. Shamans have been curing people with it for thousands of years.”

He made it sound perfectly natural, but something about that getup bothered me. He’d put a lot of time into it, so he couldn’t have made it just for me.

“First, a toast for luck.” He handed me his flask. I took a swig. The Scotch had a peculiar gritty edge to it. He probably got sand in the cap. I handed it back.

“Now watch the water,” he said. “See how it swirls. Follow it, around and around. Sink into the rhythm of the water. Feel it in your breath, in your blood.”

The scotch filled me with its bracing fire. The heat moved out of my stomach and along my arms and legs, up into my head. My tongue felt thick. My eyes swung back and forth with the current. The swirl of the water wobbled and blurred.

He pulled me away from the rail and made me sit on the bench near the stairway that led down to the fishing platforms below the pier.

“Stay right here.” He hurried down the stairs.

Something was very wrong. I tried to stand up. None of my muscles even twitched. Hypnotism was supposed to make you suggestible, but not turn you into a robot. What had the old man done to me? The scotch. It had to be whatever made the scotch taste funny.

“Please.” Bill’s voice came from right below me. “I’ve waited so long. The stars, the tide, everything is in place.”

The waves hit the pilings. I heard a hiss like steam shooting out of a bad radiator.

“Haven’t I served you? You’ve taken everything, my youth, my love, my life itself!”

A slow hiss answered him.

“You thought you’d trap him with your petty trinkets, didn’t you? You’ll have him, all right, but only if you give me what you promised!” He hurried up the stairs and put a hand on my shoulder. “Come along, Jim. It’s all right now.”

I felt no fear of the water, but I was terrified of him. Even so, my body stood up and followed him. I felt like an engineer trapped inside a runaway train. I took one step after another down to the slimy, barnacle-crusted platform. It rocked a little with the strength of the rising tide. Bill grabbed a fistful of my jacket and jerked me right up to the platform’s edge.

“Come here, Jim. Look at the water. Let it see you.”

The water down here was dark, dark enough to smother the moonlight, dark enough to make every one of my coral reef nightmares come alive. My heart nearly pounded a hole right through my ribs. I begged my frozen muscles to run.

“Luna and Venus link arms in the heavens,” Bill chanted. “Lovers return from graves long filled. The gates of death swing wide on hinges oiled by blood your priests have spilled!”

A larger wave sloshed onto the platform. Little wavelets ran toward my shoes. Nodding, Bill cackled. He made a paler shadow against the dark water. The bits of glass on his poncho glittered at me like lidless eyes: those fishy, lidless eyes. Raw panic exploded inside me. Straining as hard as I could, I dragged one foot back from the edge.

Bill stared at the water, looking confused, then furious. “Here he is, just as I promised. Now give me Rosalind!”

The water did nothing but stroke the toes of my sneakers. Bill growled and thrust a hand under his poncho. He pulled out a fishing knife and reached for me. The waves heaved beneath the platform. My one moving foot skidded in the slime, and I fell over. Bill staggered backward, teetering on the platform’s edge. A wall of dark water rose up behind him. I stared at it, praying it was only the drug in the scotch making me see things. Anything else meant this was real. The dark water crashed down over Bill. For a second I saw him trapped inside it, slashing at the water with the knife. Then it sank. I dragged myself to the edge of the platform and watched Bill disappear into the gloom. He fought all the way down.

I rolled over and sprawled on my back, still sluggish. The panic screamed at me to get away before the water grabbed me too. I tried to sit up. A stronger wave splashed across the platform. Something rattled. It was Bill’s cowrie shell necklace. Another present, from the sea.

The waves lifted the platform again, gentler this time, like they were rocking me. I touched the necklace with a cautious fingertip. The sea had never hurt me. That was just my father being a jerk. The dark water had saved my life. I sat up and dropped the necklace down over my head. The mother-of-pearl circle gleamed. My heartbeat slowed, beating in time with the waves that kissed the pilings and drew back like shy lovers.

The sea was my friend.

What Storms Bring

by K.C. Griffant

Rosie had a venerable collection of talismans for emergency readiness, the most impressive of which was her waterproof to-go knapsack. In the straining nylon, objects of survival interlocked like a box puzzle: a water bottle, batteries, socks, bar soap, toothpaste, two cans of navy beans with the easy lift-off top, candles, and a lighter.

On her coffee table, a flashlight rose singular and stark, a miniature testament to her readiness, a silo of technological fortitude. She had been lucky to get it. Yesterday, under a sky bloated with the weight of the impending storm, she fled from store to store ravished by panicked consumers, finally spotting a corner of a flashlight’s plastic casing that had slipped behind a rack of sympathy cards at the pharmacy.

Schools, subways, and offices across the region had already shut down for the day, as the hurricane was predicted to turn inland and merge with a growing nor’easter into a superstorm. Headlines on news pages grew in monstrous red print:

“LANDFALL OF PERFECT STORM IMINENT IN TWO HOURS”

“COASTAL AREAS SLAMMED WITH RECORD WAVES”

Rosie was about to click a link to “HEAVY WINDS TOPPLING TREES IN 2 DEATHS ALREADY” when she heard a bang outside.

She hurried to her first-floor bedroom window. There wasn’t anyone at the door, just a small Halloween decoration of a homemade cloth ghost flapping on a string. The upstairs tenants were out of town and had texted asking if she could please bring in their yard decorations before the storm. Rosie had gathered everything else, but when she got to the dirty fabric and cavernous eyes of the makeshift ghost, she decided she would say it blew away.

Back inside she picked up her flashlight. She ran her finger over the button in the back, pressing it in and out to make sure it still worked. Another bang and she jumped.

Someone was knocking.

Neighbors or the police for evacuation?

She went to the building foyer and pushed the front door open against the wind that felt like it wanted to rip the door right off its hinges.

A man squinted at her. Next to him rested a laundry cart of garbage bags flecked with raindrops.

Rosie blinked at him. The wind whipped her hair to one side and she tried to hold it down with one hand as the other braced the door.

The wind snatched the words off her tongue. She tried again.

“Can I help you?” she shouted.

His eyes, caught between folds of skin, cast blankly behind her. Ends of gray hair moved beneath a winter cap. His whole face was the mealy texture of unbaked clay.

“Español?” Rosie asked.

She might have passed him before but not realized it, outside by the bus stop, where she always kept her eyes averted and clutched her purse as folks shuffled around, asking for change or muttering to themselves.

“Shouldn’t you be in a shelter?” she said, and thought HEAVY WINDS. “I don’t know where one is but I can look online—”

A gust of wind roared and his cap blew off, sending the gray strands dancing manically. His cart squeaked in protest, and they both watched it clatter down the sloped street and out of slight. He turned unfocused eyes to her, opened his mouth, and closed it again.

She’d have to invite him in, she thought with a sinking feeling. After all, she was a Good Samaritan, she couldn’t let him stay out here in the worst storm in recent history. She looked down the street at the rows of faceless townhouses and felt for a moment they were the only two people for blocks. A few drops of rain fell on her bare arms.

He could stay in the basement, she thought suddenly. She wouldn't have to invite him into her apartment, and she wouldn't feel guilty either for abandoning him to the storm.

"You can wait it out downstairs,” she shouted, gesturing with her free hand and stepping back.

Once the door was closed, she smoothed back her hair and looked at him again. He was so pale, as if his skin had never seen the light of day, except for mottled marks across his cheeks that reminded her of fruit becoming overripe. His hands gripped a tired gray knapsack.

He didn’t seem dangerous—though she knew better than to let her guard down around a stranger. A smell emanated off of him, pungent and unwashed, and she tried to hold her breath.

He followed her down the unfinished, paint-splattered wood staircase to the basement.

“There’s a small bathroom there if you need it.” She breathed shallowly through her mouth to avoid smelling anything and used her no-nonsense work voice. “I don’t think we’ll get flooding since we’re on a hill but if so let me know, OK? OK.”

He slumped against the wall between her storage closet and the dryer and closed his eyes, and she thought maybe that was fine, he could take a nap until the storm passed.

In the living room, she stopped dead in her tracks. She bent under the coffee table, lifted the couch cushions, checked the kitchen. After a few minutes of searching she gave up, collapsing onto the couch in a fit of frustration.

Her flashlight was gone.

An hour had passed since she had let the homeless man in. Rosie had placed electronic tea lights around the coffee table as a replacement for her flashlight, and the rain had turned from a slow tapping to something more furious.

She peered out into the street again from her window to see a strange purple hue to the sky, the wind a low, persistent whine. She pulled her lace curtains closed, the fabric catching and soothing her eye. She had always loved miniature patterns: the entwining leaf motif on her tablecloth, plates with delicate floral borders, the hand-painted details on the Russian nesting doll collection smiling from the shelf in her hallway.

As Rosie walked back into her living room, she heard a hum. She cracked her apartment door and listened. The washer. She ventured down.

He had cleaned up, stripped down to fuzzy long johns and a long sleeve shirt that hung in sags. Crumbled paper towels lay like flowers around him. Some color had moved back into his face and he was humming a little to himself, sitting straight against the wall and going through his gray knapsack with a particular fervor.

She cleared her throat, feeling awkward. She thought she ought to say something but didn’t know what until it came out of her mouth. “I’ll bring you something to eat.”

He continued to hum something familiar but not recognizable as he took out items from his knapsack—a folded piece of ragged, once-white notebook paper, a letter opener, empty cereal bar wrappers, and other useless things—and stuffed them into the small trashcan that sat by the washer. He didn’t look at her. She skulked back up and into the apartment.

In one kitchen cupboard sat a small army of jugs of water. She couldn’t spare a whole gallon—water was the most important thing in a disaster, after all—but she could bring him down a cup of tap water. Above the sink, stacks of alphabetized-by-brand cans of soup, vegetables and beans stood by to deliver their reassuring, heavily preserved nutrients. The bathtub and every large pot were full of water. She would be fine through the storm. She was utterly, completely prepared.

On the staircase, she left the water and a box of whole wheat crackers on the last step before darting back into her apartment.

She cracked her bedroom window open for a second. The trees and power lines swayed and she watched them for a few minutes, waiting to see if anything would fall. The invisible eddies and crisscrossing of wind spun, knitting themselves up to a frenzy, and she pictured herself being plucked right up, sent sailing along the currents until she was swept out into the dark sea beyond the harbor a few blocks away.

She closed the window.

In her living room, Rosie watched a New York woman with unpolished crystal chunks hanging from her neck tell an aghast reporter she was going out into the storm to connect with Mother Nature. The news segment flashed to an older man in New Jersey wielding a metal detector and talking enthusiastically of the washed-up treasures he’d find during the storm.

When Rosie went downstairs again, the man was looking through her storage bins. He moved quickly, rummaging through them, the bare bulb from her open closet casting a blade of light across his hands.

“Um,” she said. She didn’t want to aggravate him in case he became angry or violent. She began contemplating the sensibility of calling the police when she saw he had put two books to the side. He’s just looking for something to do, she thought. And she couldn’t really blame him for wanting to read.

Rosie was about to turn to leave but did a double-take, staring at the bins. She could have sworn her storage bins were blue, but these were brown. She blinked and moved closer to touch them. It must have been the light, maybe warped by the hurricane somehow, but they still definitely looked brown.

Next to the bins, a face on the cover of one of the books seemed to fix on her with a manic grin.

The paint speckles on the wooden stairs shifted as she walked slowly up. There’s something wrong with my eyes, she thought. He hadn’t looked at her once.

The storm screamed through the streets. The windows creaked and the lights flickered once, twice, but held. Online, photos and short articles were streaming faster than she could keep up. “WIDESPREAD DAMAGE” “TREE CRUSHES FAMILY” “DOG WALKER ELECTROCUTED” “THOUSANDS ALONG COAST WITHOUT POWER”

Rosie stared at a photo of a shark swimming next to a flooded suburban house’s porch. For some reason, the photo deeply unsettled her, the black smear beneath the water, the shadow of a fin. A fake, she decided.

A sudden, hard rap at the door. She thought of the ghost decoration and shuddered.

Ignore it, she thought. Nothing good came of her opening the front door today. She unplugged her phone, turning it in her hands. She had called her family that morning, telling them not to worry if they didn’t hear from her since the power would probably go. But they were the anxious type, and surely, they would have called by now to check on her?

Her phone was silent even though three bars of reception held steady.

On her computer streamed photos of water gushing into subway stops, houses with the facades torn off and cars floating down the street. The storm was still gathering power, moving north toward her.

Nothing is really ours, she thought.

Clatter, clatter. Like someone throwing metal trashcan lids at the front door, again and again. She clapped her hands to her ears and decided to venture downstairs again.

Her guest had pulled out a neon green lawn chair from her storage unit and was leaning back, munching on the crackers and flipping through an old Sherlock Holmes book. Two candles burned on ceramic holders on top of a boom box by his feet. The empty gray knapsack lay like a discarded skin on the top of the trashcan.

He looked more clean-cut, his hair shorn from some scissors he must have found in the basement. She touched her own hair, which felt heavy and greasy and gnarled.

She opened her mouth but he hummed and she stopped. She thought she might say “You must prepare to leave immediately” or even “Get the hell out” though she rarely cursed, but the words retracted and shrank, tumbling back down her throat.

She stumbled upstairs. The noise was louder at the door—clatter, clatter, clatter.

Her phone was missing. She threw the cushions from the couch, pushed the coffee table out of the way. It was on the floor, its face blank. She snatched it up, plugged it in and jabbed the power button. Nothing. She popped the battery in and out.

CLATTER

“Work, you stupid thing,” she said, jabbing the power button. She tossed it to the couch and went online to email her parents, but the browsers weren’t responding.

“The mind can only handle so much change,” she said aloud, staring at the blank screen. It sounded like a very logical statement.

She would put out her work outfit for the next day, as she always did. She always wore pants, never a skirt or dress, never jewelry that was too flashy. The storm would pass and she would listen to her coworkers exchange stories of who had lost power, who had dealt with flooding.

It seemed like she had less to choose from than before, and she lifted up a blazer and set of pants out of the closet, both far too large for her. She turned a blue crisp men’s shirt on a heavy black hanger.

“From the old tenant, of course,” she said. Somehow, the previous tenant must have had left clothes in the closet, that she had missed when she moved in. “How irresponsible of them,” she murmured.

Rosie sunk to the wooden floor, covered by a new red carpet. Her landlord must have placed it there without her noticing.

Just then, the power went out.

She grabbed an electronic tea light and went to look out the window through the curtains.

The streetlamp flickered over the rapidly flooding street. The ghost decoration twirled like a frenzied dancer between streams of rain, before it tore off and raced into the darkness.

She started to pull the curtains closed and froze. The fabric—it had bold, dark splotches across it.

She brought the tea light closer. Those were definitely big, stark strokes of color, something she would never choose.

“I’m in the wrong apartment,” she said. Shapes moved around her and she stepped back from the decidedly not-lace curtain.

It was him, she thought. He poisoned me somehow, he’s making me hallucinate. An aerosol attack. A reality TV prank.

She moved into the kitchen, picking up objects she no longer recognized: records, she didn’t even have a record-player, and the kitchen was missing her coffee maker, her ice cream machine. Her hand groped in the dark empty space above the kitchen counter, faster and faster, knocking over jars and bottles of things she couldn’t place.

She threw the unmarked, unnamed jars to the floor, listening to the glass tinkle. She had to find a pay phone, call her family or friends but she couldn’t remember anyone’s name. Her mind went as blank as her phone screen when she tried to think of one.

“Surely I must know my own mother’s name,” she said to herself.

Dreading it, she reached up to the shelf that housed her beloved Russian doll collection. Her fingers brushed empty wall, the paper edges of a calendar.

She slid to the ground and sobbed just once, loudly. The wind was like a train tunneling into all the windows at once and she rubbed her ears. She heard the tree trunks in the backyard groan, as if they were pressing into the wall, about to crush her.

Still she heard the clattering at the door, like someone hurling iron pots. “What is that sound?” she screamed and caught her breath, breathing hard.

She tore into the hallway, her heart catching in her throat like a swollen mass of cotton. She would shove him, punch him if she had to so he’d say something, so he’d look at her.

“What have you done?” she squeaked, her voice swallowed by the darkness, the wood and brick moaning around her under the weight of water and air. She felt her way down the stairs.

But he wasn’t there. He was a step ahead of her. She had been readying herself for the wrong thing.

CLATTER CLATTER CLATTER

She started to stumble on the last step but caught herself. The clattering at the front door was so loud she wanted to scream again.

That hum, that inane hum. What was that song?

She went back upstairs.

She had told herself she wouldn’t open the door again, it seemed to only bring trouble, and yet the noise was too loud to ignore.

CLATTERCLATTERCLATTERCLATTER

She opened it, a flush of wind barging in and wrapping itself around her. His cart was there, pressed up against the door, stripped clear of its things except for a single translucent plastic grocery bag wound around one of the bars.

To the west the sky was a bruised darkness. The rain flung down, everything dripping and shimmering. A thin sheen of water lapped at the sidewalk, sloshing over from the street.

Next to her, APT 1 was missing her carefully printed last name. Instead a handwritten “DANIEL C. CLARKE” was crookedly pasted there. She reeled for a moment. Of course it was a dream.

She wrapped her fingers around the cart handle, pushing it away from the door to the sidewalk. Water sloshed over and into her slippers and the rain beat into her skin.

When she turned back he was standing there, blocking the doorway, shiny new glasses reflecting blurry orbs of the streetlight and masking his expression.

Daniel put something down, and nudged it with a shiny dark shoe toward her. Her to-go bag.

The woman thought of the cans of soups and vegetables and jugs of water and was going to ask if she could have them as well, but for the first time Daniel seemed to look at her sternly, and she bowed her head.

“It’s my apartment,” she whimpered, but the wind ripped into her mouth and tore the words away into the silent open. She was about to try again to speak but felt the wind waiting, ready to pounce.

From one of his casual fingers, as though it had always been there, hung a keychain with door keys, car keys, laminated membership cards. Behind him, she heard a dog bark a warning.

She felt a pinprick of tears but reached out to take the blue bag anyway. As soon as her fingers brushed the nylon she felt the ties sever completely. Neighbors, family, work, all of it, gone, in one gasping breath. She was slipstream, caught somewhere that didn’t matter while he belonged here now. She could only feel one tether: the winds snaking around her.

The full moon broke through the murky tendrils of fog and clouds and she could see the tether for a moment, stretching from above to tighten around her until she could displace it onto someone else, in another storm. She hummed a little to herself, feeling the vibration of her voice against her throat. The winds would allow that.

The woman was prepared a little, at least. She lifted the reassuring weight of her to-go bag into the cart, the bag that held her batteries, her soap and plastic bags, her notebook.

The wind tugged her cart in the direction of the receding storm and she took a step. The front door slammed.

A founding co-chair of the Horror Writers Association (HWA) San Diego chapter, KC Grifant is a New England-to-SoCal transplant who writes horror, fantasy, science fiction and weird west stories. Her nonfiction articles on science, medicine and technology have appeared in dozens of magazines and newspapers while her fiction stories have found homes in card games, anthologies and other publications. Recent anthologies include the Stoker Award-nominated “FRIGHT MARE: Women Write Horror;” “California Screamin’,” a collection of spooky tales that take place in Southern California; “Into Darkness Peering” by Alban Lake Publishing; and “See Through My Eyes: A Ghost Mystery Anthology,” by Fantasia Divinity Magazine. Other publications include the Lovecraft Ezine, Horror Bites Magazine and Electric Spec magazine.

www.SciFiWri.com

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amazon.com/author/kcgrifant

The Fine Art of Wrecking

by Jennifer Loring

A fog rolled in off the Atlantic, smothering the beach in a downright frigid shroud. Sometimes, if you thought too hard about it, it felt like God’s judgment, pitiless and absolute. But this wasn’t a job for thinkers or moralizers. This is what you did when God left you no choice. When God was just a half-remembered rumor.

There were no churches in Attewater.

Jack smelled a storm coming behind the fog. The ship from Florida was due anytime now, but further down shore by the port and lighthouse. He crouched on the treacherous rocks and held up the lantern a captain might easily mistake, in this miasma, for a beacon. It could become a very sunny day after all, if this wreck proved better than the last.

Recent rains made the beach slippery, and one new to the job, or simply careless, could easily break a bone or several; nothing Jack hadn’t seen a thousand times. Christopher, on the other hand, was just a kid, measuring each step as if it would be his last.

“Don’t you get worried?” Christopher asked.

“About what?”

“You know ... the stories.”

Most wreckers, by the time they reached Christopher’s age, already knew the sacrifice expected of them, if not the hour of its arrival. But that was his family’s business to tell him, and none of Jack’s.

“Just stories, is all. I’ve spent most of my life out here. Look like it ever happened to me?” Jack spat a gob of tobacco on the mossy stones. “What’d you take this job for if you’re so scared?”

“I ain’t.” Christopher pouted and white-knuckled his crowbar. It was the only tool a good wrecker ever needed.

“Remember, soon as you see the crew―”

“Yeah, I remember.”

“Good. Look at it this way, kid. You’re supporting your family, right? Doing what your poppa did for you until he died.”

“I guess so.” Christopher’s gaze never strayed from the misty horizon, where the water and the sky melted into a sheet of solid gray slate. “But so are those men.”

“Those men got what we need. We don’t take it, we all die.”

Christopher said nothing, but his eyes spoke volumes. Kid like this didn’t belong out here. Didn’t have the stones for the messier inevitabilities of the job.

Jack had never been difficult to convince. He’d been a young husband with few skills and no money. Love alone wasn’t going to buy Lizzie pearls, or keep little Sarah’s belly full. A man had to do whatever it took to provide for his family, and Lizzie was none the worse for knowing his vocation. Hell, if Sarah had been a boy, he’d have taught her the fine art of wrecking, too. Still might. She didn’t have her momma’s fine features, and with her hair in a cap, she looked well enough like a boy. Wouldn’t hurt her any to help out the family. Jack did the same for his momma and siblings, just like his three older brothers and Poppa.

God bless his poppa, swept out to sea when a storm blew up during a wreck. It was his time, and the ocean claimed him at last. He had already begun to change by then. The last time Jack shook his hand, the webbing between Poppa’s fingers had expanded, grown translucent. No wrecker’s body ever drifted back to shore, and so at each funeral the people of Attewater paid homage to a floral wreath embracing a painted portrait of that day’s nautical hero. A fine and brave man Poppa was, taught Jack everything he knew. But the sea, a hungry and merciless lover, replenished what men took from Her with their dead bones. A white garden beneath the waves, where fish frolicked amongst rib cages and skulls. Every family on the coast owed their lives to Her, no matter how many of their men She devoured, and they continued to accept this Faustian bargain as long as She kept making them rich.

The hull of a ship broke through the haze. Jack held the lantern as high as he could, his other hand gripping the crowbar.

“Get ready, Christopher.”

The boy nodded as the ship drifted toward the shallows. “She’s running aground!” the captain shouted, too late. Rocks champed into the wood, splintering planks and tearing a hole into the vessel. Jack and Christopher ducked behind a large outcropping of rock, and Jack put out the light. The crew jumped from the deck onto the beach to inspect the damage.

“I saw the damned light with my own eyes,” said the captain, and kicked the battered hull. “Someone’s screwin’ with us.”

“I think it’s a bad sign, Captain.”

“Now,” Jack whispered. He and Christopher leapt from their hiding place onto the beach. His crowbar connected with a crewman’s head; blood flowered onto the man’s blue knit cap, and he crumpled like a wad of used paper. “Get the other two!” he shouted. “I’ll get the captain!”

Christopher vanished into the haze. Jack turned his attention to the captain, who had begun to climb the rocks in an escape attempt. He grabbed the man’s leather boot and yanked him back down as the captain’s hands scrambled to find purchase on the slick rocks. His free foot desperately tried to connect with Jack’s head. Jack slammed the crowbar into his spine. He jerked and howled in pain, reaching a hand up toward the heavens for mercy he would not find. Jack struck the base of his skull and let him slide down to the beach, where he twitched and gasped and finally was still.

Christopher beat one of the men until blood sputtered up out of his mouth. The man collapsed onto his back and began to choke on it. The other crawled toward the water, seeking a kinder death, perhaps, than the one promised on shore. He would find no such thing, for the vast and unknowable sea did not deal in compassion. Christopher crippled him with two blows, one strike to the back of each knee, and left him to drown in the foam-tipped shallows.

“Good work, kid. You got it in you after all. Now let’s check this wreck out and see what we take home today.” Jack led the way up the rope ladder on the side of the ship to the deck. Wind-driven mist battered their faces like pellets of ice, and the sails flapped with a ferocious intensity.

“Better hurry,” Jack said. “Weather’s really starting to turn. Get down into the hold and let’s see what they were carrying.”

Christopher moved to the center of the ship and bashed the lock with his crowbar until the door to the hold swung open. Jack gazed into the pitch darkness at the bottom of the steps. He’d left his lantern on the beach.

“Christopher, you see a light anywhere?”

“I think there’s one over here.” He grabbed at something hanging from the wall that to Jack’s eyes resembled a lantern. “Hope there’s oil in it.” He turned it on, and a pale- yellow glow illuminated the stairs.

“Perfect. Go on. I see crates down there.”

Christopher hurried down the stairs with Jack close behind. He had a good feeling about the wreck. After all these years, he could practically smell gold the same way he could smell a change in the weather. When they had pried the crates apart and Jack peered inside, the glimmer of jewels danced in the lamplight.

“Lucky first day for you, kid. Grab everything you can. Put it in your pockets, in your hat, in your boots. Hell, in your ass, for all I care. Wherever you can. Your momma’s gonna be proud of you tonight.”

Christopher smiled for the first time that day as he crammed necklaces and earrings into every available space his clothing allowed. Pearls, gemstones, and beautiful shimmering gold bulged from Jack’s pockets. It was the best wreck he’d had in months. He could finally buy Lizzie that dress she’d had her eye on and take her to the society ball clothed like the good woman she was. Wrecking wasn’t honest work by any means, but it was profitable, and he didn’t know a man worth a damn who wouldn’t kill for the sake of his family.

“Come on, let’s get back up there. We have to get the bodies into the water.”

Storm clouds cast an ominous shadow over the beach. Jack and Christopher rolled the sailors to the edge of the water and kicked them in, their offering to the sea for Her delivery of treasure. The wreck looked like a perfect accident now, a victim of the impending gale. Others would come for the ship itself and hack it up for firewood. It was simply the way of life out here, where too many hard winters and illnesses that devastated entire families had hardened them into creatures of opportunity.

The skies finally burst open. Rain hammered the beach, sluicing away the sand and the blood left behind by men destined to become part of the ocean’s perpetually growing garden.

“Get some rest,” Jack called to Christopher as they climbed up the rocks and started back on the muddy road leading to town. “I’ll need you at your best again soon.”

Christopher nodded and, pulling his cap down, ran toward his house with a heavy jangling step, strands of pearls flapping at his sides.

#

A WAN AND FOG-DRENCHED sunset bled over the horizon and into the water. Jack and Christopher stood a mile further up shore than they had a couple of weeks earlier, as Jack held aloft the lantern that guaranteed them a vessel of one sort or another. He knew better than to expect a repeat of the last wreck, but a ship with even a quarter of that cargo would please him just as well.

The weather had been fairly calm since the storm that eroded part of the beach, but Jack again felt that strange sense of cosmic contempt, though he was not one given to ruminations of a philosophical nature. He already knew the universe cared nothing for him or any other man. It carried on with or without them. Sometimes you saw blood on your hands, on your clothes. You heard the voices of the dead in your dreams. It would drive you crazy if you let it. The trick, of course, was to take on a soldier’s mindset. To view them not as human at all, but as mortal enemies. Maybe he couldn’t wreck forever, but guilt had nothing to do with it.

Today, the waves broke with unsettling force against the shore, spraying flecks of foam into the bitter air. The sea churned as if boiled by a hellish heat, whipped by winds verging on Nor’easter violence. Where the swells struck land, they left a crimson stain. A trick of the dying sunlight, or reminders that no matter how inclement the conditions Her servants endured, the sea thirsted. Further out, where the seabed dropped off and riptides swallowed at least one swimmer every summer—always a tourist; the locals knew better than to tempt fate—sparkling blue stars glowed in the water. It usually happened after a ship had passed and stirred up Gods knew what in the depths. Disturbing Her garden, maybe. Or perhaps She sent Her shiny and slippery progenies to keep watch over those with whom She shared Her abundance, their gelid and unblinking eyes fixed upon the shore.

Jack rubbed the mist out of his eyes. He saw no ship, not even the ghost of one on the horizon. Yet two sailors waded through the water and marched onto the shore, their clothes tattered and sullied with blood. Kelp coiled around their bodies like serpents, and fat, flesh-colored worms writhed atop their smooth skulls. The spasmodically palpitating gills at their necks gasped for water. The lantern slipped from Jack’s hand, shattered, and sputtered out. So soon.

Christopher, behind him, scrabbled up the rocks like a rat and screamed, “I told ya, Jack, I told ya!” until he reached the safety of the road. Jack turned to follow, but the sailors locked their dead-fish arms around his and dragged him backwards toward the sea. Jack’s flailing legs did nothing to deter them as the beach receded. He bucked, he twisted, and still the men held fast. It was merely instinct to fight them; in truth, there was nothing to fight. He and all the others were promised to Her generations before his birth.

Jack’s arms grew numb from the pressure. The crowbar thunked onto the sand as glacial marine air burrowed into his marrow. He’d never return to the ocean, even if his family had to starve. And they, along with the entire village, would do just that. She’d send no more ships or fish for them to eat; She’d turn the weather so the tourists stopped coming, what few hadn’t already once they saw that no churches existed in Attewater, once they heard the dark shapes chanting on the beach to their Mother and Father. She would have Her sacrifice, Her soldier, Her wrecker, for all that She had given of Herself. And if he would not go willingly, then his family would give him to Her.

The frothy water soaked into his boots, his pants, through his coat, and into his shirt. The men passed through it as if it possessed no more substance than the fog and hauled him onward. Jack thrust his head back to keep his nose above water. He wished he’d brought Sarah out here, even once. He had no sons to carry on the tradition, and what would Lizzie do without him? Would she tell Sarah of her father’s work, would she tell the little girl, “It’s up to you now,” and send her into the fog? She was so young yet. She didn’t know. She didn’t understand he would live forever in a great city beneath the sea, where Mother bided her time and nurtured an army.

He managed to suck in one more breath before pain crushed his lungs into uselessness. As he sank, seaweed or the suckered appendages of abysmal things tugged him down, and the phantom sailors faded away into the ineffable nothingness. He drew in a mouthful of water, pulled the sides of his throat together, and forced the water through the gill slits that had opened on his neck. Jack wondered if Poppa awaited him somewhere in the gloom of the vindictive sea. And he wondered if Poppa would be proud.

The Lake Children

by Izzy Lee

“Why did I let you talk me into this again?” Chris laughed, looking over at Emma.

She smiled as she steered the SUV down the small dirt path in the middle of the woods, far, far away from the city. It wasn’t like they were in another country, or even another region, but the woods here were so thickly settled, they may as well have been. Who needed the noise and the clutter and the madness, anyway?

“Because we need to get the hell away from civilization,” she glanced over at him. “You’ve been just as stressed as I have. Not just because of work, but because of the state of this country. Every time I go online, it’s just another reason to leave society.”

Chris edged over to his girlfriend. “Is this your secret plan to kidnap me and make me your boondocks love slave?”

“HA! Wow, you wish!” Emma grinned at him as he kissed her cheek and tucked a lock of strawberry blond hair behind her ear. “Dork. No, but it’s my not-so-secret plan to have some fun,” she winked. “And maybe we’ll discover some really cool things—or valuable stuff.”

“What,” Chris chuckled. “Like treasure? It’s not like the village was full of pirates, Emma.”

“Of course not. But you don’t know what they left behind. From what I read about ancient (by American standards) Gableton, something weird happened, and they flooded the village by breaking the nearby Housatonic Dam. They up and left pretty quickly, as legend has it.”

“Any of your books say why?” Chris asked.

“Just rumors of spirits and demonic animals.”

Chris stared at her. She savored a moment of his doubt and then broke into a laugh. “Sorry, dude. Kidding.”

He exhaled. “You suck!”

She grinned. “Again—you wish.”

***

THEY PARKED AT THE end of the road, trudged into the woods, and set up camp at the edge of the forest near Round Lake. It was late afternoon by the time they pitched the tent and settled in. The air was fresh and had a sharpness to it, characteristic of New England when the crisp fall took up its annual residence. Everything was so much cleaner and sharper away from the city. You could smell the pine needles and the dirt. Stars were clear and visible in the night skies, and everything seemed like there might just be the possibility magic had a chance of happening, which would never be the case in Boston or Hartford.

The sun was low in the sky, which was painted with ethereal watercolor shades of slate blue and bruised violets. Chris popped one can open, and then another, cutting through the silence with the hissing metallic pop of good ol’ homegrown craft beer. He handed a can to Emma when she joined him, and they gazed out at the serene lake shimmering ahead of them.

“It’s so beautiful here,” she murmured. “Why aren’t there multimillion dollar mansions built up and down this lakefront?” Chris shrugged and let the hoppy ale seep into his belly with a welcome warmth.

“Before the sun disappears ... Care to go for a swim?” Emma’s devil-may-care smirk both taunted and aroused him. He was a sucker for anything she was game for—and she knew it. Hence, the whole reason they were here for this strange exploration.

***

SUITED UP IN WETSUITS and tanks, Chris and Emma glanced at each other in silent agreement and thumbs up before wading backwards into the cool water. It wasn’t long before the shallows disappeared, and the water became darker and murkier. They flitted into the depths, passed by the occasional silvery, bullet-shaped fish or drifting, errant water plant.

They swam for several more minutes as the depth of the lake expanded. Here, the water was darker and contained more particles, which drifted slowly by their masks. Visibility shortened until they could only see a few feet in front of them.

They dove down, down, down through the green-gray water ... The couple was hoping to find something of the legend of Gableton, but they didn’t expect to actually find anything concrete. Man-made shapes (that shouldn’t be in a lake) came into view, until what felt like an entire phantom settlement materialized—made all the more ghostly by the low light and the murk of the water. The remains of an abandoned village appeared at the bottom of the lake, complete with a town center. Further away, a mostly clear plot that seemed like it had once been a park beckoned. On its precipice, they saw a waterlogged, faded, white church nearly eaten away by time. Its steep spire stuck up out of the lakebed upside down, the brass cross inverted and partially submerged in the sediment. The eerie sight reminded Emma of the classic horror film The Omen, and a nagging dread crept into her bones.

She wondered if Chris felt the same low, gasping fear at the pit of his stomach. How could it be that she was excited and yet so afraid at the same time?

The houses left in the town were mostly eroded by time and the elements, but one structure stood. It was ravaged, but one could still tell it had been a home, with cream-colored sides and a charcoal roof. Incredible.

They were not prepared for this. Rumor and old wives’ tales were one thing; experiencing such a surreal phenomena was quite another.

With just a glance, they each asked each other how this was really possible. Bubbles rose and disappeared from their movements as they floated.

Emma’s eyes were wide through her scuba mask. Unable to talk, she pantomimed a wide shrug movement to express her surprise. Chris seemed unsettled; his usual confidence had been replaced by a stunned presence. He reached for Emma’s hand, and they swam forward together.

***

CHRIS AND EMMA SHIFTED and positioned themselves vertically by the side of the house, treading water. It was even darker inside, but curiosity called to her. She removed the waterproof flashlight from her belt and shined it through the glassless window. After a moment of hesitation, they swam into the structure in single file.

The setup was 1800s-era, although she couldn’t tell which decade. Detritus and plant life covered the large mantle and filled the marble fireplace. An impressive gilded mirror, which had once hung over the mantle, now lay on the floor, its glass—strangely not shattered—blanketed in green muck and silt. A jagged, once-white something caught her eye in the fireplace.

Emma swam to it. Maybe it was something interesting to take home, a fun souvenir, or even a valuable, historical artifact. A corner of dirtied, broken china, perhaps, poked out of the organic mess. She reached forward and pulled the fragment out of the muck as she carefully balanced her fins on the rotted floorboards.

It wasn’t china at all, but the remnant of a broken doll face and its bubbly cheeks and faintly pink lips. A small fish darted past her fins beneath the small face, the empty eye sockets creating a viewfinder effect; it gave her a start. A swift swish, and Chris appeared beside her. He peered at the ruined child’s toy in her palm and regarded it with a dubious look. His handsome face turned up at her and paused. He shook his head. Emma winked and smiled, then placed the porcelain in her zippered belt pack.

In another room that must have been the kitchen, Chris spied a glimmer of something under a pile of rubble. He found a nearby stick and began to dig. The refuse appeared to be the splintered remains of a table, which gave way to a dulled metal object; first one, then two then a whole silver tea service! The set was tarnished as hell, but they knew from the well-crafted design that the pieces were the real deal—probably worth a sweet sum, too. Maybe they’d keep it after they polished it up; it’d sure be a grand way to remember their adventure.

***

THEY EMERGED FROM THE surface to darkened skies with grumbling stomachs and a lazy mist rolling over the water. The couple sat on the shore removing their gear, grinning. “Can you believe what we found?” Chris exclaimed.

“Yeah! It’s insane. I should have brought a camera—I didn’t actually think we were going to find anything.”

Chris slipped the tank from his shoulders. “Well, we can always come back. Hell, we can find one of those underwater camera operators and get footage!”

Emma struggled out of her fins. “That’s an awesome idea. It’s silly we didn’t think of it before,” she sighed and plopped backward on the sand. “I’m so tired. And hungry!”

After drying up, they made a crackling fire. The flames spit and popped, roasting their chicken and veggie skewers. “I love a good campfire,” Emma cooed, balancing her skewers over a rock and cradling a cup of pinot noir.

“I love being with you,” Chris murmured, his soft gaze fixed on her. He was unlike any man she’d ever known. Having grown up on a farm, he was rugged—and also knew how to cook a great meal. She’d sprung from the city, always rushing from one feat to another, getting upset over little things. They’d met in college, and she was surprised by his patience and kindness. He’d taught her so much, mainly how to slow down and not be so intense all the time. She now knew it was okay to simply lie back on the grass and stare up at the sky and not feel guilty over wasting time. It was a bonus his bronzed skin and tousled, long dark hair made him ridiculously attractive. How she adored him.

“I love you,” she whispered, and leaned in for a kiss.

***

DEEP BRUISED COLORS danced in her mind, seeping from blue to violet to red. A blurred face with muddy edges appeared and shot toward her in a violent arc.

***

EMMA JERKED AWAKE SCREAMING to a cold sleeping bag in the night. Her skin felt sodden and stuck to the cotton shirt beneath her fleece hoodie. She sat up and sighed into her palms. She’d been so scared she almost couldn’t believe she was awake ... and that the other world in her dream of moods and sounds and blurry apparitions was the true reality.

An empty sleeping bag lay next to her.

Adrenaline quickened in her veins.

She shot up and unzipped the tent. It was pitch black outside in the woods.

Emma swallowed, and peered into the dark beyond. Horror film scenarios played in her head, which dampened her instinct to call out for him. She coughed briefly, a weight on her sternum pressing into her lungs. She pulled on her sneakers and a pair of jeans, grabbed a flashlight, and unzipped the tent flap.

***

THE BRITTLE FALL LEAVES crunched beneath Emma’s sneakers as she tried to quietly exit the tent. The weird thing was, she didn’t hear anything but her own movements. No owls hooting, no woodland creatures rooting ... NOTHING. Baby butterflies caught in her throat as she ventured out, trying not to draw attention to herself.

Where the hell was he? She hoped to God Chris just needed to relieve himself.

A faint, dragged out yowl stopped her, and her breath caught in her throat, just as the tears in her eyes stopped threatening to escape and flood her cheeks.

“Chris?” she whispered, angling the flashlight. Emma swallowed. “Chris!”

There was no earthly reason she should feel this scared. She grew up eating government cheese and peanut butter in a bad part of town, dammit. She’d fended off guys that had no one’s best intentions at heart, and had lived. What the hell were the woods going to do to her?

“Mommy.”

She spun around, in the direction of the lake.

“Mommmmyyy,” it called again.

Emma stopped moving. She could just take the keys and barrel out of there—but could she leave Chris? Could she live with herself if she up and left and then found out he’d been murdered by a maniac later?

She sighed and swallowed. No way. He wouldn’t leave her if things were reversed.

“Mommmmyyy ...” the whisper called.

Trudging forward, Emma tried as best as she could to follow the voice. It came in the direction of the lake.

***

GLOWING ORBS GLEAMED beneath the surface of the lake. Emma had reached the shore to find exactly no one waiting for her. Am I having a psychotic break?

She was aware she’d stopped breathing, and she was shaking.

“Chris?” she croaked, an errant tear escaping.

The lights became brighter and broke the surface of the water, bubbling and enraged.

Those same lights formed into children’s faces. They rose—a group of maybe a dozen—and seemed to levitate above the surface. Two of them held Chris captive by each hand. His eyes were closed, and while he stood, he didn’t seem awake.

The child floating above the water closest to her called again: “Mommmyyy.”

“What do you want from me?” Emma croaked.

The lake children began to recede with Chris.

“NO!” she yelled, barreling into the lake after them.

They kept calling her, and she kept going, even as her feet no longer touched the bottom ... as her lungs filled with water. Chris and the children waited for her in the house.

Izzy Lee is a writer, filmmaker, film festival programmer, and journalist for Birth.Movies. Death., Rue Morgue, Diabolique, as well as an editor for ScreenAnarchy.

Her short stories include: “Tilberian Holiday” (“Wicked Witches”); “The Lake Children” (“Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep” and "Hydrophobia"); and the upcoming “I Did It The For The Art” (“Would But Time Await: an Anthology of New England Folk Horror”). She’s also written the screenplays for her short films: Rites of Vengeance; Invisible Friend; Legitimate; Picket; Innsmouth (co-written with Francesco Massaccesi); and Postpartum (co-written with Chris Hallock). She’s currently at work on several short stories and feature scripts.

Back to the Sea

by David M. Hoenig

I was a lifeguard at the All-Estates pool in Greenwich; it was the absolute best-paying job for a teen in Connecticut. First, they paid an amazing hourly rate, and then there were the tips, the private swimming and diving lessons, and the lost and found.

Simply put: summer, 2015, was easily going to pay for a year’s commuter tuition at Central Connecticut State University next year. In addition, if I didn’t screw up at all, I’d be back every summer until I graduated with a degree.

A debt-free degree.

It was the end of July when I found the box lying in the grass by one of the chaise lounges back in the tree line farthest from the pool. It was rectangular, white, with some colorful logo stuff on the front which said “23andMe,” and looked intact rather than dirty or rummaged through, so I picked it up. It was pretty light, but it had some stuff which rattled inside when I shook it.

I was doing a clean-up sweep just before the end of the day, and Danica Kifer was on the chair finishing out the day. I liked her a lot because she was tough and confident, which you didn’t see in that many sixteen-year-old girls. She was a couple of years younger than me, and was semi-affectionately called “JB” for “Jailbait” by a bunch of the other staff. The only person at All-Estates besides us that evening was Mr. Summersby, an old guy who was busy slapping away at the water in the best swimming imitation of trudging I’d ever seen. And, since he never sat around on a lounge but only came to do laps just before closing, the box couldn’t be his.

So I brought it, along with the requisite half-full bottles of suntan lotion, a grungy towel, and the other crap people left all the time, back with me on the way to the desk and the “(very) LOST AND (seldom) FOUND” we kept there.

“What the hell is that, Kevin?” Danica asked when I passed her.

“The usual junk.”

“No, I mean the white box under your arm, you dork.”

“I dunno.” I showed her the cover of the thing as Summersby splashed around behind us.

“Oh, I’ve heard of this.”

I looked at Danica with surprise. “Really? What the heck is it? Some kind of electronics?”

“No. It’s a genetic kit.”

“Like CSI?”

“You are such a mouth-breather, Kevin. No, it’s like you want to know your ancestry, so you take a swab of your saliva and send it in. You pay them money, and they send you back a report on your genes: where your ancestors came from, what diseases you carry, that kind of thing.”

“Okay: first, why would I care, Dani? And second, how do you know so much about this thing?”

She checked her watch and saw it still wasn’t closing, then glanced at our lone swimmer still flailing his way back and forth before turning to me again. “As for why you should care, I don’t even have an opinion. For the second, my uncle did it a couple months ago and told us all about it, ad nauseum, that’s why. He wants to have kids, so he was checking for problems before he even gets married.”

“Oh.” That sounded eminently reasonable.

“Whatcha got there, Mr. Allen?” came a raspy voice from behind me.

“Right on time,” murmured Danica. “I’ll backflow the pumps and shut down the well for the night. Meet you downstairs?”

I turned to see Old Man Summersby looking at me as he wrapped himself into his worn, cornflower blue terry robe. His hair was wet and slicked back from the pool, and his forehead had that sloped sort of look it had when his 1970s bangs weren’t hanging over it. He had what one of the other lifeguards called “Sid Caesar eyes,” pretty much bulging out of their sockets.

“I found it in the back, Mr. Summersby. Someone must have left it.”

“Looks like a box from Apple.”

“Um, no. It’s some kind of genetics testing kit. Uh, I think, that is.”

He snorted laughter. “You want to know where you came from, kid? Those things don’t ever look back far enough.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, I seen some funny things, but think of it this way, how would it sound if the company sent you a report that your ancestors included eight percent chimpanzee?” He went right on laughing.

I was a bit uncomfortable at his reaction. “Well, it’s not mine.”

“Oh, sure, didn’t think it was.” Summersby looked at his watch. “It’s getting late, Mr. Allen. I’ll shower at home so you kids can finish up.”

“Well, thanks.”

He nodded and began walking in his flip-flops to the stairs down to the lockers. He stopped before he got there and looked over his shoulder at me. “Hey, if you do think of doing that testing on yourself, just remember that everything—if you look back far enough—goes back to the sea.”

Summersby was down the stairs before I could think of a response, so I put the junk down and pulled the cover over the water for the night. As I was fixing it into place, I heard the pumps go quiet and knew Dani had done her part. I gathered up the loose stuff and brought it downstairs, then dumped it into the big cardboard box behind the desk.

“We good, Kev? I got a babysitting gig tonight—almost as good money as guarding.”

I glanced back to see Danica in cut-off jeans and a black T-shirt which said ‘If I Want Your Opinion I’ll Tell You What It Is’. “Sure, I’ll lock up. Get home safe, Dani.”

She looked from my face to the Lost and Found. “You going to do it?”

“Probably not.”

“You should.”

“Really?” I looked at Danica. “Why do you think so?”

She shrugged. “You’re actually a decent guy, Kev. You think about things more than the others, and you call me by my name instead of that idiot nickname.”

I knew what she meant and decided not to go there. “Um, so, how exactly does that make me want to send in my DNA to get analyzed?”

She smiled. “Well, you’re the kind of person who might be able to make use of whatever you learn, for one thing. For a second, that kit was just there, when and where you could find it. Now, maybe it’s all an accident, but maybe it’s an opportunity that fate or chance or whatever just gave you to try something you wouldn’t have thought of on your own.”

I thought about that for a moment and glanced back at the kit.

Danica punched me in the shoulder lightly, recalling my attention to her. “So do it. I gotta run.” She left.

I finished locking up, then musingly took the kit home with me. Once there, I did some online research, read some of the goofy testimonials, and then went through the instructions. Interestingly, it looked like someone had prepaid for the kit, but since it was all anonymous, I wouldn’t ever know who it was, nor would anyone know I’d used it.

So I followed the instructions, spit enough into the enclosed tube to cover the fill line, added the stabilization buffer, and capped it. Finally, I put the saliva sample into the enclosed bag, then the transport box, and sealed it shut.

I dropped it in the mailbox in town on my way to work the next morning.

###

THREE AND A HALF WEEKS later, I’d practically forgotten about my genetic sample. The summer had been its usual hot and hazy, the pool super busy except during storms. I’d gone on some dates with a pretty Greenwich girl named Allison Schumacher who’d just finished her freshman year at Yale and spent time at All-Estates on weekends when she wasn’t working. Danica teased me about her, but only when she wasn’t around. Old man Summersby with his weird eyes showed up cheerfully every evening to beat up the pool as he did his laps.

Finally, as August was coming to a close, I had added an additional eight hundred dollars in swimming and diving lessons to my lifeguarding salary, and the new school year was on the horizon.

One afternoon when I was on a shift behind the entry desk, my phone bleeped to let me know the results from the genetic analysis were waiting for me in my gmail account. I opened the email with a sense of excitement.

The blue-swirled ancestry map showed up, and I zoomed in to see where my family’s DNA put us. “Wait. What the hell does that mean?”

“What does what mean?” came from over my shoulder.

I fumbled the phone as I jerked in surprise, and looked back to see Danica behind me. My cell clattered to the floor. “Why are you sneaking up on me?” I asked, as I reached down to retrieve my phone.

“Duh, mouth-breather. I’m here to relieve you so you can start to close down tonight like we’d agreed. What’re you so jumpy about anyway?”

I stood up, moved past her, and outside. Just then, a mom and several kids showed up and Danica went all-business, checking their cards and letting them in. I looked back at the report from 23andMe while she did.

“Hello? Earth to Kevin.”

“What?”

“You didn’t hear me the first time.”

“Oh.”

“Sheesh Kevin, what’s got you so distracted? Allison sexting you or something?”

I looked up quickly to see her clever grin, but my brain hadn’t seemed to kick back into gear after looking at the DNA ancestry map.

“OMG, you are so blushing! She did sext you, didn’t she?” She let out a little whoop of a laugh. “And do her milkshakes bring you to the yard, Kev ...?” She cut off abruptly, seeing something in my face. “Hey, I was just teasing. Kevin, are you okay?”

I swallowed and licked dry lips. “Uh, no, it’s not sexting. You remember that gene kit I found?”

“Yeah. So you got the results or something?”

I nodded. “You know about this stuff, right?”

“A little.” She looked uncertain. “I told you that. My uncle had talked about it, remember?”

“Yeah. So, like, it says that five hundred years ago, my ancestry is ninety three percent European, and that breaks down into the usual mixes of French, German, and English that I’d expect. There’s even a point-three percent Neanderthal in there ...”

“I knew you were a primitive!” she happily interrupted with a laugh.

“It’s actually common, and not the part that bothers me, Dani. It’s the other six-point-seven percent which does.”

“Why? Where was that part of your ancestry from?”

I held up my phone with the open report for her to look at.

“Wait. What does ‘Unknown’ mean?”

“I have no idea. I mean, I didn’t even know that was a possible result.”

“Well, that’s weird.” She pulled out her iPhone and asked Siri to tell her about genetic ancestry testing.

The phone’s female voice responded. “Genetic ancestry testing: good question, boss lady.”

I raised my eyebrows at her. “‘Boss lady’?”

“Siri: tell me about 23andMe test results.”

“That company performs genetic testing on specimens provided by its clientele, facilitating identification of ancestral background prior to widespread trans-oceanic travel,” the phone responded.

“Siri: of what significance is an ‘Unknown’ result in genetic testing?”

“Interesting question, boss lady,” Siri responded, just as old man Summersby came up to check in.

He chuckled as he pulled out his pool card. “Don’t you kids know that asking gadgets things doesn’t always end well in sci-fi movies?”

“Oh, hey Mr. Summersby,” I said.

Danica took the proffered pool pass and scanned it before handing it back. “We were just trying to pin down something weird.”

“Weird like how? ” the old guy said as he took his card and put it in his bag

“Uh, I don’t really want to get into it—”

Danica interrupted me. “Remember that genetic testing kit Kevin found a while back?”

“Dani!”

“Why, sure, sure I do.” Summersby looked at me with his bulgy eyes. “What, found out you have a half-sister from one of your parents fooling around on the side?”

“No! It’s not like that, it—”

“He got back a report, Mr. Summersby, which—”

“Can we please stop talking about it?” I smacked the desktop as I said it, and conversation ceased. “I don’t want to go into it.”

Danica, rarely enough the voice of reason, folded her arms. “Well, we don’t know what it means, Kevin, but Mr. Summersby knew about the testing back when you found the thing—he might know something about your results now.”

The old guy wasn’t smiling now. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, my boy, but in fact I do know somewhat about it. I’m happy to listen.”

I checked the time on my phone; it was getting close to closing, and I tried to derail this conversation. “You’ll miss your laps if I hold you up here, Mr. Summersby—”

He interrupted by putting a hand lightly on my arm. “Some things are more important. You should know that I like both of you—the only two grown-ups here besides me, some days. I’d like to help.”

I looked at Danica, and she gave me that furrowed brow thing she does and nodded her head at Summersby impatiently.

So I held up the report and explained as he looked at it. “... and I have no idea what ‘Unknown’ means.”

Summersby mouthed something I couldn’t hear.

It seemed like Dani couldn’t hear it either, and she looked at me quizzically.

“What was that?” I asked the old man.

“All things go back to the sea ...” he murmured loudly enough for me to hear. “Kevin, I think I might know something about this after all. Incidentally, where does your family go back to? Genetically speaking.”

“Well, my great, great-whatever grandparents on both sides came over before World War One and settled in Bridgeport sometime in the 1640s with the first wave of colonists. My mom’s side originally came from Alsace-Lorraine, which explains the French and German ancestry, while my dad’s came from London.”

“But both sides of your family lived in Bridgeport, Connecticut since that time?” His tone was serious, and with a small amount of excitement.

“Yeah.”

He coughed once. “Okay, so I think I know something after all, but I want to check something out in my library at home. How about you kids meet me for ice cream after the pool closes?”

“Are you serious? I can’t do that many calories,” Danica said.

I glanced at her rather nice-but-still-illegal figure. “Uh. Yeah, ice cream isn’t where it’s at anyway.”

“Okay. Where do you want to meet?”

I glanced at Danica, and at the same time we said, “Starbucks.”

He blinked those Sid Caesars of his. “The one on East Putnam?”

We nodded.

“Okay, meet me there in an hour.” He turned and scurried off.

Dani looked at me. “He’s weird, your report’s weird, and this day just won’t let up on the goofy. How’d you drag me into this anyway, Kev?”

I looked at her and felt a tiny shiver despite the late August heat. “Unknown.”

####

I DROVE US TO STARBUCKS after we’d shut down the pool for the night. Truth to tell, I’d felt a bit off ever since I’d gotten the strange report and had searched the web and not found a single similar incident. So I had sent an email query to 23andMe about what the ‘Unknown’ really meant but hadn’t heard anything back. Add to that the fact we had closed down All-Estates for the evening without Summersby’s Mixed-Martial Arts assault on the lap lane, and it’s no wonder Danica had to elbow me to get my attention.

“You just passed it, Space Cowboy.”

“Oh. Sorry.” I looked for an option, turned into a BP station further down the block, then went back and found a parking spot to park close to the coffee shop. We got out, walked up, and went in.

Summersby had a small table by the front window and waved us over. I looked at Dani and she shrugged, so we went over.

“Go get what you want. On me.” He held out a twenty-dollar bill to Danica, who took it and glanced at me.

“Uh, Venti Vanilla Frappucino,” I told her as I sat.

Her nose wrinkled up. “We so have to work on your sense of taste, Kev.” She moved off and got in line to order.

Summersby watched her go, leaning forward across the table. “I like the two of you together.”

“What? No way. I mean, she’s too young.”

“Won’t always be.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” He sat back and drummed his fingers on the table. “So, Kevin. I’ve been thinking about your problem, and—”

“What do you mean ‘problem’, Mr. Summersby? It’s just a strange result that needs some explanation. Like someone probably happened to typo or something.”

He glanced at me with a compassionate expression on his homely face. “I’m thinking it’s more than that. I’m just not sure what the ramifications of it are for you.”

“You’re not making this any easier, you know? What are you talking about?”

He rubbed his odd forehead. “Let’s start with some ancient history. Bridgeport started out as a settlement in 1644 at Black Rock Harbor, and began sprawling outwards from there. It was called Stratfield around 1701, getting that name because of its location between the already-established towns of Stratford and Fairfield. Back then, when the settlers had taken over from the native Americans, they relied on agriculture and fishing equally to feed the population. By the time of the American Revolution, Bridgeport and its harbor were already known as a place for shipbuilding, and as the home port for many privateers of that era.”

Dani came back carrying two Venti drinks and slid one over to me, then sat. “Don’t let me interrupt.”

“Just a bit of history lesson by way of introduction,” Summersby said.

I peeled the lid off my Frap. “But what does all of that have to do with this goofy ancestry report?”

The old man bit his lip and tried a different tack. “Did you know I hate swimming?”

My jaw dropped. I looked at Danica to see the same expression on her face.

She recovered first. “You sure have a funny way of showing it, Mr. Summersby—you’ve been to the pool this summer more than me or Kevin.”

“Yeah, and we got paid to be there.”

Dani gave me a look that said clearly what she was thinking at that moment: mouth-breather.

Summersby chuckled. “Well, yeah, I get that. But there’s a reason for it.” He paused, and seemed to consider what to say. “If I was to check my genetic ancestry, I’m pretty certain I’d have a bunch of unknown in there too.”

“What?!” Dani and I asked together.

“Okay, it’s like this; Bridgeport made its living off the sea, but let’s just say that in the beginning, not every year was a winning year.”

“Meaning?” I said.

“Meaning that some years were worse off than others, especially in the beginning. The colonists needed help to make a real go of it, preventing people from dying off because they couldn’t get enough nutrition. Help of a very secret, almost unbelievable type.”

Danica sat back. “No. No, no, no.”

I looked at her. “What?”

She ignored me, and leaned forward to address Summersby. “You are so not going where I think you’re going.”

He looked at her, his huge eyes unblinking. “What, young lady, is stranger than fiction?”

I put my hand down on the table with a light slap. “Fact. But what the hell ‘fact’ are you both talking about now?”

Summersby swiveled back to me. “The outside help the colonists got came from the sea in the form of a sentient underwater humanoid race called the Deep Ones—”

I interrupted him with another slap at the table. “That’s ridiculous! They’d be teaching about it in school, if that was the case.”

Dani interrupted us both. “It’s the plot of an H.P. Lovecraft story, is what it is. What’s your game, Summersby? Why this stupid prank on Kevin?”

The old man scratched his nose for a moment, then sighed. “It’s not a prank, and I’ll have you know that Lovecraft got the idea for The Shadow Over Innsmouth from me, young lady.”

“That’s total BS.” Danica stood abruptly and looked at me. “Lovecraft wrote that story in the 1930s—”

“It was 1936.” The old man’s gaze grew distant. “I spoke with him in December 1935.”

“That’s impossible, you fraud!”

I looked at Dani in surprise, as did some other people around us. “Hey, calm down—”

She turned on me. “He’s a liar! His pool card says he’s sixty-seven years old, which means he wasn’t even alive then.”

“I did lie.” Summersby’s whispered admission stopped us cold. “But it’s a lie on my birth certificate when I created this new identity. I was born in 1902.”

Danica didn’t even sit down. “I’m not listening to this crap anymore! Kevin, let’s leave this lunatic right now.”

I started to get up, but something in the old man’s expression made me stop and sit back down. “Can you prove this in any way?”

Dani grabbed her coffee. “I just can’t believe you,” she hissed at me. “Listening to this crazy? I’ll meet you at the car.” She rushed out of the shop.

Summersby leaned forward and grabbed my hand. “Just as well that she left, Kevin. I can prove everything I’ve said, and I think it’s important for you to know what I know. Really important, in fact. So, let’s meet at Greenwich Point tonight at ten p.m. On the first beach, down from the parking lot.”

“The park closes at sunset though, doesn’t it?”

“Yes. So? I’ve been bribing the late-night guard in the gatehouse for years—he’ll let us both in.” He stood.

So did I. “I don’t know why I’m agreeing to this, but okay.”

He nodded. “See you tonight.”

###

I TOOK DANICA BACK to All-Estates to get her car. She was upset, and didn’t look at me the whole trip. When I pulled into the parking lot, she didn’t get out right away.

“We’re here.”

She looked out the side window and shook her head. “You are such an idiot, Kevin.”

“What the hell, Dani?”

She turned to face me, and I saw that one of the toughest people I knew was crying. “That old man is some kind of perv or something, and he’s going to do something terrible if you have anything further to do with him.”

“Oh, come on, that’s crazy! He’s just a weird old guy—”

“Yes! The exact kind of weird old guy who does something pervy and sick! He’s a liar any way you figure it, so promise me you won’t do whatever it is he wants?”

I was about to refuse, but the sight of her in such misery gave me pause. “Why do you even care that much?”

“Oh, you idiot. It’s because I like you.” She snuffled and wiped her eyes on her shirt.

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh, you mouth-breather. Now I’ve gone and screwed it all up.”

I put my hand on her shoulder. “No, you didn’t. I really like you too.”

“What about little Ms. Greenwich Yalie?”

“Who?”

“Allison, you idiot!”

“Oh. Oh! Well, it’s not like we’re getting married or anything. We just went on a couple of dates during the summer, nothing serious. Hell, we go to different colleges so it’s not like we’re going to see each other during the year.”

“And what about the fact that you like me?”

“What can I do about that? I’m older than you.”

She let out a frustrated snort.

“What? Am I missing something?”

“You’re eighteen, right?”

I nodded.

“I’m sixteen.”

“I know. It’s painfully—”

“IT’S NOT A DAMN PROBLEM, YOU IDIOT MOUTH-BREATHER!” she yelled.

“Wait, what? It’s not?”

She dropped her head in her hands. “Did you ever look it up? Jeez, Kev.”

“But why does everyone else call you ‘Jailbait’?”

“Because they’re stupider than you are.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, exactly. Age of consent is—guess what—sixteen. Relationships are okay if the age difference is two years or less. I was born in January, you in March, so we’re within two years.”

I sat there and blinked, processing all of this.

“Are you saying...?”

“That I like you and want to date? Yes. More than that? Don’t count on that anytime soon, mister.”

I smiled at her, and reached out to wipe away her tears. “You’re pretty amazing.”

“I know that.” She took a shaky breath and let it out. “So, you’re not going to do whatever it is fish-face wants, right?”

“Um. Right.”

We sat for a bit while she made eye contact with me for a few seconds that felt like a week. “You’re not very good at this.”

“At what?”

“Dating girls. You’re supposed to follow up on an admission you like someone.”

“Oh. Like, for instance...?”

“Sheesh, Kevin! So, do you want to take me to a movie tomorrow night or what?”

###

AT HALF PAST NINE THAT night, I was still reeling from that amazing conversation with Danica. I was also, if I was to be honest with myself, nervous about the meeting with Summersby. If I hadn’t known him for a reasonable, often funny old guy, or hadn’t seen him swimming his scrawny, uncoordinated, decrepit frame across All-Estates night after night for the summer, I might even be worried. Still, as I did a final gut check, I realized I remained more curious than scared.

So I told my folks I was going out for a late movie, and went to Greenwich Point Park instead.

I didn’t realize someone was following me until I drove into the parking lot at the very start of the causeway, and then only because they followed me in. It was dark enough I didn’t recognize the car until it pulled into a spot next to me.

The window rolled down. “You told me you weren’t going to be doing this,” Danica said.

Damn. “Um, yeah, I know. I didn’t want you to worry.”

“Lying isn’t the best way to start a relationship, Kevin.”

“You’re right; I’m sorry.” I checked the time. “But I’ve got to get out there now.”

“We.”

“Danica—”

“Don’t compound your mistake. Do you really want me sitting here, defenseless, by myself in this deserted parking lot while you’re out there with Summersby?”

I sighed heavily. “Okay; lock up, and ‘we’ will go out there.”

She rolled up her car window and turned off the engine as I did the same. We got out and walked out the causeway. At the security gate, a really chunky guy in a park uniform was on duty. He looked us up and down as he came out of his little shack.

“The old guy said only one young dude was coming.”

“He’s not going out there without me,” Danica said before I could say anything.

The guard thought about that and then shrugged. “What do I care? Go.” He shoved his thumb over his shoulder. “But, anyone asks, you snuck past me on your own hook.”

“Sure,” I told him while Dani ducked under the bar across the road. Then I followed her.

We walked the quarter mile down to the first lot, our eyes adjusting to the darkness once we were away from the lights of the guard shack. A three-quarters moon was out in a cloudless sky, so we could easily see the lone figure standing on the beach, silhouetted against the silver light reflecting off the ocean.

“You’re sure you want to do this, Kevin?”

“Yeah, Dani. He could be yanking my chain, but he might really know something about this genetic thing. I searched the internet and didn’t see anything about someone getting an ‘UNKNOWN’ before, and I have to understand what that means.”

She muttered something I didn’t quite hear.

“What was that?”

“Nothing, Kevin. Fine, let’s go and do this already.”

We walked down to the lone figure on the beach. His bulgy eyes caught the moonlight and confirmed Summersby was waiting for me just as he’d promised.

“Kevin, I’m so glad you came to meet me. And you brought my absolute favorite among the lifeguards at All-Estates with you, even though I can see she’s clearly in a huff about it.”

Dani crossed her arms, and I knew it was annoyance and not the cold, because it was still warm with only a mild breeze off the water.

“Yeah, old man. I am pretty pissed you had to dangle this nonsense out in front of Kevin to drag us down here like this.”

Summersby chuckled. “All is just as it should be. After all, what could go wrong on a deserted beach late at night, with just the three of us here?”

I didn’t like the tone of his chuckle, or his know-it-all attitude; it made me a bit nervous, even if Danica didn’t seem that way at all. “Come on, Summersby. You said you were going to offer me proof you were more than a hundred years old.”

“Actually, Kevin, I said I’d give you proof that my whole story was true: about the Deep Ones, and about everything, including your ‘unknown’ genetic profile.” He waved his hand out to the ocean and snapped his fingers three times.

In response, we saw a something stand up out of the waves. It was hard to see it, exactly, given the moonlight and the moving water, but it clearly had a head and two arms. Scale was tough to tell, and it looked like it had...

“Well that’s hokey—it’s just a guy in a wetsuit with goggles.” But when I looked back at Summersby, it was to see him with a gun in his hands pointed at Danica.

“Oh, it’s not a guy, not a wetsuit, and those aren’t goggles, boy.” I could see his teeth suddenly in the darkness, and realized he was smiling widely.

As we registered this development, Danica did not press into my side as I might have expected. Instead, she moved a step away from me and stood pretty calmly for a girl facing a super-weird old guy holding a gun on an empty stretch of Connecticut beach. Movement from the water caught my eye, and a quick glance showed something really ugly and improbable lurch its way onto the sand.

“Whoa,” I said, seeing it far more clearly than I really wanted, then smelling it. “Ew.”

“Why yes, their smell is a might on the strong side,” Summersby said jauntily. “But there’s nothing which can outclass them in the sea. It’s the deal with them that got the colonists at Bridgeport through the worst years before the economy really settled down.”

Danica’s voice, firm and apparently unperturbed by Thing from the Waves or by a gun pointed at her, made me glance sideways. “Why don’t you tell him exactly how they ‘helped’ the early colonists?” she told the old man.

I touched her shoulder. “Dani? Don’t rile him up, please, he—”

She interrupted me. “Tell him, Summersby!” She took another step right as the rank-seaweed thing shuffled slowly up the beach towards her.

The old man nodded as though it was a reasonable demand, and held out a hand to check the creature—he’d called it a Deep One, I recalled—and it stopped. He kept the gun pointed at her, but glanced over to me as he spoke. “There were famines in the early days, back when it wasn’t even called Bridgeport yet. The colonists relied on the sea, but when that didn’t produce well and droughts and fires played havoc with crops, things were rough. Fisherfolk and whalers had to travel farther, risk more ... anyway, one of them, Ralfe Dane was lost at sea during a particularly rough storm.

“Anyway, wasn’t a few days later but that old Ralfie pulled himself out of the ocean, claiming he had found help for the whole town, and that he’d worked out an agreement that’d see them all fed. And all it would cost ...”

“And all it would cost were a few lives that would have been lost anyway without the help. Oh, and some intermingling with some of the other natives of the new world,” Dani interrupted.

“That’s right, young miss, that’s right.” Summersby’s gun didn’t waver a bit.

“What are you both talking about?”

Danica spoke over her shoulder to me, her eyes never leaving the old man. “He means the colonists made a bargain with those creatures, Kevin,” she pointed at the Thing from the Waves “and sacrificed a few of the weaker ones from the town for their help with harvesting the sea. Oh, and letting them have sex with some of the women.”

I felt ill. “What?”

Summersby caught up the thread again. “It worked, though. The colonists got through the lean years, even prospered once they got into the privateering business, and from then on it was smooth sailing, if you’ll pardon the pun.”

“How do you know so much about this?” I asked him.

The wide smile came again, marked by the moonlight on his teeth. “Because my great, great whatever mother was one of the ones who got bred! Just like yours, Kevin; that’s where you’re UNKNOWN comes from.”

“No. Just, no way.”

“Yep way. See, I’m becoming one of them, slowly. It’s what’s kept me alive this long, because there’s only a bit of them in me, and in you. When there’s a lot more of their DNA, the change happens much earlier; it’s only catching up to me now. That’s why I’ve been practicing at the pool so much; I don’t want to totally suck at swimming before I’m forced to live with my paternal relatives.”

“I’m going to become like you? Like them?” I wanted to throw up.

“Yes, only not for a long time yet, and that’s why it’s great to know about your genetic legacy! Kevin, they want to embrace you. You have so much potential because of all the time ahead of you, they figure you might be able to become someone of true importance in the human culture before the change hits you. Think of what you could do on their behalf, how high a position you could assume when you have to go to the ocean!”

I couldn’t say anything, but Dani could. “Kevin, don’t. You don’t have to agree to anything they say—”

“He does! Don’t listen to this pathetic girl, my boy.” He pointed at her with his left hand while he kept the gun trained. The Deep One began moving toward her again.

Danica stepped right again, and then suddenly I could see she’d maneuvered the creature between herself and Summersby. I watched with horror as I saw the old man move to his own right to clear the line of sight, and then saw a red dot land on his forehead the instant before I heard a slight spitting sound. His head jerked back sharply and he fell to the sand.

A voice from off in the darkness yelled: “Dani, down!” I saw her fall to her stomach and the light-spit-hit on the creature. It reacted like it had been slapped, and emitted a horrid keening noise, but kept coming.

I realized someone off in the darkness had to have a silenced sniper rifle just as the spitting sound came several more times, and each bullet hit the creature and splashed more fluid from it. By the fifth shot, it was staggering, and it fell before reaching Dani’s prone form.

As soon as it was down, I ran over to where she lay. “Are you okay?”

She sat up and looked at the Thing, which was rapidly disintegrating into what looked like rank seaweed and watery stuff that sank into the sand. “Yeah.”

I heard the voice from behind us again, closer now. “All clear kids.”

“Um, thanks, but who exactly are you?” I said out loud.

Dani got to her feet. “It’s my dad. He’s with the FBI.”

“WHAT?”

“It’s okay, Kevin. Dad is totally cool.”

Danica’s father—first a dim figure, then a fit guy in his early forties carrying a long gun with a scope—stopped when he got to us. “Totally cool,” he said, smiling.

“Sir, uh, what the hell is going on? The FBI knows about these things?”

He looked at me gravely. “Yes, we do Kevin. There are a number of threats on the horizon which some agencies and task forces know of, but which are not widely known. You’re a part of this particular story now, and we need to talk about that before we get things back to normal around here.”

I laughed involuntarily. “We’re a hell of a long way from normal, Mr. Kifer.”

“That’s true, Kevin. You know a great deal which is highly classified.”

“I just watched a creepy old guy who is apparently part fish get blown away, after he’d told me that I’m partly one of those seaweed monsters and will turn into one sometime in the future!”

Mr. Kifer exchanged a glance with his daughter. “Kev,” Dani said, pulling my attention to her.

“What? What can you possibly tell me that will help me now?”

Improbably, she smiled at me. “I’m pretty much like you. My father’s one hundred percent human, but my mom was not. My mother tried to hide it when my great-grandmother started going through the change, but dad found out. I mean, really, he’s FBI; how is he not going to find out?”

I couldn’t argue with that. I tried to latch on to what she was saying. “You ... you’re part fish thing?”

“Deep One, yes. Like you. But we’ve got a plan.”

“‘We’ being you and your dad?”

Mr. Kifer chuckled. “Us, plus a few fellow agents who are dialed into the real program, Kevin.”

“This is happening too fast ...”

Dani reached out and grabbed my shoulder. “Look, we’ll have time to talk about this, to let it sink in, but here are the basics: you and I are the future in terms of relations between the ocean people and regular humans! We do this right, we can be rich, powerful, and have all sorts of political connections well before we come close to changing into Deep Ones ourselves. At that point, we can do some real good if we want to.”

“You keep saying we, Danica.”

“And why wouldn’t I? I like you, remember?”

I glanced nervously at the expert marksman with the sniper rifle standing next to us.

“Don’t worry about me, Kevin. My daughter thinks you’re good people, otherwise we wouldn’t have been keeping such a close eye on you and been in the right position to recruit you this way.”

“Wait, what? Recruit me?”

“Sure! Dad and I had talked about it right after Memorial Day.”

“Memorial Day was when All-Estates Pool opened for the summer,” I said.

“Got it in one, Kev!” Dani smiled brightly at me and planted a kiss on my cheek. “And who do you think planted the 23andMe kit where you’d find it?”

I stood, stunned, as waves lapped the shore.

Dani put her arm around my waist, but it was her dad who broke the silence. “Come on, kids. It’s late, and we’ve all got work tomorrow.”

###

NOT QUITE FOUR YEARS after that crazy night on the beach, I was still dating Dani. She’d gone to Central Connecticut State University two years behind me which made it easy. I’d stayed a year past graduation with a bachelor’s in Earth sciences in order to earn a masters in ecology and environmental science. Danica matriculated a year early and finished her bachelor’s in political science in record time so we could graduate together. Everything between us had been pretty perfect, and even her dad and my folks realized we were meant for each other.

It was so awesome we were doing that, and I’d long forgiven her for setting me up with that screwy genetic kit in the first place.

But we had also talked a lot during the past years, and despite her loyalty to Mr. Kifer, both of us were sure we wanted to see how life could be without being nurtured along by an in-the-know clique within the FBI.

Fortunately for us, Dani had an insider’s knowledge about how federal agents did stuff; her dad had been grooming her for a long time, which was why she’d been so incredible on the beach and utterly unfazed by the weirdness and violence while I was still trying not to throw up.

The celebratory dinner with our folks and other family had been the night before, and our post-graduation plans involved looking for jobs and a place to live.

At least, so our parents thought.

That morning we met for breakfast at the Starbucks on East Putnam, in Greenwich.

I ordered a Venti Vanilla Frappucino and an orange croissant, at which Dani made a face. Her own choices were far more sensible. We took our meals to an empty table and sat. I looked at her as she started on an egg and veggie sandwich, and asked her: “So, we’re really going to do this?”

She nodded. “Yeah. I don’t want every step of my life planned for me, especially if we’ve got long ones ahead of us.”

“You prepped the messages?”

“The emails go out at eight p.m. to both our folks, telling them we need some time to explore on our own before we settle down, but not to worry, etc., etc. The one to my dad is a bit longer, of course, because he’s going to be awfully po’ed that I’m not following his lead.”

“How much trouble will we be in?” I took a sip of my Frap.

“You mean if they catch us at some point?”

I nodded.

She shrugged. “Probably not more than a slap on the wrists—they need us, and cooperative, if they’re going to get us to follow their plan.”

“Okay. So, what do we do next, O expert in dodging parents and federal officers?”

She smiled, and it still lit up the room. “We empty our accounts after breakfast, sell your car for junk, and toss our phones before we head to the bus station. We get tickets up to New London, then pay cash for ferry tickets to Block Island. We’ll take the ferry from there.”

I got lost in the elaborate getaway plan which would take us circuitously north, off the grid, as I demolished my croissant and watched her animated face as she spoke. We’d head for New Hampshire to access the Appalachian Trail, and disappear there for a few years: time to get to know my partner, lover, and fellow ambitious, possibly amphibious, part sea thing.

Dani wound down to finish her sandwich and coffee. “Sound good?” she asked between bites.

“As long as it’s nowhere near a beach, I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be.”