Tamed by the Creature from the Lagoon
Clea Kinderton
Published by Red Lamp Press, 2016.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
TAMED BY THE CREATURE FROM THE LAGOON
First edition. November 29, 2016.
Copyright © 2016 Clea Kinderton.
Written by Clea Kinderton.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
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About the Author
Chapter One
The lobby of the auto repair in Woodville, Florida, had four padded gray vinyl chairs, a spinning rack filled with maps and postcards, and a newspaper stand.
I filled a paper cup with complimentary black coffee from a stainless steel carafe on a table by the door and sat down with a copy of the Tallahassee Democrat to wait for my ride.
The paper was almost a week old and filled with the usual local minutiae which I found both quaint and mind-numbing: a new ‘state of the art’ dog park was opening; two men in Speedos had been charged with trafficking meth; and a wildlife association had been given a grant to relocate beavers. I was about to set the paper aside when I came across the following heading:
Fish-Man Resurfaces in Newport
The title immediately captured my attention. When I was a teenager, I’d spent many summer evenings hanging around Ollie’s Oyster Shack in Newport with Chet Danby. In fact, I’d planned on stopping there for lunch on my way to the cabin.
Scrunching my face at the bitter, burnt coffee, I read the single paragraph below the heading with a mounting sense of amusement:
Courtney Callahan, a waitress at locally renowned Ollie’s Oyster Shack, famous for its annual oyster-shucking competition, claims that the Fish-Man is once again on the prowl. “I was walking home from work, just after midnight, and the thing just came out of nowhere and tried to attack me,” Courtney exclaimed. “I couldn’t believe it. I’ve heard stories about the Fish-Man my whole life—everyone in Wakulla County has heard of the Fish-Man—but I never thought it was real. It is. I’ve seen it myself. It was just like you hear: seven feet tall, shaped like a man, but kind of hunched over. It was all covered in scales like a fish or a lizard, with gills on the sides of its neck, and great big eyes that just stare at you. And it’s teeth were as long as my fingers, all pointy like a shark’s. It was horrible. I thought for sure that it was going to kill me.” Fortunately for Courtney, a passing eighteen-wheeler scared the creature off and it fled into the woods. Local authorities declined to comment. This marks the third sighting of the Fish-Man in eight years.
I just about snorted my coffee. It sounded like something out of a bad 1950’s monster movie or the Weekly World News.
Like anyone who’d spent any time at all in Wakulla County, I’d heard about the infamous Fish-Man. Like Bigfoot, it was a sort of mythological figure who purportedly dwelled beneath the surface of the Wakulla River. Periodically, people would claim to have seen the mysterious figure, or at least to have discovered evidence of its existence in the form of a strange footprint or a mysteriously mutilated animal. Chet and I had spent many evenings debating the Fish-Man’s existence and had more or less concluded that all of the so-called sightings had been based either on delusion or a cynical cry for attention.
As a kid, I might have given the story some credence, but my father, who’d been an engineer, and a very rational, critical man, had always been quick to correct any hint of unscientific thinking that I was foolish enough to let slip between my lips. As a grown woman, and a distinguished professor of marine biology at Florida State University, the story seemed hopelessly backward and ignorant, the kind of thing that earned people living in rural Florida a reputation for being rednecks and hillbillies.
I took another sip of my coffee (recoiling once more from the taste) and glanced out the window. The bright afternoon sun was blazing over the asphalt, raising shimmers of heat, but there was still no sign of Chet.
Maybe I’ll get a chance to see the monster myself, I thought with amusement, turning back to the paper to read the article a second time. The idea made me chuckle, eliciting a quizzical look from the older woman sitting at the reception desk.
It was no coincidence that the underwater shots in Creature from the Black Lagoon had been filmed in Wakulla Springs. Although most of the locals believed that the Fish-Man sightings had been inspired by the movie, reports of a half-man half-fish humanoid in Florida’s Big Bend went all the way back to at least the 1800s and stretched all the way from Wakulla Springs in the north to the St. Marks lighthouse overlooking Apalachee Bay in the south. Sightings had even been reported as far east as St. Marks Spring. In fact, so many sightings came from the St. Marks River that it was hard to say which river the creature preferred, making it a popular topic of conversation in places like Newport. Contrary to popular opinion, it was this long history of sightings in the Big Bend that inspired the producer William Alland to develop the original concept for the movie after hearing similar tales about fish-men living in the Amazon river from the Mexican cinematographer Gabriel Figueroa.
I finished my coffee and set down the paper in time to look up and see a new white van pull into the service station. The bright green logo on the side of the van read Dan’s General Store. Chet, Dan’s son, was sitting behind the wheel.
Bidding the receptionist a good day, I left the air-conditioned lobby to meet Chet in the parking lot.
The cicadas were humming like they were angry. It was the end of June, and already sweltering. The morning had been bright and sunny, but now a passing cloud cast a momentary gloom, making the heat feel almost suffocating.
Chet’s dad had been a friend of my dad’s, so Chet and I had been summer friends for most of our childhood. Chet had grown up in St. Marks, but I had lived in Tallahassee with my dad and only came down for the summer months when my dad took his vacation. Chet and I used to swim in the lagoon behind Dad’s cabin off Lighthouse Road, which was separated from Apalachee Bay by a sandbar. When we weren’t swimming, we’d hike in the woods or canoe up the St. Mark’s River to Newport and have lunch at the diner.
“Hear you got car trouble,” said Chet, climbing out of the van.
I hadn’t seen Chet in a couple of years, and he’d put on a few pounds, but he had the same old smile, and the same mop of curly brown hair under his baseball cap. The bushy neck-beard was new and growing in luxuriously. It looked like being married with children was finally beginning to catch up with him. He was wearing cargo shorts and work boots and a bright green t-shirt with a Da
n’s General Store logo in peeling white.
“Thought you were supposed to be some kind of scientist,” said Chet. “Aren’t you scientists supposed to be able to fix anything?”
“I’m a marine biologist, shithead,” I said, punching him in the shoulder. It was like the last fifteen years hadn’t happened and we were kids again.
“Good to see you, too, Kate,” he said, rubbing his shoulder and grinning. “What brings you out here?”
“I’m on vacation.”
“Where’s your hubby?” he said, peering through the lobby window.
I hesitated, and Chet gave me a funny look, sensing something was amiss.
“It’s just me,” I said, trying to smile pleasantly.
“All right,” said Chet, dropping the subject like a hot piece of metal. “What happened to your jeep?”
“Engine’s dead.”
“Dead?”
“Yeah. It started smoking just outside of Woodville. I had to get it towed.”
Chet laughed. I’d always loved Chet’s laugh. It sounded so cheerful, if a little goofy.
“You never were any good at taking care of your car. How long is it going to take ‘em to fix it?”
“They have to order parts. Might be a couple of weeks.”
He nodded. “Why don’t you get a rental?”
“I tried. I called but they said they were all out. There’s some kind of fishing festival going on. I don’t plan on driving much, anyway. I figured if I needed a lift into town, I’d just hitch a ride with you.”
“Well, isn’t that nice of me,” said Chet, pushing back his cap to wipe his brow with the shoulder of his shirt. “Where’s your stuff?”
I led him over to the pile of suitcases, coolers, and duffel bags sitting in the shade of a big walnut tree in the corner of the lot.
His eyes got big. “Might need to make a couple of trips.”
“Shut up,” I said. “I’m planning on being here a couple of months.”
He picked up a bag and swung it ungracefully over his shoulder, almost losing his balance.
“What the hell’s in the bag?” he said, grunting under its weight.
“Books.”
“Books? I thought you were on vacation?”
“I like to read when I’m on vacation.”
Chet snorted and picked up my diving cylinder. “What the hell is this?” He knew what it was, he was just teasing me.
“A tank full of laughing gas,” I said.
“That’s more like it,” he said, grinning. “You going scuba diving?”
“Yeah. In the lagoon.”
“The lagoon? Sure you got the right place? The lagoon’s only twenty feet deep.”
“Thirty, at its deepest part. I’m studying the ecology.”
“Why are you doing that?”
“For fun,” I said, smiling.
Chet shook his head. “You don’t really get vacations, do you? Beer and bait. All you need. How the hell did you get all this shit in the back of your jeep anyway?”
“I’m a scientist, remember?”
Chet guffawed and started lugging things over to the van.
“How’s your dad doing?” I asked, picking up a bag and adjusting the strap on my shoulder.
“Good,” he said. “Doctor thinks he’s pretty much made a full recovery.” Chet stopped mid-step and turned to give me a funny look. “You knew about his heart attack?”
“Your mom called me. Thought I might like to know since he and Dad were friends.”
Chet nodded and slid open the side door of the van with a rattle. The back half was packed with paper bags filled with supplies; probably the stuff I’d ordered. I helped him load the rest of my luggage while we talked about old times. It felt good to be talking to a friend for a change. Chet wasn’t anything like the rest of my acquaintances. He was a simple guy who’d rather fish and drink beer than argue over scientific theories and complain about the state of education in America. No pretense. I needed a man like that. Someone who didn’t pretend he was something he wasn’t. I was sick and tired of head games.
When we got out on the highway, the conversation swung back around to my husband’s absence.
“So where’s Henry?” said Chet, trying to sound indifferent.
“I have no idea. We’re separated.”
Chet puffed out his cheeks. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. “When did that happen?”
“A couple of weeks ago.”
“What happened?”
“I caught him cheating on me.”
Chet hit the brakes, cursing. The car ahead of us had stopped suddenly. We watched in silence as a deer crossed the highway.
“Where’s my damn rifle when I need it?” he said, shaking his head. “Sorry to hear about your separation,” he added, resuming conversation. The car ahead of us pulled forward and he put his foot back on the gas.
I shrugged. I’d had two weeks to get used to the idea. “It’s done now,” I said. “Nothing I can do to change it.”
“Are you going to get a divorce?”
“Probably. I haven’t decided. That’s why I’m here.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “You guys weren’t married long, were you?”
“Five years.”
“No kids?”
“No kids.”
“That’s something, at least. Less to worry about. I hope it wasn’t anyone you know,” he said after a moment’s reflection.
“Only by reputation,” I said. “Someone he met at a conference. It’s not important. Can we talk about something else?”
“Sure thing.”
We traveled in silence for several minutes and drove into a thick patch of trees. The sun made the leaves look like emeralds and cast flickering shadows over the hood of the van. I was glad the van had air conditioning. It must have been a hundred degrees out.
“When’s the last time you used the cabin?” Chet asked, feeling his way toward a less volatile topic.
“It’s been a couple of years,” I said. “We came up for two weeks a couple of summers ago.”
“Oh yeah, that’s right. I saw you at Ollie’s.”
I smiled awkwardly. I’d always regretted not calling him up that time and inviting back to the cabin for beer, like I usually did. I’d been afraid that Henry wouldn’t like him, since he could be a bit of a snob, but Chet didn’t seem to be the least bit offended about being snubbed. His comment did remind me of the article I’d read in the paper, though.
“Did you see that story in the paper about the Fish-Man?” I said, changing the subject.
Chet snorted. “God, if I have to hear one more thing about that stupid Fish-Man...”
“Are a lot of people talking about it?”
“Not really. Except for Courtney and a couple of other people who say they’ve seen it. It’s all bullshit. They just like the attention. You’re a scientist. Maybe you can talk some sense into them.”
Chet reached over to turn up the AC.
“I doubt it. It’s not like they’re going to admit that they made it up,” I said. “Or that they were drunk or high or whatever. When did people start telling these stories, anyway?”
Chet stopped at an intersection and we watched a pickup hitched to a boat trailer cross on the I-98. It was shortly followed by a motorhome.
“My dad said they used to tell stories about it when he was a kid. They’ve probably been doing it for longer than that. People like Courtney just repeat what they’ve heard for the attention. All I know is, I’ve been fishing these waters since I was a kid and I’ve never seen anything like it. The worst you’re going to run into out here is a gator.”
A few minutes later we passed the generating station and the first scattered single-story motels, diners, and bungalows of St. Marks came into view.
“How are you going to store all these supplies?” Chet asked, nodding back over his shoulder.
“I’m going to put them in the fridge,” I said. “Jesus Christ, Chet,
it’s a cabin, not a tent. I called the power company and got them to hook the electricity back up.”
“What about a phone?”
I took my cell phone out of my pocket and held it up. “Got it covered, Chet.”
“Does that thing even get reception out here?”
I held the phone up and looked at the screen. I was so used to having reception in the city that I hadn’t even considered the possibility that I might not get any at the cabin. I was relieved to see a couple of bars. The connection wasn’t strong, but it was there.
Chet snickered. “You didn’t even check, did you?”
I put the phone back in my pocket. “Of course I did,” I said. “Just now.”
We looked at each other and laughed.
Just like old times.
When we came to the dirt road leading to the cabin, I felt something like homesickness wash over me. I was coming back to all the happy memories I had of my father, of time spent swimming in the lagoon and tanning on the dock, of hanging out with Chet on the beach and taking walks in the woods. This was a place where Henry had no power over my memories. A place where I could just be myself and figure out how I wanted to live the rest of my life. This place felt more like home than my apartment back in Atlanta ever did.
Chet pulled into the lane in front of the log cabin and put the van into park.
“Looks like something got into your shed,” he said, pointing at the small shed beside the cabin. The door was broken in, hanging from a hinge.
We got out of the van to investigate. The wood beams were splintered at chest height, like it had been punched by a giant, and the padlock had snapped.
“Bear, I guess,” he said, shrugging. “Not many around here, but I don’t know what else could do it.”
I looked around inside the shed, surveying the damage. The tools had been scattered about, and a metal pail was caved in, like it had been stepped on by something heavy. Who knew what it was looking for.
“Maybe it was the Fish-Man,” I said, grinning.
Chet snorted and then laughed at himself for snorting.
“Must be. It’s only logical, professor.”
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