Tamed by the Creature from the Lagoon

by Clea Kinderton

  Finally, I got up, wobbling unsteadily on trembling legs, and made my way to the open door. I could feel its spunk draining from me, running in sticky trails down my thighs, and I clamped my hand over my vagina, trying to hold it all in. For some reason I couldn’t quite fathom, I didn’t want to waste it.

  I stared wistfully into the darkness, but the Fish-Man was already gone. I was left alone with the night, with the storm, and with the hurricane raging in my heart.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I stared for a long time, hypnotized by the arcs of lightning that slashed across the sky. The seething surface of the lagoon stood out in flashes, snapshots of furious activity, stills of nature’s fury. My mind had sunk to strange depths, submerged and entangled, sticking in the mud and the weeds of some unfathomable emotion. Finally, however, I rose to the surface, to rationality and to the practical necessities of life, and made my way in the dark to the bathroom and sat down on the toilet. Rain splattered against the window and a low moaning howl blew through the trees, making me shudder.

  Just the wind, Kate. Nothing to worry about.

  As if the worst hadn’t already happened.

  I was still in a state of shock. I was having trouble accepting what I’d just experienced, and for a couple of minutes I sat there in the dark trying to decide if I was awake or dreaming. Everything felt unreal to me.

  Did that really happen? Am I having a nightmare?

  There was no way to tell. Pinching myself wouldn’t work; everyone knows you can pinch yourself in a dream.

  My mind was wandering. Chaotic.

  Fish-Men aren’t real.

  I pressed my fingertips together. Maybe if I said it often enough I’d wake up.

  Fish-Men aren’t real. They’re an urban legend. There is no scientific evidence supporting their existence.

  I felt its cock sliding into me again, so thick, so hard, so impossibly slippery...

  No, don’t. It’s not right.

  I pinched myself on the arm but nothing happened.

  If this isn’t a nightmare, it has to be some kind of psychosis. Some reaction to trauma. PTSD. I’m hallucinating.

  I thought about the escaped convict I’d heard about over the radio at Chet and Loni’s.

  Maybe I was in shock? Maybe I had been raped. Not by a bipedal fish, but by a man, an ordinary human, and my brain — obsessed with Courtney’s story about the Fish-Man, and rejecting the reality of a real act of violence — had substituted a fictional monster in place of a real one.

  That’s crazy.

  I pressed my head between my knuckled fists, rocking. But what was the alternative?

  Crazier.

  A real rape, a real psychotic break, a real hallucination was plausible; the pieces fit. But the memories were too vivid, too well-articulated. I could still see those big black saucers, the cold, inhuman eyes of a squid; see the long pointed teeth, spaced out neatly, like the teeth of a tigerfish; feel the tremendous strength and the curling claws of its webbed, crocodilian hands; feel the scaly, reflective skin, cool and clammy as it rubbed against the inside of my thighs. And that cock ... it was no human cock. It was alien. Incomprehensible. Like something from a weird sex site. Bizarre, and yet ... so perfectly designed for my pleasure.

  I moaned thinking about it.

  I hadn’t imagined that, surely?

  And Courtney had seen it, too. She’d told me that she’d thought the Fish-Man had wanted to have sex with her. She could have been lying or imagining things; she could have been high or insane. And maybe her story was simply the basis for my delusion. But there were the other stories as well. Oannes, from Lieberman’s Cults of the Ancients; William Alland’s interest in Wakulla Springs, which had led him to use it as the location for his film Creature from the Black Lagoon; the Lizard Man of Scape Ore Swamp; even some of the so-called “alien abduction” stories I’d heard about involved scaly humanoids called reptilians. And, of course, there was Lovecraft’s own story about the Deep Ones.

  But worse than all of this — far worse, in my mind — there was some basis — however tenuous — in evolutionary theory for the existence of such a creature: the principle of convergent evolution meant that environmental pressures and natural selection could lead two distinct species to evolve in analogous ways. Bats and birds had both evolved wings; dolphins and sharks had remarkably similar forms, despite being from completely different branches of the animal kingdom. As improbable as it might seem, was it really impossible that some species of fish or dinosaur, over the course of millions of years, had evolved in a fashion paralleling human evolution? Or that some distant branch of humanity itself hadn’t returned to the sea and evolved fish-like characteristics? That was the scarier prospect, in my opinion. Given enough time — and a few dozen million years was plenty — almost anything was possible. So the only real objection to the Fish-Man’s existence was the lack of material evidence. And as a marine biologist, I knew that lack of evidence never quite meant “impossible”. The coelacanth had proved that.

  And if the Fish-Man was real, I was sitting on the most important scientific discovery of the century. Of the millennium. In fact, I’d already done more than just sit on it.

  But what are you going to do about it, Kate?

  What could I do? Who would I tell? I wasn’t even sure it had happened. And who would believe me? My colleagues would think I’d lost my mind. I was half-convinced I’d lost it myself. Chet would think I was crazy for sure. I could always go to the hospital and get examined, have them do a rape kit, but what would they decide? That I’d used a frozen fish as a dildo? Or worse: a live one? No one would believe that I’d been assaulted by a monster from a bad horror movie. They’d think I was making the whole thing up. They’d lock me away. My reputation — my life — would be ruined.

  But what if you could prove that it existed?

  If I could capture it, or at least capture it on film ... that would be something. A feast for conspiracy theorists, mostly. People would analyze the film, try to determine if it was fake; or — more likely — how I’d faked it. Just one more monster hoax that would end up on YouTube.

  But if I could establish some kind of relationship with the creature, like Jane Goodall and her chimpanzees ... well, that would change everything. I’d be on the cover of magazines. You’d see my face while you stood in line at the supermarket. I’d be invited to every talk show on the planet. I could lecture wherever I wanted, travel the world, be a guest of honor at prestigious scientific events. I could write a book. I could write a dozen. I could revolutionize evolutionary theory. They’d make movies about me.

  The more I thought about the potential, the less the Fish-Man’s existence bothered me. Maybe I was looking at everything the wrong way? Maybe this wasn’t a nightmare but an opportunity?

  The only problem was ... I was terrified.

  True, the creature hadn’t actually harmed me. Aside from a fright, a bit of embarrassment, and a bit of stretching, I’d come out the other end feeling just fine. Better than fine. I’d never felt so ... satisfied ... in my life. But what about next time? Would the Fish-Man be so forgiving? So tender? Or would it turn on me like a wild animal?

  It wouldn’t have mated with you if it didn’t want offspring. It’s not going to hurt the mother of its children.

  I shuddered.

  That was a scary prospect, but a ridiculous one. There was no way two species as different as we were could ever reproduce. Our genetic material was too different. But it hardly mattered that I couldn’t bear the creature any children; the Fish-Man obviously didn’t understand that, or it never would have mated with me. But it might mean that I didn’t have anything to fear from the creature. As long as it thought I could bear its young, it was unlikely to harm me.

  And even if I was in danger, was that any reason to stop? Did the great explorers let a little danger stop them from sailing across the ocean? The astronauts from flying to the moon? Did Henry worry about it when he went down to the
bottom of the ocean with Dolphin-Slut to conduct his ‘research’? No. Henry wouldn’t be afraid of the Fish-Man. He’d already be out diving in the lagoon, searching for it in ripped shorts with a bowie knife clenched between his teeth. Henry would mock me for hesitating. He’d always scolded me for being too timid. Too nice. Too conservative. Too proper. Too fearful. And if there was one thought I couldn’t stand at that moment, it was the thought of Henry being able to say: ‘I told you so’.

  I’m not going to fail at this the way I failed at my marriage. I’m not going to screw up my career the way I screwed up my chances of having a family.

  It wouldn’t happen. It couldn’t. I was going to find this damn Fish-Man and study it if it was the last thing I did.

  And what would dad say if he knew you were even thinking about running away? Dad taught you to respect nature, but he didn’t raise a shrinking violet. He raised a strong, confident woman. A woman who could take care of herself.

  I cleaned myself up as well as I could and flushed the toilet. I felt better already. More detached. More objective. In fact, if I’d been thinking, I would have taken a sample of the Fish-Man’s semen before flushing it down the drain. But then I remembered that there was probably some congealing on the floor in front of my couch.

  I washed my face and hands and belly and thighs with a damp cloth and then went back out into the hall. The storm had broken, and only the steady patter of rain and a light wind remained. I could smell the odor of the lagoon quite clearly.

  I went to the front door and shut it, but the frame was too damaged to hold the door closed and the wind pushed it back open. I grabbed a chair and dragged it over and propped it up against the door. It wouldn’t keep anything out that really wanted to come in, but at least it would shut out the wind and the rain. I lit the candle on the kitchen island and took a spoon from the drawer and a plastic Tupperware dish from a cupboard. I went out to the living room and scraped up a sample of Fish-Man sperm from the floor and put it in the container and sealed it. Then I put it in the freezer. Hopefully the power would come back on before the sample spoiled.

  I went back out to the living room and picked up the rifle from where it had fallen beside the bookcase and examined it. It didn’t appear to be damaged. The chamber was still loaded, unfired. I thought about what else I could do to protect myself and to prepare myself for tomorrow but all of a sudden I felt exhausted. I needed to get some sleep.

  I went to the bedroom, locked the door behind me, dragged over the dresser to block the door, and crawled naked into bed. I laid the rifle out on the mattress beside me, stroking it thoughtfully. I thought I’d have a lot of difficulty falling asleep, so I started reciting the names of all the fish that I knew, alphabetically. I was unconscious by the time I got to Anglerfish.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The caw of a parrot roused me from my slumber. I looked around, startled. I was in the clearing again, sitting on the bamboo throne.

  The large headdress made of flowers sat on top of my head, and the sweeping necklace of flowers hung down over my bare breasts. Corsages decorated my wrists and ankles. I was unbound this time, and the men stood in a circle around me, three or four men deep, their backs to the wooden palisade. A light breeze rustled the grass of their armbands, legbands, and headbands, and tugged tantalizingly at the hide loincloths hanging loosely from their hips. Each man bore a spear held rigidly upright.

  It was late dusk. The torches were lit, and the men started chanting. The circle parted and one of the elders appeared, bearing a bundle wrapped in a blanket of woven grass. He approached the throne, a fearful, respectful expression on his wizened face. He halted before me and spoke in a clear voice words I did not understand. Then, very solemnly, he unwrapped the parcel. Two shiny little arms and two shiny little legs appeared, stretching and kicking. There was a plaintive hiss, and the crowd of men began to make a loud, ululating cheer, rhythmically thumping the butts of their spears on the ground as the drummers beat furiously on their drums. The elder set the babe in my arms, smiling and nodding with approval. I tried not to look at the child’s face, burying it against my chest. The infant’s scaly little head nuzzled between the flowers and I felt wet little lips close around my nipple. It began to suckle.

  My child. My child.

  I opened my eyes.

  The room was gloomy. Sunlight tried to filter in through the wooden shutters. I was still lying on my stomach, where I’d fallen the night before. I hadn’t moved a muscle. The alarm clock was flashing. The power had come back on.

  The dream, as bizarre and disturbing as it was, dispersed rapidly as I recollected the events of the night before.

  Did that really happen? Had it really all been a dream?

  If it was a dream, why I naked? Why was I sleeping with my hand on the rifle? Why was the dresser pushed up against the door?

  I saw a flash of lightning, the wet skin of a broad, muscular shoulder, the gleam of a massive eye.

  I shook my head. It was all still so vivid, as if it had just happened a moment ago.

  Post traumatic stress disorder.

  I’d remember last night for the rest of my life.

  Is that such a bad thing?

  I rolled my legs off the bed and planted my feet on the floor. The cool, smooth wood helped to restore some sense of balance and normalcy. I got up, stretched, and walked around the bed to the window, opening the shutters. It was pointless to keep them closed. They weren’t going to stop ... whatever it was ... from coming in.

  Bright sunlight illuminated the trees and bushes behind the cabin, making everything golden. It was still early in the morning. The sky was a perfectly clear, pale blue. The storm was gone. It felt cooler.

  I dragged the dresser away from the door with a rumble, put on my robe, picked up the rifle, and went out into the hall. Everything was quiet. The lamps were on.

  I walked down the hall to the living room. The coffee table was still on its side, and my books were still scattered all over the floor. There was still a wet mark in front of the couch. The fragments of my top and underwear were laying where they’d fallen. I checked the front door. It was still closed, the chair still propped in front. It didn’t look like it had been disturbed.

  I moved the chair and opened the door and looked out at the lagoon. It was sparkling tranquilly, inviting me out for a swim. I left the door open to let in some fresh air and went to the kitchen. My cooler was still on the counter where I’d left it. A fly had crawled inside and drowned. I sighed and dumped the rest of the drink down the drain. I crouched down and opened the freezer door. The light came on. Everything was frozen. The Tupperware container sat on top, conspicuous evidence that the events of last night had not been a dream.

  I shut the door and went to the bathroom and had a shower. I expected to feel filthy and somehow tainted by the assault but I felt nothing in particular. I was a little tender, but no more so than I had often felt after making love to Henry. My feeling of violation didn’t extend beyond a feeling of impropriety, of having been part of an embarrassing, socially unacceptable experience. I knew I should feel vulnerable, frightened, even horrified. But I felt nothing but a sort of numbness, detachment, and curiosity about my own reactions. I must have still been in shock.

  After my shower, I put on my old pair of cutoff jean shorts and a tank top and made coffee. I felt hungrier than usual, so I made myself eggs and toast. While I ate, I read about amphibious fish. I was still hungry, so I ate a banana and some grapes as well. My eyes wandered over to the stain on the floor. I frowned and got up. I found a pail and a sponge under the sink, poured some detergent into the pail, filled it with warm water, and snapped on some rubber gloves. I went over to the wet, sticky patch and got down on my hands and knees and started scrubbing.

  After a minute or so I got a prickling sensation down my spine.

  Someone’s watching me.

  I turned with a start, expecting to see the creature.

  Chet was standin
g in the open door, a six pack of beer dangling from one finger.

  “Kate! Are you alright?” he said, his eyes wide with concern. “What happened to the door?”

  I sighed with relief, smiling awkwardly. I had no idea how I was going to explain this.

  “I, uh, had to break in,” I lied. “My key got stuck.”

  Chet stared at me skeptically. “You broke the door?”

  “Yep. Sure did.” I flexed my bicep.

  Chet shook his head. “What happened to the table?”

  I turned and looked at it, as if noticing it for the first time.

  “I tripped.”

  He nodded slowly, his eyes narrowing.

  “That’s me,” I said, shrugging. “Clumsy Katie.”

  He looked at the bucket and wet puddle on the floor.

  “Spilled my drink,” I added, smiling lamely.

  “You’re a hot mess, Kate. Good thing I brought more.” Chet entered the room cautiously, as if he were afraid of disturbing a crime scene.

  I saw the fragments of my panties lying on the floor and quickly shoved them under the couch. My ruined tank top was on the seat. I quickly snatched it and stuffed it under the cushion. My heart was racing in my chest.

  “I thought maybe whatever broke into your shed got into the cabin. I almost had a heart attack when I saw the door.”

  Chet sat down heavily on the couch, on the very cushion I’d hidden my top under.

  “Oh, no. Just me,” I said, grabbing the pail and standing up. “I’m just going to dump this. I’ll be right back.”

  I rushed to the bathroom and dumped the contents of the pail down the toilet and flushed it. I rinsed out the bucket in the shower and put the bucket, sponge, and gloves back under the sink in the kitchen.

  “I tried calling,” said Chet when I got back to the living room. “There was no answer, so I thought I’d swing by.”

  He’d picked up the coffee table and put it back in place and stacked all the books neatly on top of it.

  “I must have been in the shower when you called,” I said. I suddenly realized I had no idea where my phone was. I must have left it in the bedroom on the nightstand.