The fate of his son also remained a mystery. When he had absently begun to order his son’s favorite food, some new kind of sadness began to eat away at him. He’d experienced loss before, a range of it. The loss of a parent, the loss of a trophy fish. This was different. This hurt worse.
He sensed the same sadness in his wife as they sat down at the kitchen table and began to eat. They spoke about their days. The mundane things, the funny things, the frustrating things, some gossip, the happenings of the impending weekend. He wanted to ask about the son. Where was he? Was he around? Was he coming home soon? Away at college? In prison? Dead? There were only so many places a son might be, and none of them a father couldn’t reach.
After dinner, they caught up on their favorite television show. The husband drank beer, and the wife drank boxed red wine. Throughout the evening, she stepped outside three times for a cigarette. The first time, he touched his breast pocket, feeling for the pack of cigarettes he, Doug, kept there. The reassuring hardness of the rectangular pack was gone, and his fingers sank into the flab of his pectorals. He’d asked the wife for a cigarette, and she’d looked at him strangely. He said never mind and told a joke that made no sense in that or any other context, then while she went outside to smoke her cigarette alone, he went into the kitchen to grab another beer. In there he felt dizzy. He found breathing difficult. Each lungful entered him like cotton. He thought of the bad air outside. He pressed a hand to his heart, wondered why its rhythm seemed so wrong, thought he counted off thirty seconds between beats, but his counting must have been wrong. When he heard the front door open, he grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and returned to the living room to continue watching television with his wife. Their favorite show. The second and third time she went outside for a cigarette, he did not ask her for one, and he did not leave the couch. He’d grown afraid there in the kitchen. Afraid of what, he did not know.
In bed that night before they slept, his wife said ‘I love you’ in the dark. It sounded so much like ‘goodbye’ that tears welled up in his eyes. He trembled and wept. His wife held him, her body soft beneath loose pajamas. She did not ask what was wrong. She only said kind and tender things. This calmed him, yes, but also worried him. The wife’s words and touch confirmed that all his pain was real. He’d wanted so badly for it to be make-believe. He wanted to be done with all this sadness and this fear. Her fingers combed through his hair, and she kissed him on the mouth. Beneath the blankets, she spread her legs, inviting him. He stirred despite himself. They did not make love so much as they applied a salve to their mutual pain.
Afterward, tangled in the sweaty sheets, he felt whole again. He laid a hand on his wife’s belly and wondered how long it would last. He opened his mouth to ask her a question, to propose that they try again, buy an RV, go on vacation, eat at that four star steakhouse they’d talked about for years—anything to fuel the calm he felt another mile. Something to look forward to. Something to feel good about. By the time he settled upon the ideal proposal, the wife was already asleep. He stayed up half the night and watched her sleep. Life and love had not been easy for them. Despite all that had transpired, in the gloaming she looked beautiful, happy, and at peace. He could not help but celebrate this quiet victory.
Loveyoubye.
When he awoke in the morning, his wife was already gone. He got out of bed and dressed in the clothes he’d worn the day before. He was late for work. He ate some sort of breakfast bar and left the house. On the highway, he missed his exit. Instead of getting off and turning back, he kept on going. He drove right out of town. When he caught sight of himself in the rearview mirror, he looked a little bit less like the man he’d become. He drove north. He stopped for gas and coffee somewhere, gas and a sandwich somewhere else. He tried to avoid seeing himself, but every couple hours, he couldn’t help looking or catching a glimpse by accident. Every time, he looked different. The further north he drove, the more he resembled Doug. He guessed it was only natural to become himself, and left it at that. By the time he arrived in Portland, he’d become Doug again. He drove directly to the bait shop. He did not open up for business. Instead, he locked the door after him and went up to his room above the store. He climbed into bed and fell fast asleep even though his back ached from the miles on the road. He had driven very far.
Doug woke in his bed. The young man who’d caught the strange fish sat in a chair beside him. When the young man noticed Doug was awake, he put the book he was reading aside and asked, “How are you feeling?”
“How do I feel?” Doug said, and laughed painfully. “I feel as shitty as the day I was born.”
“You fainted, so I brought you up here.”
Doug shook his head, mumbled, “I didn’t faint. I became someone else.”
“What was that?” the young man said.
“Nothing. You didn’t call an ambulance, did you?”
“No.”
“Good. I don’t have health insurance. What time is it?”
The young man looked at his watch. “It’s four in the morning.”
“Good,” Doug said. He groaned and sat up in bed. “Then it’s about time we got started.”
“Started with what?”
“Fishing.”
“You can’t be serious—”
“Look, boy. You showed up here almost twenty-four hours ago with a freak fish in your ice chest. Next thing I know, I’ve lost a day of my life, and trust me, I ain’t got many left. You owe me for that day. You’re going fishing with me.”
But as soon as he’d said it, Doug realized the young man was not in the room with him. He was alone. He’d no idea how many days had passed, one or ten, or none at all. He’d no idea how he’d managed to get upstairs to his room.
Gray light filtered in, but not enough to tell if it was early morning or late evening. He moved to the window and looked out. The young man’s Dodge was still in the parking lot. Now it was nearly submerged. Doug’s chest tightened. A flood had rolled in and swallowed the earth. His car had already gone under. He knew his shop was flooded. He’d lose his fish mounts and so much else. His only phone was down there, so that was gone. No chance of calling anyone. The rain continued falling heavy. Soon the truck would also vanish under the roiling waves. Somewhere in a distant town, a man who wasn’t Doug had a wife. Somewhere in this floodwater, the blue-eyed fish with human limbs and such sharp teeth must have dwelled. Maybe it was dead. Maybe not. Maybe a million more like it existed, ready to emerge from the river in this time of flood. Somehow, he knew the creature had gotten the young man who’d caught it.
If only he could will himself to be that other man. But he could not. He locked the bedroom door and retrieved the Smith & Wesson from the safe. He sat in the rocking chair by the window, the revolver on his lap, staring out at the strangely desolate world. No people or rescue crews out there. Only dark water, dark sky.
SIRENS
Dallas Mullican
The sea threw tumultuous waves to crack against the rocks far below. Only a hushed echo rose above the cliff face, blending with the gentle whine of chilled winds, and the weeping of a dozen dark shapes gathered along the graveside—a somber requiem and befitting ambiance. The salty air joined with tears, a bittersweet taste to linger on the tongue long after earth covered her coffin, and her face dimmed in memory.
“Our dear sister, Elizabeth, taken from us too soon…”
The man stood apart from the other mourners, only dimly aware of the reverend’s droning platitudes. He didn’t belong here. A stranger…even to himself. Eyes veiled in black lace, or shadowed by the brims of top hats, cast furtive glances his way. The words rogue and rake made it to his hearing, as was the intent of the speakers. Whispers uttered under the breath, yet aimed with deliberation—slings and arrows meant to wound. Their postures seemed to scoff at him, rich with disdain, before regaining their dour expressions, accompanied by the obligatory sniffles and moans.
“Let not your hearts be sadden. Our dear sister fi
nds embrace amongst the angels…”
A clap of thunder out at sea and the scent of rain, caused the horses to stamp and neigh, snapping the reins affixed to the hearse carriage. The stranger shared their restlessness and impatience. He turned and walked away. Gasps from the mourners at this audacious departure followed him from the cemetery—followed him, clung to him, along with so many ghosts.
He wandered into the city, the city of his birth, a place he had loved once. So many nights with friends, taking in a show, drinking at the pubs, or simply enjoying the sights and sounds allowed only to the affluent. They had ruled the city, lords of their domain. Yet, the past faded and friends drifted. Now the city seemed little more than a duplicate of every city everywhere. Buildings, streets of dirt and cobblestone, finely dressed people bustling along the sidewalks headed to some business or entertainment, and the poor, the refuse of the city, begging for handouts or waiting on the work carts to take them to another all too brief job. Every window and door now held the apparitions of nostalgia. Their appearance sickened him. He waved a hand in the air, hoping to banish their prying stares, their…judgments. Nothing remained for him here. Nothing was unique or special anymore, nothing held him, nothing to call home.
He found his way to the bar just off Essex Street, a place he knew well, though time had been kind to neither of them. The building’s façade flaked and splintered, cracks in the windows disfigured reflections. The interior fared no better. Once a home to the well-bred, only the wealthiest clientele had borne claim to this section of the city not so long ago. The depression of the day left few areas safe from vagrant, down-on-their-luck types. The wealthy now kept further north, or better yet, to their countryside mansions and estates, to avoid the filthy teeming masses altogether.
Inside, the stranger took a stool at the counter. A flick of his finger brought the bartender over.
“Whisky,” he said, without looking up.
“Sure thing.” The bartender returned with the drink and stood appraising his new customer. “Don’t get many dandies like you in here. I see a fella in a suit like that one, and I figure he’s coming from a wedding or a putting some poor sap in the ground.” The bartender chuckled, an ample belly quaking beneath a button down, which like his establishment, had seen better days, stained with splotches of dark ale and cheap red wine.
“Funeral,” said the stranger.
“Uh, damnation. I-I’m sorry, Mister.” The bartender wiped the counter to busy himself and avoid eye contact with the stranger. “Well, I hope they had a good life.”
The stranger glanced up, the minimal gesture taking all his strength. “She had…regrets.”
“Uh, I see. Uh…let me know if I can get you anything else.” The bartender hurried away, taking up a conversation about the ‘damned parliament’ with a man at the other end of the bar.
The stranger nursed his drink, gazing into the amber liquor. He thought he heard the call of the sea whispering to him from the bottom of the glass. A quiet summons voiced in the slosh of liquid, side to side. He always felt at home near the sea. Its ominous breadth, its fathomless depths, the mystery of the thing, made him feel both small, insignificant, and welcomed.
Behind him, a couple’s laughter intruded on his thoughts. Their merriment seemed an affront to his need for solitude, his need for recrimination.
“You know how I love you,” said a male voice.
“Oh, I’m certain you do. I hear you love all the ladies,” said a female voice, which sent a twinge of discomfort around the interior of the stranger’s skull.
“Lies, all lies. People are simply jealous of the love I have only for you.”
“And Betsy Stover? She’s simply distraught over you.”
“A mere child…and such a bore. She meant nothing to me.”
“I will be any different? Am I to be your fashion of the month?” Her voice lost some of its facetiousness, a serious undertone creeping in.
“This city would ruin me. They besmirch my reputation, sullying my good name. Yet, none of it matters. Only how I appear in your eyes matters. A momentary fashion? Bah. Believe me, my love, you will suit me for all of time. I should lop off my arm rather than not have you on it.”
She giggled. “Such sweet things you say. Your words are like flowers, you’ll dash off before they wilt.”
“You wound me. I will never leave your side.”
“I want to believe you. I do love you.”
“Trust what you feel. I am yours…yours alone. I will never leave you.”
“Nor break my heart?” Almost a whisper, a quiet plea.
“I would sooner rip out my own heart than to chance breaking yours.”
Wet sounds of the two kissing brought bile into the stranger’s throat. He coughed as he stumbled off the barstool, gaining their attention for an instant, nodded an apology and ambled from the building. Though he could hold his liquor, and only indulged in one drink, his head swam as he wandered the streets. Aimless, his legs carried him with a seeming will of their own. He found himself at the docks, the sea like an old friend standing before him with open arms. He gazed into the dark waters for a moment, then closed his eyes, head tilted back. The cold current washed over him, cradling him in a gentle embrace. It enveloped him, coalescing over his head like easing a door closed. The stranger sank, arms waving back and forth, pulling the waters close. Memory faded and pain dimmed, a life lived grew faint and small as it receded into the darkened depths.
“What you doing there, lad?”
A gruff voice jarred him out of the daydream. He turned to find a large man staring at him, a mischievous and sinister smirk on the other’s face, and a fighter’s stance in his deportment. The man, obviously a sailor, wore the customary attire of any one of the dozen or so whaling ships anchored in the harbor. Slops, his loose fitting trousers, flapped lazily in the breeze beneath a gray waistcoat and narrow brimmed black hat. Whaling, a booming industry, always lacked sufficient hands on deck, and the stranger knew well some of the more nefarious means of filling ships’ roles.
“Got any coin on you? Loan me a bit?” asked the sailor.
“I’m afraid I don’t have any to spare, friend.”
“We’re friends now, are we? Well, friend, I bet my captain’ll give you a coin or two for your hard labor…eventually.”
“Your captain?”
“Of course, aboard that ship right there.” The big man thumbed toward a rather derelict looking brig. Sailor smiled, a gap-toothed sneer, and darted forward, much more quickly than his bulk would have suggested possible. A cudgel held behind his back whipped upward at an arc and caught the stranger just below his left temple. The world swooned in a grey fog.
Festive music filled his head as the room took shape around him. Portraits of the noble dead stared down from high walls. Crystal chandeliers glowed overhead while crystal glasses, brimming with wine, occupied every hand. Laughter and conversation swelled in a pleasant din from a room full of jovial partygoers. He remembered this night, a ball for some lord or lady. Dressed in his finest tuxedo, he danced with Elizabeth, resplendent in her evening gown. A silver necklace swung like a pendulum beneath her throat and hovered above a plunging bodice hem. She was enthralling, an unmatched beauty. She giggled as he twirled her across the ballroom floor, an expression of pure joy in the glint of her eyes and the radiance of her smile.
The grey fog deepened to a charcoal miasma…
Elizabeth gazed up at him in the quiet of a darkened room. A single candle burned by the bedside, casting ghastly shadows onto the walls. She looked haunted, pale, clothed in her white nightgown. Her eyes demanded his attention, would brook no turning away. There was no hate in her countenance, but instead—hurt, betrayal, disappointment.
The cry of a gull sounded from somewhere near. Then, a single note, a sorrowful sustained note, plucked out on ivory keys. The stranger’s mind whorled and went black.
* * *
An ancient ship rocked to and fro upon feroc
ious seas. The roar of its fury filled the stranger’s ears as he clung to the railing. Above the water’s rage—the crack of splintering wood, tearing at a hull near to breaking, the sweetest song entwined with shrieking winds, and a man strapped with heavy rope to the mast who bellowed into the gale.
Violent waves slapped against the deck. Men flung over the railings, cried out into the wailing wind, disappearing in the blackness of the night and the anger of the sea. Awoken to a nightmare, this tempest and the ship’s imminent doom, confusion gave way to fear as the stranger struggled to find purchase, desperate to move away from the beast lurking over the railing. Blinding sheets of rain obscured sight, feeling along the planks yielding no assistance.
“You, there!” The man bound to the mast screamed over the roar. “Secure yourself!”
Through the downpour and the squall’s near solid walls, the stranger could just make out the man who spoke. He wore antiquated armor, bronze and leather, battered and nicked, as if just out of battle. His long beard and thick brown hair, streaked in gray, flagged outward with the force of the maelstrom. The stranger tightened his hold, palms rubbed raw by cords of thick rope. Yet amidst the violence and panic, again the song, an ever present resonance, called to him—his terror and the melody created a dizzying amalgamation.
“Do not heed the song, only calamity awaits those who listen. Achelous’ daughters sing to entice us to our doom. Though beautiful, they are witches or worse still,” he yelled to the stranger.
“Who are you?”
“I am Odysseus, King of Ithaca. I return from the Great War with Troy. Though we prevailed against the Trojans, it seems I have angered Poseidon. His wrath will see us at the sea’s bottom if we cannot weather this storm.”
Fearful Fathoms: Collected Tales of Aquatic Terror (Vol. I - Seas & Oceans) Page 10