Fearful Fathoms: Collected Tales of Aquatic Terror (Vol. I - Seas & Oceans)

by Richard Chizmar

  Brine eddied around him. An apparition curved airborne, suspended, then plowed into the gurge. Saltwater inundated. Finn clung to the camera, snapping a tardy shot. Patient, the man in the waves persisted. He couldn’t see the screen as the lens captured random, potentially blurred, segments. And knew it would not be adequate.

  The water yielded before his eyes. A magnificent white gargantuan coursed in front of the lens. His finger jerked. The mechanism clacked.

  Finn cheered, “For Meg!”—hoisted the camera in triumph, almost dropped it, and then safeguarded the phone inside a vacant shirt pocket, securing the button.

  A cantankerous dickens braked to spiral. Tall swells cascaded over Finn, and he went down with an aura of bubbles, spinning. Old Bogey pursued. The shade’s mouth yawned. Pectoral fins stirred eagerly. The man darted, evasive. His lungs could not outlast the whale; he was forced to surface, where he heard the shrill notes of the sea cave.

  Finn gave it his personal best, feeling scant hope yet swimming like a champ. He had competed as a kid, won medals at the sport but was seriously out of practice. Now, his life at stake, determined to prove himself to Meg, he sprinted for the finish line.

  Water boiled. A dreadnought hustled after him, accelerating in a vindictive up-and-down charge. The surf undulated, pushing the man faster. He spotted harbor lamps at the right, beckoning. Whistler’s Cove. A nostalgic pang. It had always been there, no matter how many leagues he sailed. The cave should lie dead ahead.

  No clicking, only the fluting wail reached his ears. He had a plan. A wild idea. Ignoring delicate ribs, he focused all of his energy on that insane gambit and lured Old Bogey to the mouth of the tunnel—where Finn scrabbled onto stones, dragging himself from the ocean, scaling a gray slope of rocks. “For Jake!” he vented, a fist uplifted.

  Moonlight illuminated inhabitants through holes in the roof. Crabs scurried; a lounging seal by the outlet of the shaft gawped at the disturbance. As a tremendous whale arrived, crashing into the cave, the seal blatted in fright then plopped to the drink and fled.

  Wraith or ghastly flesh, Old Bogey’s muzzle plugged an entrance of the flue, interrupting a soughing lament.

  “Ha!” cackled a fellow crouched amidst the rubble of land, quaking with a blend of terror and exhilaration. “Ha!”

  The whale was too startled for some minutes to react.

  Finn stood and jigged. His voice boomed, “I’m the luckiest man on the seven seas, because I am still alive!” The merriment halted when his foe threw a tantrum, attempting to extract a prodigious nose from the cave. “You can’t,” gloated Finn, reassured.

  The leviathan furiously bashed its flukes at a cliff. Earth and shale dislodged. Slinging the tail in multiple directions, the sea-beast applied its weight for leverage to pry at the edges of the tunnel.

  “We’re even.” A bold statement. Finn smirked, then tapped the shirt pocket with the camera. “Maybe I’ll take one more.”

  Stretching an arm, his back to Old Bogey, the man grinned at the phone and took a selfie. The cave was dim, but the whale had an occult sheen. Aided by moonshine and flash, the picture didn’t look bad. He would explain what the big white blob was. Finn stashed the device.

  A pelagian bugaboo flogged and lashed to pummel waves, batter rock in vain. Old Bogey then lay idle, as if spent or debating. Fragments showered from a ceiling adorned by growths and cobwebs.

  The vanquisher strode to his conquest like a big-game hunter admiring a kill. “You’re no legend. You’re a dumb cork.”

  Liquid washed his stockinged feet. Remorse, chilling as the ocean, welled in his heart.

  Finn confronted the world’s largest nose and placed a palm on wrinkled hide. Nostrils twitched. “None of this was your fault. Boats attacked you. They speared you. Repeatedly. You were a victim. A bull in a ring.” Tears leaked from his eyes. “I’m sorry, I truly am.”

  Eyeing the whale, the man devoted himself to shoving with both hands. “For a spook, you’re pretty hefty. A little help?”

  The creature bucked, flukes pounding. Stone fissured. The tunnel shattered, rumbling. The whale was liberated. Roof and walls tremored. Rocks smashed down. Jaws widened, and Finn was tossed to plunk on his rump in the suds with a leg between two teeth. The mouth closed. Old Bogey retreated, hauling him—angling toward open sea as a bit of stone conked Finn’s brow from above.

  The stars frolicked on a nether sky. A phantom drew him across a span of velvety glitters.

  His leg was relinquished. Finn observed white shimmering balls gathered to assemble a bed of ghost kelp, ribbons knotted. The lucent bulbs wafted to support him.

  Fuzzily, the man perceived a massive light-colored form towing his raft, a braid of streamers looped round its stern. Contours of the harbor hove into sight.

  He was home.

  With a swish of its tail, the spirit let go the raft and spouted crookedly, then immersed.

  Was it gone? Finn’s throat constricted, a sharp twinge of regret. “We had us an adventure. That we did.”

  Old Bogey ascended to boost the kelp mattress and nudge the human onto the floor of a stray dinghy. The spectral giant prodded the Esmeralda to an empty slot at a pier crowded with dories and launches. Finn sat up, head clanging in dolor, his feet aft, and met the whale’s eye.

  Luster ebbed; uncanny fumes declined. A grim eidolon melted away.

  “Bye, Jake.” Finn wiped blood off his brow and hastened to unbutton a shirt pocket. He extended a hinged gadget, blinked at a glowing window. What were the numbers? The guy thumbed keys, lips pursed, then hummed with the camera-phone to an ear. Luckily, Megan had typed her number into his contacts. He grasped the gunwale as the skiff bobbed. He was going to have one doozy of a hangover. Or concussion. Same thing.

  A groggy female replied. “Uncle Finn? Are you okay?”

  “Megan! I’m fine, sweetheart. It’s good to hear your voice.” He clenched the phone and his molars, restraining an urge to giggle.

  “Are you sure you’re okay? You sound funny. And you never call me.”

  “I’m terrific! Can I come by?”

  “No. It’s three in the morning.”

  “Tomorrow then. Later. As soon as you’re up.”

  “Why? Is it money? How much do you owe?”

  “It isn’t money. Although it might make us famous!”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Meg honey, I’ve got a whopping tale to tell you,” he blurted.

  “Your voice is weird. You must be blitzed. I’m going back to sleep.”

  “It isn’t the booze. You’re never gonna believe this. I saw Old Bogey!”

  “You what?”

  “I did!”

  “Uncle Finn, you told me for years that’s a hoax.”

  “I was wrong. About a lot of things.”

  “I’m getting concerned. You don’t sound like yourself.”

  “That’s because I’m not myself. I’m somebody else. I wanna be dependable.”

  “I’m taking you to a doctor. First thing.”

  “Meggy. I know how it seems. You have every right not to listen. Who would believe me? But I have a picture!”

  “Of what?”

  “Old Bogey!”

  “A picture of Old Bogey.”

  “I took it with my telephone.”

  “You took a picture? I didn’t think you were interested. You had this blank expression.”

  “I’m not a complete idiot, despite what some think.”

  “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

  “And you know what else? I was in Old Bogey’s stomach,” he bragged.

  “No you weren’t. You were in your boat.”

  “I was swallowed!”

  “It was a dream.”

  “It wasn’t.”

  “Do you have a picture of that?”

  “No.”

  “Uncle Finn, you told me yourself, the stories of being in a whale’s belly are bunk, prattle, dribble and drool. Did I forget anything?”

/>   “They are, but mine isn’t.”

  “Get some rest.”

  “I don’t need to sleep it off,” he bristled.

  “Okay. Whatever.” She yawned drowsily. “I’m going.”

  A dial tone blared from the receiver. He winced. “Meg?”

  Sighing, he pocketed the camera-phone and buttoned a flap. “Can’t blame her. She only knows the uncle who reeks of alcohol, whose cheeks and nose look sunburned.”

  Finn reposed on bare timbers, linking fingers over his abdomen, and scrutinized constellations.

  Eyelids drooped, burdened by a sudden exhaustion. He’d show her….

  The town lost its whistle.

  And so did he.

  THE LIGHTHOUSE

  Annie Neugebauer

  There was always a new candle glowing in the sconce to my right when I woke. I never knew who lit it or when, only that I fell asleep in blackness and woke to the dim, orange glow of a single flame. The light was there to illuminate me, and not my surroundings, casting shadows to my left and further blinding my eyes to the contents of the darkness around me. It lasted a long time, the candle, its profuse drippings coating the metal sconce and stone wall below, hardening into grotesque shapes.

  I knew where I was: in the old dungeon under the lighthouse. I knew this not because I had been down here before—as children we weren’t allowed down here, and I’d never come back as an adult—but because I could hear the surf slamming into the walls around me. The ocean’s desperate attempts to break in made continuous thunder, too loud to ever become background noise. The waves had never been this loud above ground, up in the lighthouse itself. It had never been this dark in the lighthouse either.

  I didn’t know who kept me here or why, but I kept going back to thoughts of the lightbox. In the decade since I’d last been here, on the summer of my sixteenth birthday, I’d almost convinced myself it had been make-believe. Even now, I wasn’t sure.

  Cold sank through the thin fabric of my clothes. I had on shorts and a nice blouse now ghastly with lack of washing. I sat against the wall with my arms outstretched like a lazy Christ. Shackles small enough for my wrists dug into my skin.

  I was thirsty. God, I was so thirsty that I didn’t even feel the pain of hunger anymore. I continuously licked my lips in a compulsive attempt to satisfy my need. My lips had cracked and bled, scabbed over and reopened so many times I couldn’t feel them anymore, but I licked them anyway.

  My dirty feet stretched before me. I curled my toes, just to make sure they were mine. I never knew what they would take away from me next. They’d cut off my hair, first.

  I could never forget the horror of that realization when I awoke to the candlelit dungeon the first time—not knowing who’d done it, when, or why. My hair had been long, almost to my waist, curly and beautiful. I’d tried staying awake after that, even after the candle burned down, but time always won. I always slept.

  The first time I saw the greenish glow of eyes in the darkness, I thought I was dreaming. They stayed unwavering for so long, staring so piercingly into my own eyes, that it seemed impossible they could be real, but then, finally, they blinked. Fear quickly overcast hope. The shadow that the eyes peered from was so thick I couldn’t determine what height the eyes were at amidst their surroundings, or how far away.

  I pulled my feet into my body, tucking my heels as close against my legs as I could and pushing my back more upright against the wall. I tried not to blink, but those eerie green eyes reflected the candlelight so continuously that I began to lose my edge of emotion. It was easy to become numb down here. Afraid of not finding out before the candle burned out, I spoke.

  “Who are you?” My voice came out surprisingly loud, echoing against the walls in this chamber of noise.

  I couldn’t breathe for the hope of a reply. The lack of an answer smothered me.

  The eyes blinked, then disappeared.

  I cried that night, the first time since they’d cut my hair. I fell asleep well after the candle had burned out. The darkness was so pure I didn’t know if my eyes were opened or closed.

  * * *

  The inside of my chamber was coated with the dank smell of isolation. The slick stones reflected the light from the candle as if the entire room were the moist insides of some great beast’s mouth. I began to fancy that the constant groans of the waves were actually the beast snoring, and that any moment he would wake and swallow me down.

  I couldn’t understand how I was still alive. I guessed I’d been here more than two weeks, based on the new candles, but I couldn’t be sure how long they burned. I didn’t know how long I slept. Time meant nothing anymore.

  All I wanted was water. And light.

  Maybe someone was feeding me in my sleep. Was that possible? How could I be getting food and water without waking up? Yet I passed each sleep soundly, never waking until the candle was lit again. I closed my eyes with a sigh and leaned my head back against the stone. I’d never gone to sleep when the candle was lit. I was too hungry for vision, for light. Too hopeful, still. Just as I finally gave myself permission to sleep, I heard a noise.

  My eyes opened wide, pupils adjusting to the familiar gloom, searching. I saw nothing in the blackness. I pushed my shoulders off the wall, straining forward in my shackles, eyes alert. I held my breath. I couldn’t hear anything over the surf.

  Then I saw them: the green eyes were looking at me again. Silent and still as before, slanted slightly upwards, wide and refracting my candlelight. I forced myself to breathe silently, gentle and slow. I wanted to scream.

  What if it’s my captors?

  I was afraid to speak, afraid of losing contact with those eyes. I needed not to be alone anymore. I needed.

  I decided to risk it. I’d smile to let them know I was friendly. I licked my lips and made the effort, but my lips split, and blood spilled over my teeth. I dropped my chin down to my chest, whispering, “Please...”

  A soft scuff from the direction of the eyes snapped my head back up. The eyes seemed larger, closer. They blinked twice.

  “Please,” I tried again. “Who are you?”

  A small, furry circle emerged in the outermost edge of candlelight. It had two pointy ears and a solid black face.

  I sat numbly staring at the creature staring back at me with curious, feline eyes. It walked one petite step forward into the reach of the light, sat on its haunches, wrapped its tail around its dainty front paws, and cocked its head to the side in a way that only cats can. I almost laughed.

  “Why hello, pretty. You’re a nice little thing, aren’t you? Your fur is very shiny and nice. Do you want to come over here? I promise I’ll be nice to you.” God, I said nice like a dozen times.

  That doesn’t matter, idiot. It’s a cat.

  The cat straightened its head and twitched its tail. I couldn’t look away from its green eyes, no longer glowing since the distance between us had changed. I didn’t want it to leave again. Please don’t leave me.

  “You’re a little thing for a cat, but you’re fully grown, aren’t you? Just small for your age? I was wondering if you’re a boy or a girl. Are you a girl?”

  Such brilliant green eyes. They reminded me of lightbox itself, glowing in my memory or imagination.

  “A girl. I thought so. Forgive me if I’m wrong. You’re welcome to come over here if you want to, sweet thing. Come on over here...”

  The cat didn’t come, but she did plop on her side and continue watching me as I talked on and on, trying to entice her. I only talked about the cat—nothing else. I finally had a distraction. By the time the candle was low, I’d worn my voice to a hoarse whisper and put the cat to sleep, delicate chin tucked on two soft paws.

  I fought sleep harder than ever that night, when the dark had consumed us both, but as always, sleep eventually won.

  * * *

  I knew that I dreamed.

  I was in the lighthouse, above ground, running around in bare feet despite the chill. I was about ten years
old, energetic and already bored. I’d only been here for a few days, and already I felt eager for something new. I sashayed up and down the steep spiral staircases effortlessly, flitting from level to level, my bright blond hair trailing behind me like a banner. I wore an oversized gray sweater to ward off the nip in the air.

  The afternoon sun floated specks of radiant dust in the lighthouse, and I sent them dancing when I ran by. I was on the third floor—not counting the old dungeon that was off-limits—and toying with the idea of visiting the lantern room above even though I knew Dad was busy.

  The dream flipped like a page in a book: I was sitting in Dad’s lap looking out over the sparkling night ocean, dark like black glass. Even then, perfectly content, my feet tapped the air with impatience, and I missed his explanation of the beacon. Something about twenty-four hours a day.

  “...and though it looks pretty, Princess, the ocean is a dangerous place. The waves by those big rocks there, that look nearly still right now, are so rough they can drown even a strong swimmer like me in a moment. You are never to go down there without me. It isn’t safe. Those are evil waters. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Daddy.” Evil waters? I stared at the impenetrable surface, caressed but not penetrated by even by our bright beacon. What sorts of monsters swam down there? What would they want with a girl like me?

  The sheer, unknowable terror of it captured me for only an instant before distraction won.

  “Daddy, do you like my hair?”

  “Yes, Princess, it’s gotten much longer since last time you came, and curlier too, I think?” He stroked my head with calloused, gentle hands. “And what’s this? Still no flaws on those baby cheeks? I’ll roughen them up a bit, I wager!”

  He rubbed his scratchy beard against my face until I was pink with glee, hollering for him to stop and loving it.

  * * *

  The cat wasn’t there when I woke up to the newly lit candle. I waited and waited, searching the dark ahead of me with eager, hopeful eyes for the flash of green that had become my hope. I tried calling to it like a pet, but my voice sounded hollow in the echoes it created. I thought my tears had been used up, but I cried again, harder than ever, sobbing until sleep shouldered my pain.