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

by Richard Chizmar

  I reluctantly picked it up. “Hey.”

  “Hi there, Will, it’s your dad.”

  “I know.”

  “I, ah, I heard about your mom. I mean, of course I did, right? Yeah. It’s not like I don’t keep in touch with her or the home or anything. Didn’t want you to think that I didn’t. But yeah.”

  “Okay.”

  “I, ah, I just wanted to let you know I’m coming down there, maybe in a few days or so, a few days, so yeah the lawyer said it might be a good idea just to see where things stand, you know, with the dispersion of funds, things like that, all that legal…stuff. Right? What a pain in the ass. Plus, I’ll see your mom.”

  “Right.” I stirred my coffee and watched the little white pieces of bad cream break apart and turn in circles.

  “Right. So yeah. So how is the old girl doing? Any change? Does she need to sign anything or, you know, answer questions?”

  I didn’t answer him, but just stared out at the drifting appendages.

  “You know, for legal purposes? Just wondering. I guess the lawyers will tie all that stuff up. No need to worry about it now. Right?”

  “Mm...”

  “Alright, well good. Just wanted to touch base, check on your mom. I’ll be in touch I guess, when I get there. Great catching up, Will. Let’s hope this whole thing is over with soon.”

  I hung up. I really didn’t want to hear any more.

  * * *

  Walking past the twenty-foot columns that led into the convalescent home was like a weight falling onto my shoulders. I hated stepping through those doors. But this time when I did, it wasn’t as quiet a scene as usual. A nurse ran by pushing a cart past the reception desk and down into the hallway in which my mother resided. Another nurse followed, carrying what looked like a tackle box. I walked down the hall following them, worried about which room they were headed toward. It looked like they were gathered around my mom’s room.

  But as I approached, I realized that the nurses and one doctor were focused on the room next door. Mr. Folsom. Apparently, he had no DNR like most of the residents here.

  The cart was left at an odd angle outside of the room, bottles and instruments strewn all over the top. Almost without thinking, I grabbed a small brown bottle of Nevatal, fumbling for it as it skipped around the metal surface. I finally gripped it tight and slipped it into my jacket.

  “Sir,” an older nurse said as she tried to squeeze past me, “please, give us some room.”

  “Of course.” I pretended to peer inside at the activity in Mr. Folsom’s room before I stepped into my mother’s.

  * * *

  My dad called three days later. He was staying at the Sea Shell Motel on Atlantic, right across the street from the ocean. He said we should catch up. Grab a cup of coffee. He’d make me a special one of his “pirate coffees” I remembered from being a kid, which was two parts rum, one part Chock Full O’ Nuts. I declined, but said I’d be over later that night.

  * * *

  Shift change was at 10pm, and when I entered Ocean Breeze at quarter after, pushing the code into the steel box at the side of the sliding door, it was quiet and still. The nurses met at their station in the opposite wing to go over charts and events from the day.

  No one saw me enter. Of course, if later the county insisted, they could always review the tapes and see when I had entered and left, but for now, I was counting on remaining invisible. I made my way to my mother’s room.

  * * *

  There was a pair of wheelchairs parked under a cabana next to the side of the building. Each had large wide wheels to navigate through the sand, and a teal webbing seat, which the sand could easily fall through. A trail at the edge of the parking lot led to a ramp down to the beach, about fifty yards away.

  There wasn’t much talking coming from the chair, mumbling mostly. So faint that with the sounds of the surf slapping the shore, I could hear little more than a word or two lost to the wind.

  The lighthouse beam swept over the shoreline and I saw them, billowing in the waves and peeking out of the water. Sensing. Reaching.

  More mumbling from the chair.

  It was difficult to push through the sand, even with the large tires. But once I was on the wet level shoreline, it became much easier. The tires hissed now as I pushed. By a sliver of moon, I could see the white caps and bubbling foam as it tried to reach the chair, but nothing else. I pushed forward toward the ocean.

  The light swung around again and for just a flash I saw the thick green translucent worm things rise out of the crashing waves, excited. Expecting.

  Close enough. I locked the brake on the side of the chair and leaned down to my father’s ear.

  “End of the line, you son of a bitch.”

  Either the Nevatal was wearing off, or in this moment at the end of his life he could see the pale arms begin to reach for him. He tried to turn around to see me, but he slumped in the chair, one side of his mouth pulled down involuntarily. He tried to speak.

  “Will…what’re you doing?” I could barely hear him over the sounds of the crashing surf. A dark wave spilled beyond the chair and bubbles and foam sparkled and popped against the tires. I backed up.

  Another flash of light. A pea-green tendril reaching toward the chair. Smaller ones around it, eager. A mouth within a mouth at the end of the largest one. My father struggling to get out.

  And then, he howled. I think he saw them.

  I heard a wet slap, then a high screech. It was so inhuman, I didn’t know if it was my father or those things. But when the light swung around again I could see his mouth open, the tendons and veins in his neck standing out in the harsh light as he was pulled. The sound escaping him was pain and fright and misery. All the things he caused his family over all these years.

  “Will!” he screamed into the blackness. I sank to my knees in the sand.

  There was only 9 ccs of Nevatal left in the bottle I had stolen. I needed to use at least 6 for my mother. To be safe, I had made it 8. Which left 1cc to mix in my father’s pirate coffee. Not enough to put him to sleep. Just enough to keep him awake.

  “WILL!”

  The lighthouse revealed a dozen more arms, shooting out of the water like arrows. They latched onto his arms and legs, pulling him out of the chair as it fell, waves crashing over his rolling body. He clawed at the ground. And as he was dragged through the soft sand and rough surf, he pleaded with me, hands outstretched, his voice becoming higher and more ragged. His fingers dug in, leaving a trail as he was dragged further out to sea.

  I had kept a record all these years. Of the thousands of terrible things my father had done. To me. My mother. My brother. So many others.

  I heard bones breaking. The next sweep of light revealed the tangle of worm things separating dad’s foot from his ankle.

  Mom had gone quietly. That was what she had wanted—what all of us had wanted. And my father? This is what I had wanted.

  A broad, pale tentacle wrapped around the top of his head as he screamed into the dark, blinding him from seeing me crying on the shoreline. His neck was stretched unnaturally backward, farther and farther, until it was snapped in one short tug. His scream died with him.

  I killed my mother because I loved her. I killed my father because I hated him.

  And now, it was my turn.

  I crawled to the empty chair, slowly sat up in it, and waited.

  MAELSTROM

  Doug Rinaldi

  Night grew fast over the Atlantic Ocean.

  Above, the clouds floated dark and menacing. They stretched from one end of the world to the other, engulfing the great vastness of deep blue sky and swallowing the moon. Waves smashed against the side of the ship, spitting sea-spray high into the air, wetting its wooden deck. A chilled wind blew in from the west signaling the onset of the storm. Bobbing unsurely on the frigid Atlantic, the lonely vessel played a game of chance with the throes of nature. Lost from its course, it drifted without direction, riding the current of the mighty
deep.

  The sky opened and the heavens released its load. Violent daggers of rain pummeled the ship, drenching the deck and soaking the massive sails that swung neglected from each mast. The wind blew with such force that the rain fell in horizontal sheets, and the waves tossed the ship about the choppy surface.

  The darkened sky raged as it spit forth an angry groan. Thunder and lightning cracked the earth open and rent the nether above. In a vicious flash another ship appeared, but only for a moment. An eerie afterimage cast like a ghostly apparition, quickly fading back into darkness.

  Swell after swell, the ocean pulsed with an erratic heartbeat. Torrential cloudbursts soaked everything in the storm's imminent path of ruin. Fierce waves crashed onto the deck while the bow of the ship sunk dangerously close to the water's surface.

  The angry sky ripped open again with a deafening clap of thunder as it ruptured the atmosphere. The thick masts shook, bending critically close to snapping. Sails billowed as they filled with wind, propelling the craft in directions other than those intended.

  As if by magic, the other ship reappeared. This time the storm had brought her closer, its bare masts swaying in the melee. Lightning flashed again, igniting the sky in a bluish frenzy for what seemed an eternity.

  Struggling against the formidable Mother Nature, the incoming craft steered, sluggishly at best, toward the debilitated craft as light dissolved back to gloom. The two ships, however, now had clear sight of each other, their silhouettes painted against the darkened backdrop. The staggering power of the tempest seemed as if God, Himself, had unleashed His wrath with nothing but scorn.

  Miraculously, the two ships remained afloat amid the seething chaos. In closing the gap, the only things holding the two behemoths of wood and steel together were master artisanship and prayer. Nevertheless, those barely proved to be enough as the heavens continued to weep in anguish and groan in despair.

  * * *

  All calmed after the storm's passing. Wispy white clouds decorated the bright blue sky. Still and reflective as polished marble, the ocean stretched beyond the reach of naked vision. Mile upon mile, water kissed the horizon, never once granting a glimmer of hope for the sight of land...it offered only the mirror-like reflection of the sky above.

  Silence and solitude had fallen over the seascape like a shroud. The two ships, now side by side, floated on the steady surface. Cleansing rays of sunlight shimmered like diamonds off the minute ripples of the sea's current, bathing everything in their warmth. The apparently derelict ship remained lifeless and quiet, its torn and tattered sails nothing more than useless rags now hanging rain-soaked from its wooden masts.

  With great mastery, the helmsman guided the Galileo into place mere feet away from its silent and mysterious neighbor before dropping anchor and tethering to it with a heavy rope. At the quarterdeck, the deckhands placed wooden planks across the expanse between the two crafts.

  In a single step, a lone man, face raw from windblown salt, crossed the breach. His white shirt clung to his sea-strengthened body and perspiration dampened his brow as he firmly planted both feet on the deck of the apparent deserted ship.

  Once onboard, a sudden and overwhelming stench overcame the man. It took all he had not to wretch. He covered his mouth to stop from gagging, attempting to block out the vile odor that accosted his senses. After several seconds had passed, and steadied by a brief reprieve afforded him on the current of a gentle ocean breeze, the Galileo's captain called out to any soul listening.

  Only silence returned his salutation.

  He peered up at the sky, noticing several gulls circling overhead with their white wings black against the blinding background of the sunlit clouds. Along with the stench, a sense of death hung in the air.

  He walked with caution to the center of the main deck near the hatch that led down into the cargo deck of the ship. He called out again and his voice thundered against the quiet of the sea. Despite the warmth of the day, a chill tickled his spine. The burden of his rain-soaked clothes saturated his skin through and through. He wrapped his arms around himself, trying to rub some warmth back into his dampened limbs.

  Silence whispered on the air with an arid cry. He forced himself to open the hatch. Dread danced in the void nerves left in his stomach as he reached for the rusted ring. The weathered door groaned with the decades of being at sea, as he lifted it from its frame.

  Below, the ship's cargo deck was abysmal before the sun's shimmering radiance infiltrated the darkness and chased the shadows away. He descended from the deck deeper into the belly of the wooden beast. As his foot made final purchase with the floor of the steerage deck, he found a wet stickiness to the ladder's rungs. Fighting for focus, his eyes adjusted to the sepulchral gloom just beyond the ladder's base. Obsidian blackness lurked even further in the corners.

  Just on the outskirts of his vision, something moved in the murkiness as if in reply to his growing unease. He wiped the stickiness from his hands, unknowingly staining his white shirt a sickly shade of red, while, as each moment crept by, the stench of death grew stronger.

  A flash stung his eyes as someone somewhere in the darkness lit a lantern. Its blaze cast a fuzzy glow throughout the dampened chamber, throwing grotesque shadows on each of the slanted walls. In that exact moment repulsion bled into his vision.

  The constant sound of chattering teeth and desperate moans now filled the otherwise silent space. In the darkened corner of the ship's cargo hold, huddled and frightened, a group of roughly thirty souls—men, women, and children—sat shivering. They clung to one another, each face sharing the same tearful downcast eyes. Not once did they dare glance up at the man who had just boarded their ship.

  White powdered wigs, the Captain noticed in the little light that he had to see, adorned some of their heads; the dankness and humidity caused them to droop and cover some of their faces. Others, it seemed, had pulled the periwig off a while ago. The rest just left it there sitting there atop their sweating crowns, as if too tired to care about such things anymore. The Captain surmised with ever-growing dread that they were Englishmen, presumably upper class by the powdered faces of the women and ruffled and once opulent accoutrements they all wore. He thought, staring into their faces, that this must have been a passenger ship sailing either to America or back to England.

  Unable to divert his eyes from the unnerving scene, the Captain scanned the damp chamber. Their withdrawn eyes revealed volumes of some pain and sorrow they must have lived through, but gave no revelation to all his unanswered questions.

  "Dear, God. Please help us," the old woman with the lantern spoke, her voice brittle from disuse. Powdery makeup that she once worn proudly had vanished, save for some residue smeared across her aged face. The ripped ruffled collar of her Mantua hung lazily from the rest of the material.

  Shock took hold when the wide-eyed and confused Captain fully noticed their bloodstained mouths and chins, the dry crimson life framing their grim frowns. He covered his mouth, trying desperately to subdue the rise of bile that boiled inside his gut.

  His eyes welled with tears from the taste of vomit brimming at the back of his throat. All at once the stench of his surroundings hit him like a boot to the stomach. He spun around and gasped. Before him, bodies strewn about in varying degrees and all askew littered the wooden floor of the cargo hold as if a master puppeteer had discarded his favorite collection of marionettes.

  Corpse upon corpse, an estimated twenty or so had been torn open in a grotesque still-frame. Some were still partially clothed while others were prone and naked. They had left the bodies congealing in a sticky lake of bloodied water that pooled at the Captain's feet as tiny ripples spread out across the corpse-ridden planks.

  * * *

  "Bloody hell!" Captain Harkcombe cried as he erupted from below deck. He crossed with great haste back over the gap between the two vessels. Back on his ship, his sacred ground, he felt awash with safety—even if only for a brief moment—from the horror he just witn
essed.

  He hunched over with his hands braced on his knees, gasping for breath. All hands were on deck, and all eyes were on him. His crew, the crew of the galleon, the Galileo of Her Majesty's Royal Navy, stood before him. Color had drained from his salt-chapped face leaving him a pasty white.

  "What is the matter, Captain?" Williams, the Quartermaster, asked as the rest of his men stood at a nervous but respectful attention.

  "Those people…" stammered Harkcombe, "…all the blood…white faces covered in blood…bodies…" Unable to regulate his breathing, he passed out.

  "Fetch the Captain some water. Now!" Williams barked as he darted over to the felled Harkcombe, dreading the worst. The Captain's eyes lazily rolled open. On his knees beside him, Williams took hold of his shoulders and shook him and Harkcombe's mouth released a moan as his eyes fought hard to focus.

  "I'm fine...I think..." Harkcombe mumbled, slow to rise to his elbows. He looked up at his Quartermaster as he took a sip of water. "Thank you, Williams."

  "I knew I should have gone with you, Captain. Please. What happened!" begged Williams. A light breeze blew off the Atlantic tossing his hair into his face.

  "You had us worried to death, Sir," offered a nearby midshipman.

  "Men," began Harkcombe, "If indeed my eyes haven't deceived me altogether, I believe Hell itself has opened up in the hull of that ship."

  * * *

  Even as daylight filtered in through the portholes above and cast a hazy beam of light down into the deck below, darkness ran rampant in the farther reaches of the hold.

  It had been days since the passengers aboard the White Laurel had seen light—real light—light from a yellow sun, riding so high and bright in the cloudless sky, light that would pierce their eyes and warm their skin. However, having been too frightened to venture above decks, they passed the time weeping and praying for forgiveness. All hopes of returning to their affluent life full of status and good cheer shredded, disappearing the instant they succumbed to a haunting primal need.