Sullivan had relieved the Captain of the Galileo of his duties. The voices whispering on the wind had spurred him on, the unseen laughter compelling him to action. His cold, uncaring eyes appraised Harkcombe's dying body. If not for Harkcombe, this nightmare would never have happened. Harkcombe, unknowingly the catalyst of this fate, the gatekeeper for what ached to be unleashed, brought this nightmare upon them and upon himself. Yet, without the Captain, Sullivan could have never felt this powerful, this in control—this hungry.
Giving in to the urge, the necessity to close his eyes, Harkcombe could no longer stomach looking at Sullivan's face, into his wrathful gaze. The pain faded from the wound that was stealing his life. No more could he feel the cold rain pelting him or hear the pounding thunder echoing from the heavens—or even Sullivan's maniacal laughter. As he sat slouched over and dying on the soaked wooden deck of his ship, he only heard the creeping murmurs that seemed to rise from the icy wind—blaming him, condemning him—and he only saw the brightness of imminent death.
* * *
The air tingled.
Everything became blurry in the crew's eyes. Their movements felt sluggish despite the rapidity of their motions. In a dreamlike progression, time seemed to have slowed. The thunder became an interminable din, a constant grumbling from the above sky. Pellets of rain fell in slow motion, floating down like tears from the clouds and leaving cascading trails of mist behind them.
Confusion held the Galileo's crew in its vice as they watched everything slowly come undone. Williams placed his hand out, palm up. Drops of rain fell softly into its center, one by one collecting into a small puddle. Lightning flashed for what felt like minutes at a time as it lit the sky in one uniform glow. Shadows caressed the unnatural faces in the clouds.
Despite trudging through the cresting waves, the Galileo felt at a standstill. Each man looked to the heavens for an answer that did not—would not—come. Lethargy thickened the air. The stagnant odorless atmosphere tickled their nostrils with invisible static fingers.
A violent shout of laughter broke the crew from their bewilderment, tearing them away from the mesmerizing language of the storm. On the quarterdeck, Sullivan kneeled in front of Captain Harkcombe's body, his arm moving back and forth—a blur of bronze flesh. Williams and the others ran to Harkcombe's aid, but they were too late. Down the deck and between the wooden boards flowed their Captain's water-downed blood.
The crew stood mortified watching Sullivan repeatedly plunge his blade into Harkcombe's dead body, laughing and wailing like a banshee. Stab after stab, Sullivan probed the knife's blade deeper and deeper into the corpse. Each movement swift, each thrust splayed out in graphic detail, the blur of motion contradicting the sluggishness of the world around them. They watched in cinematic illusion the Captain's skin stretch and rip as the blade pierced through, frame by frame almost in time with the intermittent lightning flashes.
Sullivan, blood stained and insane, threw the knife over his shoulder without care.
The crew felt rooted in place, petrified with fear. Swirls of chaotic pandemonium ran amuck, encircling their bodies. Yet, the instant Sullivan ripped into Harkcombe's flesh with his bare hands they felt the need, shared the yearning. In that moment, they finally understood the consuming insanity, the volumes of depravity that had claimed so many before them. Voices in the air, tickling their ears, compelled each man to succumb to their primordial instincts. They were useless to resist as the urges reacted faster than rational thought.
In fluid deceleration, the crew tore into each other, striving harder to be the next to get at Harkcombe's corpse. Monstrous hails of laughter ripped from above. The wind snickered with pleasure. Blood's coppery scent permeated the air, intensifying the lunacy. As they piled onto each other, they ripped, tore, bit, and clawed. The violence, not enough the satiate the inner craving that led to some bestial bloodlust, strove them to battle harder. Rain continued its slow descent and, in sweeping expanses of time, lightning set the sky alight.
Below, the passengers of the White Laurel heard the commotion and the screams of pain and hunger. They were not strangers to the slow motion sensation of time crawling; they knew it well for it had once claimed them—and they, too, had once understood. For when the great storm had imposed its infinite burden, it stole from them every shred of innocence.
However, now, the voices on the wind, the laughter from the clouds, sounded foreign to them, as if a script rewritten for the next cast. God had left them to die—an eye for an eye. No escape, no reprieve would be granted, no quick painless death. They silently wished to hear the voices again, to feel the longing so the weight of the slaughter would dull the pain of attrition.
Instead, they prayed for forgiveness.
Forgiveness from God evaded them, yet they forgave each other. Praying would do no good, yet they mumbled the words to Heaven nonetheless. Cleansing their souls, purging the guilt from their own minds had them prepared to succumb to the eventual.
On the deck above, the madness quieted. Some shouts and screams did persist, drawn out falsettos and grunts echoing, for this was only the beginning. Outside the door that locked them into their fate, someone lifted and threw the wooden bolt. With a heavy clank that shook through their bones, the bolt smashed against the floor. The door creaked open and lantern light flooded in, pulsating with each flicker of the flame. Beyond the light, the passengers could not see any faces but could sense the swarming hysteria, the unquenchable ravenousness.
One of the deck hands pushed the big wooden door all the way open. Williams, covered in crimson, walked into the room with a lantern in hand, followed by Sullivan. Behind them, others, equally grisly with their ruby stained grins and clothes, entered the hold. Each group stared the other down. Death had finally come to take them with unmistakable certainty.
"We are sorry," Williams muttered, breaking the silence. "Please forgive us." Despite those words, the twisted bloody smile never left his face; the dementia never left his eyes. At his heels, each man held the same fury and need in his eyes, just as the passengers’ once had.
A violent crash shut the door tight on the cargo hold and on their lives as the whispering murmurs of the wind and rain continued to slice through the air like knives—only to eventually dissipate and return to tranquility.
* * *
The Abenaki elder stood on the precipice of the high cliff—watching.
"Salki kinlôn," he mumbled as a treacherous breeze blasted off the ocean and up the jagged rock face, tossing his long, braided hair. He looked out over the churning sea in terrified awe. In the distance, his angered gods molded the clouds, spinning them into a mass of destructive power. As the super cell enveloped the sky, its forceful winds wreaked havoc on the lone vessel caught in its center.
He heard the laughing and faint chatter of his gods as they unleashed their fury. His worry grew; it was happening again. What his tribe had done this time to incur the wrath of the heavens he didn't know. Yet something disturbed or displeased his gods.
The storm raged closer and his group of hunters saw it, too. They called out to their elder, but the howl of the wind drowned out their voices. If they didn't do something to appease the gods, the approaching tempest would trap them on this island with no way back to the mainland. Out there on the desolate rock, miles from their village, they would most certainly die, if the storm didn't claim their lives first.
Turmoil filled the sky. A wall of horizontal rain slammed into the elder and he held fast to a tree. The gale rocketed up the cliff knocking him off balance, yet he remained steadfast, his sullen eyes never wavering from the sight. He whispered prayers but the scowling faces in the clouds laughed and mocked him. Below, the ocean swelled with crashing waves against the rocky outcroppings at the base of the island, rattling the foundation of the landmass.
In an instant, the storm engulfed the whole island. On the far side, the squall's breath lifted the hunters' canoes right off the beach, dropping them against the rocky sh
oreline where they exploded into deadly wooden shrapnel now flying through the air at perilous velocity. Those hunters that didn't cling to a tree or a rock—or anything secured to the ground—were snatched by the calamity and sucked up into the air only to plunge to their death on the hard ground below or be whisked off into the churning engine of the sea.
The elder squinted against the razor blades of rain that sliced at his earth-strengthened form. He hooked his arm and leg around the trunk of the flailing tree so the frigid gusts wouldn't sweep him away as well. In the center of the massive storm, he spotted the helpless ship once again as the wind and waves ravaged it. He thought he heard screaming coming from within the belly of the craft even over the wail of the wind and mighty claps of his gods' overwhelming resentment.
One of his tribesmen lost hold of the tree he struggled to hold fast to; the whirlwind seized him and bounced him mercilessly across the hard ground before launching him over the side of the sea cliff. The elder reached out for his fellow tribesman, but failed to make the catch in time. The poor man's shriek echoed all the way down the rock wall into oblivion.
Again, the elder looked up to the sky, his eyes pleading for mercy. He heard shouts of dissent behind him, rising over the din—another prayer gone unheard or ignored. His remaining tribesmen bellowed rage in their native tongue as the storm's fury now coursed within their veins. The elder clenched his eyes tight against the pelting rain and debris, hoping that it would end quickly while below, the battered shell of the HMS Galileo, cradled within the grasp of a tidal wave, slammed into the rocks, exploding into nothingness.
HALLOWED POINT
Andrew Bell
July 17th. Just one week to go.
The house wasn’t the same after my older brother, David, died. Mum and dad had practically stopped communicating altogether, drifting from separate beds to virtual alienation. And as we drifted through the rooms like ghosts, moving the furniture occasionally so we could sit and view the world from different angles, we failed to notice the seasons wither and turn full circle. Late at night I’d stand at the top of the landing, listening, straining to capture some deviation in the silence. But between the sound of the old floorboards settling, and the hum of the wind widening the gaps in the old slate roof, each day blended seamlessly into one.
Dad had taken to keeping his distance from me and mum for as long as possible. He’d telephone, text saying he’d be home late—that someone had called in sick and he had to cover. Soon mum stopped answering the phone at 4PM. And into her habits, her intricate stitch-work and soap operas, she’d disappear; to the point where, if she stood in the sun, she wouldn’t cast a shadow. The walls quickly filled with her small tapestries. Some of them were a riot of colour, like rainbows, captured behind glass. Dragons and sea creatures, landscapes bursting with colour. And others were too dark and lifeless. Crumbling churches and images of broken crosses and crying children. It was her way of escape, and I could deal with that. It had been a year of therapy, doctor’s appointments, counselling sessions…nothing seemed to work. But this seemed cathartic. We both knew Dad would have some excuse for not being here. All those hours, I thought. All the money he must be bringing home from Frozenworld Foods. Yet he still drove the same Ford, wore the same jeans and shoes, and occasionally dragged an old paintbrush along the weathered hull of our small fishing boat. She didn’t have a name. Sometimes I think she didn’t even deserve one. No. He was avoiding us. But mostly, he was avoiding me.
You see, David drowned. And I don’t think my Dad ever forgave me.
I’m ten years old now. A year older than the little kid that could have saved his sixteen year old brother when he got cramp; a year older than the boy that should have died—
Stop it! It wasn’t your fault he couldn’t make it back to the boat. He was drunk for God’s sake! IT WAS NOT YOUR FAULT!
* * *
Saturday had finally come around, and I awoke that morning to warm bright cubes of sunlight emblazoned on my bedroom wall. Soft, kind voices from the old radio in the kitchen, accompanied the mouth-watering aroma of fried bacon; passing me on the stairs like lovers.
“Did we win the lottery last night?” I said, about to sit at the table.
“No time for that, sunshine,” said Dad, licking his greasy fingertips, stuffing the freshly made sandwiches into a small plastic bag. “We’re going for a little walk.”
“Is mum coming along?”
“Nope. Just you and me.”
“Where?”
He didn’t answer.
I felt a block of ice settle deep in my stomach, and as it melted, it replaced my blood.
* * *
I didn’t want to walk along Seaton Beach. An icy breeze raked the top of the sand, waking dust devils, rocking the car gently. But after sitting quietly, eating the cooling bacon sandwiches, listening to my dad’s jaw crack and squeak, being outside in the fresh air, so close to the creeping ocean, didn’t seem so bad.
The sun had died it seemed from the moment we left the car. So did my hope.
“Cannot believe it’s been almost a year,” said Dad, looking down at his bare feet as they sank deeply in the wet sand. He jerked slightly, moving quickly to keep from slipping. His words drifted between blue curls of cigarette smoke, the butt dangling at the corner of his mouth.
“I know—”
“Remember when David tried to kiss his girlfriend in the dunes over there?” he said, chuckling silently, nodding toward the large patch of sand and weeds over by the Gas works, a hundred meters or so to our right. It could have been a hundred miles away for all I cared. In fact I wish it were.
I nodded, but I looked down at my own feet instead.
“He got a proper slap in the face for his trouble!”
“Dad, I—”
“He just didn’t have the knack, is all. Takes after your mum,” he said, shaking his head. A broad smile, lacking warmth, was etched on his face, locked in a memory it seemed.
“I tried to save him.”
If he heard my words, then he was a master of concealment. The smile remained.
“I really tried.”
I expected a heavy but gentle hand to grab my shoulder, the love of a father battling with his pain, embracing me, telling me not to say—even think such things. I expected strong words, a reprimand even. But that moment by the water’s edge, buffeted by the increasing strength of the icy wind, I heard the crash and hiss of the water as it dashed against the old piers that scarred the Seaton Carew skyline to our left. I shouldn’t have even been able to hear it. But Dad’s silent reply helped.
“I had a weird dream last night,” he said finally, looking out at the sea as it moved like mercury beneath the canopy of silver, bruised clouds. A large seagull lacerated the water with a wing, something dangling from its beak, before shooting up into the air. “Remember when we’d go out in the boat, just us—you, me, and your brother—drink beer and talk about football, even girls?”
“Dad, I don’t feel like hanging around here,” I said, folding my arms to generate a little warmth. “It’s getting colder—”
“Why don’t we take the boat out?”
“What…now?”
“Next weekend would be good,” he replied, nodding his head slowly, narrowing his eyes as if to make out an object bobbing about on the horizon. “Just you. Your mum. And me.”
I turned to say something, but he had already started making his way up the beach, his stride now strong and steady as he headed for the car.
* * *
We ate our supper in silence, as always, and I couldn’t wait to finish my plate and dart off to the attic. It had been David’s bedroom. Mum had been reluctant to let me have it. But eventually she gave in, waving my insistence away as if it had been a pesky insect. As for my dad, well, I don’t think he even knew I had moved my stuff in there.
A large window overlooked the vast expanse of the North Sea. And on long cloudless nights such as these, the moon hung motionless�
�as light as air—above the galaxy black water. A couple of times I wanted to be nosey, but I kept my curiosity to myself. I didn’t want to look through David’s old telescope, didn’t even want to peek at what caught my brother’s interest before he died. I mean, what if I accidentally moved it?
But tonight I did take a look. And I almost jumped out of my skin with fright.
Despite the late hour—
God, why couldn’t you have covered the moon with clouds? Why did you let me see it?
I saw maybe the last place David had surveyed the night before he died. Hell, it could have been the last thing he saw an hour before…
I tried to brush off what I had seen through the scope.
An hour later, I watched my hands shake, trying to brush my teeth, seeing my pale, tired face stare back at me in the mirror. And no matter how much sea air I had had that day, it took me a long time to drift off to sleep. The scope had been, had been pointing at the place—the exact place—David’s body had been washed up on the shore.
* * *
I couldn’t sleep that night. When I closed my eyes, Dad’s piercing brown eyes appeared in my head, unblinking, knowing. My stomach rumbled, and no matter how many times I licked my lips, I couldn’t get the sickly taste of under-cooked bacon and tomato ketchup from my mouth. So I climbed out of bed and made my way downstairs to the kitchen for a drink of milk. Portraits followed my every move. Old family photographs of me, David, Mum and Dad. People said we looked the same, like four peas in a pod. Despite having brown eyes, I couldn’t work out the similarities—
Just keep your head down and move, for crying out loud, Jake! The kitchen is just a few feet away. But the faces watched me.
On my return to the stairs, carrying a tall glass, I heard the sudden grunt and whistle from Dad’s snoring corpse in the lounge. I could just make out the hiss of the TV Station and see the white brightness flicker about the door frame. I had a mind to go in the room and turn the damned thing off. But all I wanted to do was get back to bed as soon as—
Fearful Fathoms: Collected Tales of Aquatic Terror (Vol. I - Seas & Oceans) Page 34