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

by Richard Chizmar

  Pain the likes of which I hadn’t felt in all my life suddenly lanced through my right foot! White lightning separated the darkness as I struggled to place the glass of milk down and cradle my foot without spilling the liquid everywhere. Finally, I sat heavily on the bottom step and rubbed my tender toes, searching in the darkness for the bloody object I’d kicked. It was poking out from what appeared to be Dad’s work rucksack. It was a thick hard backed book. I couldn’t quite make out its title, and the last thing I needed was Dad waking up to the hallway light burning away. So I took it back to bed with me, climbed beneath the duvet with my torch, and looked at the cover.

  For a boy of ten, with an eternity ahead of him, provided he played his cards right, I wasn’t sure my heart could take another jolt. The torch fell on the book, and as I quickly grabbed it once more, my eyes never leaving the ghastly image on the cover, I heard my heart pounding and saw the pulsating burns on my retinae. I have no idea what the words meant but I knew it wasn’t English.

  Illumination omittuntur prohibetur ab operibus et fabulis

  –Dr. Harold Lynn

  I didn’t care about the strange words, they meant nothing to me. It was the image embossed in, what appeared to be, its leather cover that drew my attention. I gently traced a trembling fingertip around the raised illustration, wondering if it would burst like a blood blister. But the creature depicted didn’t move or break apart like ash.

  The ocean had always held many wonders for me and David. In fact, the whole town thrived on its generosity. It would tease us sometimes, leaving us guessing as to whether or not we would actually eat during the winter, for Frozenworld Foods had depended upon its haul for many years. But now, looking at the creature, with its three rows of spear-like teeth, the wide jaws biting down on what appeared to be a small ship, its eyes as wide and bright as full moons, the water was the last thing I ever wanted to see. I wanted to throw the book across the room, but I needed to browse through the dry, rough paper inside, eager to know why Dad had been so interested in it. If a gun was pointed at my head I still couldn’t recall him ever reading a magazine let alone a book.

  The pages crackled as I turned them, showing me strange yet beautifully sketched shapes. Of stars and circles; stars within squares. Moon shaped things beside what could only be faceless human beings. Sharp, pointed steaks piercing the human, his or her face caught in a rictus of sheer agony; the moon creature, its arched back, gazing upwards, mouth open wide…laughing?

  Laughing.

  I turned the page, and then another, finally coming across a narrow passage of words. They resembled the language on the book’s cover. I didn’t know what they meant; I only knew that they were important to my dad. The corner of the page was folded. I couldn’t help but feel a chill rush over my skin as goose bumps shifted the hairs along the nape of my neck. It was fair to say that sleep gave me a wide berth that night.

  * * *

  I left the house bright and early that Sunday morning, knowing that the town library was open to the public for three hours. So I had from nine o’clock till noon to try and make sense of the whole mess my life had become. I considered using the home computer, but if Dad were to find out I’d been snooping on him, there’d most certainly be bloody war. No. The day on the boat was approaching, and I couldn’t help but feel my every nerve twitch with dread.

  I had scribbled the strange title of the book on a piece of paper, and as I typed it into the browser, I took a deep breath before pressing ENTER.

  * * *

  The following day, instead of going to school, I made off to the local park, and sat on the swing. I needed to think, to do something. I couldn’t concentrate no matter how much I tried. I had known about the book for four days, and each passing hour, I came closer to telling mum what was going on in Dad’s twisted mind; his intentions. But every time I bucked up the courage, looking over at my Dad while he bit down into his chicken leg, his eyes never leaving mine, I looked down at my own food; aimlessly pushing it around with a fork.

  And so the days passed.

  “It’s Saturday tomorrow,” said Dad, scooping up a fillet of fish from the plate before him. Drool hung from his chin, and I wanted nothing more than to punch it from his jaw.

  “It most certainly is,” mum replied, her voice little more than a whisper. “Are we still going out on the boat?”

  “Well,” said Dad, “It’s only right. After all, it is the anniversary—”

  “I’m going for a lie down.”

  “Emma, we cannot live in the past,” said Dad, trying to keep his voice at an even keel. “The fresh air would do us good…”

  We watched mum suddenly stand up, almost knocking over her half full glass of red wine as she left the table. And like the ghost she had become she drifted silently up the stairs. We didn’t even hear the door close behind her.

  “So,” he said finally, sipping from his glass of wine, “Tomorrow we go fishing.”

  I had lost my appetite.

  * * *

  Despite the calmness of the sea, and the sun-dappled waves as they climbed up the black ribs of the skeleton pier, it was the sound of silence that turned my stomach. It seemed almost too perfect, as though Dad planned this whole trip down to the letter. The thought that today marked the anniversary of my brother’s death did little to unclench the tight fist in my belly. What made icy fingers trace patterns down my back was the way Dad looked out to sea. His pale, stony face looked haggard and etched with a hundred lines; his eyes, steely, unblinking.

  We were heading for the spot where David died.

  I wanted to grab Mum’s hand and jump overboard, to tell her we weren’t here to bloody fish!

  “Cast out, matey,” said Dad, nodding at the fishing rod in my hands. “Fish won’t jump in the boat by themselves, I tell you.” He feigned a smile as though he were in pain. I noticed the slight tick at the corner of his mouth. So I cast out.

  Mum had packed a box of sandwiches, a bottle of Cola, and some beer and wine for them. My mouth kept drying up like tinder, and sipping from the cold drink helped me keep an eye on my Dad too, stealing glances at his hands as I tilted the bottle. I didn’t like the way his knuckles remained white, the skin stretched to breaking point as he squeezed the rod.

  “It’s certainly a beautiful day,” said Mum, sipping at her wine. She had tied her hair in a plat, and I noticed a trace of lipstick on her mouth. “Hard to believe that it was a year ago today,” she said, staring out at the hazy horizon.

  I noticed Dad looking at his wristwatch and then at me. There was no hint of a smile on his face; I knew what he was thinking. In ten minutes, it would mark the precise moment David died, exactly one year to the moment that I failed him—failed all of us! I had been but inches away from his outstretched arm, his shaking fingers, his wide eyes—

  That’s when I noticed the object tucked behind the fishing equipment.

  No! No! No! That’s it!

  I threw the rod aside and stood up, swaying slightly.

  “Mum, I want to go home,” I said, pins and needles creeping across my neck and jaw, lips quivering. My hands shook like the fish we used to catch and throw in the boat, just before Dad impaled them to the decking with his knife. “I want to go home. I don’t feel so good.”

  “What? Don’t be silly, sweetie. We just got here.”

  “Mum, please! I—”

  “What’s wrong, son?” asked Dad, sipping from his beer can. He stared out at the point near the quay where-

  “You know exactly what I’m fucking talking about, Dad!”

  “HEY! DON”T EVER USE LANGUAGE LIKE THAT INFRONT OF YOUR MUM!”

  “It’s okay, Bert,” said Mum, waving away my words like smoke. “It’s a tough day for all of us.”

  But Dad had already put down his rod. Now he was standing, the sun at his back—a silhouette—watching me. When he moved, I took my chance and bolted for the object tucked beside the fishing box.

  “Here!” I shrieked, h
olding up the book, pointing it at the silhouette as if to ward off whatever cruel intentions it had in mind. But I already knew. I already knew what the bastard had in store for us!

  Dad frowned, tilting his head to one side like an inquisitive Labrador, a crooked smile on his lips.

  “Give me that, thing,” she said.

  “Look Mum, look at it,” I said, thrusting the book in her open hands. “We need to get back home.”

  Mum whispered something. I couldn’t hear her voice, but she was reading from the book.

  “A beer and half a glass of wine, and this party has already gone crazy,” said Dad, shaking his head. “Maybe we should head back. Emma, what’re you saying?”

  Mum whispered, but not from the book; from the heart. The tome was face down on the sodden decking now. That’s when I noticed the small rectangular object sticking to the cover. I bent down and peeled it from the book. I shook my head in disbelief, glancing at my Dad.

  “What is it, son? Here, give it…”

  “It’s a bookmark.”

  But not just any kind, this was made from a loving, pain stricken heart. The small strip of cloth was covered in hand stitched flowers and tiny airplanes. And scrawled across it were the words:DAVID, MY LOVE, MY LIFE

  “Rituals of illumination. Forbidden works and other legends by Dr. Harold Lynn,” said Mum, smiling crookedly.

  The razor sharp knives were thrust at our throats, piercing Dad’s bobbing Adam’s apple. He winced but the blade remained, sunlight shimmering through the thin sheen of blood.

  I wasn’t bleeding, but I already felt wounded, seeing the hatred burning in Mum’s eyes. As she stepped forward we were helpless to comply, our feet sliding a little.

  “Emma, just give me the knives.”

  “Shut your fucking mouth, or I’ll cut you from ear to ear!”

  “Mum, please…”

  “And you can shut up, too! You little bastard. Couldn’t even save your brother. So close, so bloody close.”

  “I tried, Mum!” The tears blurred my vision now. “But he was drinking, and I couldn’t help him!”

  “DRINKING! And where were you, Bert?” she screamed, pushing the knife further into his throat. A geyser of blood sprayed across Mum’s face, but she didn’t even blink, not one flinch. “Were you too fucking drunk to save your son? Sleeping it off while David drowned?”

  “Conforta arma sanguine tuo carnibus vestisti me, adunare, et obstupuerit…animas conspiciunt.” (Fortify thy armor with thine own blood, knit flesh, unite sinew…souls entwined. To the depths I send you).

  “What the hell are you saying?” Dad croaked, blood coursing down his chest.

  But I knew what she was saying, even though I didn’t understand the language. It was the words from the book.

  We stepped back once more, Mum’s voice was getting louder as she uttered the verse.

  “Deducunt ad te mitto, clamores simul horrendous ad voces a susurrus, sicut iacuit cum iacuit cutis, quod est vinculum, cibos de ore profundo!” (The voices from whispers to screams, as layer after layer the skin that binds feeds the mouths of the deep!)

  I saw movement at the corner of my eye. The still water was frothing, bubbling as though a volcano had quietly erupted beneath the sea bed. Steam rose, pasting my clothes to my body like a second skin. My heart skipped a beat as something moved passed the boat, something large and scaly. It peered over the ledge; its pale red eyes, blinking. And as it watched, even for a fraction of a second, it looked at us with murderous, heinous intent. I watched its jaw drop, like one of those large reptiles dislocating its bones to accommodate a large pig.

  Another creature peered over its shoulder. And another. They seemed similar in shape and, although facially abhorrent, youthful. Like children they clamored over the edge of the small railing, only to slip and slide back into the water.

  I tried to turn my head, as a wall slowly appeared behind me. Its shadow cooled my skin, blocking out the sun. But I knew it wasn’t a wall. We had reached the place David died. It was the end for Dad and me, I just knew it.

  Whatever stood behind us breathed a fetid stench, so foul I almost threw up. It was waiting for us.

  Mum spat her final words, pushing the blades, urging us backward, our feet teetering on the ledge.

  She kept moving.

  “Tollitur creaturas creare unum, alterum in semine. Revertere ad one—” (Forfeit the creatures, one to create, the other of the seed. Return the one—)

  That’s when our whole world became nothing less than an explosion of colour and screams. I managed to pull myself away from the knife edge as Mum slipped on the decking. They both fell in a tangle of arms and legs overboard. I think Dad was already dead in the water before the enormous amphibian like creature tore him apart, his blood didn’t spray. He just stared up at the bright blue sky, eyes unblinking, the crack of a smile on his mouth; accepting his fate. But Mum screamed, determined to escape the ravenous, talon like claws of the other three beasts. She tried to head for the place David died. I could see her pulling in that very direction. But when her arms broke away from her shoulders, the sound of tearing flesh like ripping leather, I looked away. I fell to the deck. The color went black—the screams turned silent, and—

  * * *

  You read such stories about the comatose, and how they can hear what’s going on around them as they slept. It’s true, of course. And my three long weeks in the hospital were no different. I remember hearing the doctors and nurses shuffling by; their shoes squeaking on the highly polished floors. The tang of pine disinfectant will surely haunt me until the day I die. Voices passed the room, and I felt the breeze across my brow as they diminished into silence.

  At night I was vulnerable, afraid of the sound of the door slowly opening, bringing with it the most God-awful stench! My heart hammering wildly as the footsteps slowly approached my bed. And there it would stand, watching me; breathing in slowly, exhaling even slower. I screamed inside. To be awake, to run from my bed and hide! Anywhere! Anywhere but here in the dark! But then it would turn about, its footfalls diminishing, along with the rotten stench it brought with it.

  Then I heard him.

  “Hello, young Jake.”

  It was an old voice, coffee and cigarettes, making me want to turn away, but I couldn’t. And as a nurse or someone else shuffled by the room, he went quiet, talking about procedure and even the weather, until…

  “My name is Doctor Lynn. Harold Lynn. And you’ve been under my wing for a few weeks.”

  I knew that name. I knew it! But, I couldn’t remember where from.

  The door creaked loudly, a breeze flowing through the room as whoever stood there let it close. Then the footsteps made agonizingly slowly to the bed. The stench of the thing turned my stomach.

  “Ah, a visitor,” said the Doctor.

  Silence replied.

  “It worked, my boy. It worked. If your mum could see you now…”

  * * *

  The night I woke up I knew it had been beside me, sitting in the chair. I was disorientated at first, barely able to lift a finger or even blink. But as I turned, whatever had been sitting beside me vanished, suddenly appearing at the door. It had its back to me. I tried to call out, to scream, but I had lost the use of my tongue; almost forgotten how to breathe.

  But then, I realized that I didn’t need to speak, for I didn’t need to know who the visitor was.

  It turned around at the threshold, silhouetted in the brightly-lit hallway.

  That smile.

  Those eyes.

  It was my brother.

  WANDERER

  Shane Lindemoen

  Evidence item C-33 CN# 24-001387

  From the Personal Journal of Victor E. Rhodey [original transcript]

  Master: not for distribution, under penalty of law.

  December 1, 2028

  There was a painting above the desk in my father’s study of a man standing on a rocky shoreline, staring into the crashing sea. It was c
alled Wanderer, or Wanderer in the Sea. I can’t remember. He had it all my life.

  One day I asked him what it meant, and he told me that it was about the unknown. The man, he said, represented every man. And the sea represented every sea. Every frontier we set our eyes upon in the hopes of learning more about where we fit in this world.

  I didn’t understand. I’m still not sure I understand now, as a man. But my father looked at me, and he could see me failing to put things together, and he told me to look at the horizon. I said that there wasn’t one. He asked me to look closer. I said that I could see dark rocks and waves and a man. He told me that I also see the blades of squall cutting up out of the water. I see the vast gray sky above them, the stars hidden behind the sky, and the milky bands of galaxy beyond those. I see even farther, to the very edge of our universe. He said, as a spiritual being—as something with the agency to know what it is, where it’s been, and where it’s going—I see more of the painting than meets the eye.

  So can the man standing on those rocks. He can picture what’s below the choppy waves. He can imagine the immense shadows that circle each other at the bottom of the world. Prehistoric shadows that live under conditions unchanged by time. Environments that have remained the same since the birth of our planet.

  The man, he told me, is looking at all of that. Up into the endless sky, and down into the deep dark murk. Because far enough in both directions, there is only darkness.

  And darkness, he said, hides everything except who we really are.

  [End of excerpt]

  * * *

  From the Headline of The New York Times, online edition, July 7:

  MAN RESCUED AFTER BEING SUBMERGED IN THE OCEAN

  FOR NINE DAYS

  THREE RESEARCHERS STILL MISSING

  by Roderick Herstien