by Shane Staley
“Beyond waiting, no,” she replied. “But there has to be a reason we were both drawn here; there must be an answer.”
He didn’t question her further.
But maybe no answer at all would be for the best.
They stayed on the deck until the sun went down, golden then red then deep purple, into the horizon. Stars started to wink above them, and the sea breeze went from chilly to icy as the tide turned. Now that the wind had moved round, the crash of waves against the base of The Old Man sounded much louder, and suddenly ominous.
Fallon felt his good mood drain away, but Val had an answer for that too. She took his hand and led them below…to the bedroom, where the day once again got better quickly.
* * *
He woke in darkness, disoriented at first until his hand, searching for a cigarette, found a warm body instead. Val moaned, rolled over but did not wake.
Fallon’s smile lasted only as long as it took for him to realize that the song was back. It came quietly, as if from a great distance, and there were no voices in it, just the basic tune, little more than a whistle and groan, but still unmistakably the same tune.
He rolled out of bed, wincing at the sudden chill, and fumbled around for his clothes, trying to make as little noise as possible so as not to wake Val from her peaceful-sounding sleep. He managed to creep out after banging his head, twice, on the low ceiling and stubbing his toe on the foot of the bed. Val didn’t wake up.
The tune was louder in the cabin. He took a bottle of Scotch and his smokes up on deck to investigate, and it was louder still in the open air.
The yacht bobbed in a still, clear night. The Milky Way hung in a ribbon overheard, clearer than he had ever seen it. Moonlight bathed The Old Man in blue shimmering shadows that gave it the illusion of movement and caused it to dance, just out of step with the tune that seemed to come from everywhere. Fallon’s mind filled in the lyrics as the noise rose, as if responding to his presence.
She sleeps in the depths, in the depths, in the depths,
She sleeps in the deep, in the dark.
She sleeps, and she weeps in the depths far below,
And the Dreaming God is singing where she lies.
The surface of the sea was calm, a mirror coated with a thin film of still water. He felt drawn to the prow and stood there, looking down, a smoking cigarette forgotten in one hand, the bottle of Scotch untouched in the other.
He knew the yacht lay at anchor in no more than ten feet of water. But he also knew that he looked down into impossible depths, to a sunken city of tumbled ruins. Giant sandstone blocks lay strewn in streets and passages where misshapen beasts went about some unfathomable business. The tune swelled and rang in his head, blotting out all other thought. He leaned forward, hoping to see more clearly what swirled and capered in a spot hidden even deeper in the shadowy depths beneath.
The tune rose to a crescendo as he lost his balance.
Val grabbed at the back of his belt and hauled him upright in the split second before he would have tumbled overboard.
“What the hell,” he said, and turned. She hadn’t heard him. She had wads of what looked like torn cotton handkerchief stuffed in her ears, and more in her hands. She held several strips out to him, exchanging them for the whisky bottle from which she took a swig that would fell a horse.
“It helps,” she said, too loud in the still of the night.
And it did indeed help. After stuffing both ears with cotton, Fallon felt once again in control of himself. He still heard the tune, but felt no compulsion to look overboard, no need to follow its lead.
Val mimed that she’d like a smoke.
“You’re taking this remarkably calmly,” he shouted.
“What choice do we have?” she shouted back.
They smoked in silence. The tune came to a climax then died away. A wind stirred, ruffling the water and light clouds scuttled over the moon.
Val removed the wadding from her ears.
“It looks like we’ve found what we came for.”
* * *
There was little chance of either of them getting back to sleep. They sat, snuggled close, in the small sofa in the cabin, smoking, drinking coffee and working their way down the bottle of Scotch.
There was no recurrence of the tune.
“We’ve found it,” Fallon said. “But now what?”
“Well I didn’t come all this way to turn around and go home again,” Val replied. “There’s something down there beneath us. I’m going to go and have a look.”
“Can’t it wait until morning?”
Val turned his head to look out the porthole. There was thin sunlight outside.
Half an hour later, stomach full of eggs, bacon and toast, he stood on deck watching Val put on flippers and a snorkel.
“Are you sure you won’t join me?” she said, smiling.
He had a bad feeling in the pit of his gut, but forced himself to smile back.
“My swimming is on a par with my driving,” he said. “Besides, someone needs to watch out for you from up here. Looks like I’m it.”
She dove over the side, going in with scarcely a splash and, as graceful as if she was born to it, swam in a small circle before, with a quick wave, going under. For a time he could see her shape, pale against the darker seabed below, and see the bubbles rise to the surface to mark where she’d been.
Then everything went still and quiet; there was only the sound of some gulls high above and the rattle of pebbles as the tide sucked at the base of The Old Man.
Val?
He walked round the yacht, checking both sides. There was no sign of her.
“Val!” he shouted, panic rising.
“Down here,” came the reply. She was at the stern, struggling to keep afloat while holding something heavy in her hands. The next couple of minutes were a struggle that might have been almost comical in other circumstances, as Fallon tried to help her aboard, only to have her fall back into the sea, twice before she finally pulled herself, laughing, up onto deck.
“We got it,” she said, and rolled aside to let Fallon see what she had brought up from below.
* * *
At first glance it looked like just another piece of wet stone, but, as it started to dry in the morning sun, Fallon saw that it was manmade, a sculpture, of sorts, done in what looked like the blackest, shiniest, piece of jet. It was a depiction of some kind of sea creature, but not one that Fallon recognized as ever having seen; fish eyes and a razor-toothed mouth sat atop a squat body that would have looked almost humanoid were it not for a stubby tail fin at the rear end.
There was another thing about it, something Fallon couldn’t quite place until he bent closer. It was singing, or rather, ringing, sending out a soft drone in the all-too-familiar tune.
“It called to me,” Val said. “I’m pretty sure it’s the source of the song.”
Fallon heard it again, stronger now.
“I’m pretty sure of it, too,” he replied. “But now what do we do?”
There was a loud splash over near The Old Man that nearly drowned out Val’s reply.
“We should destroy it. It’s the only way we’ll get any peace.”
Fallon looked down at the black stone.
“It’s obviously some kind of idol. Maybe valuable, or of historical importance?”
More rocks tumbled ashore. The yacht rose and dipped in an increasing swell. The song grew louder still, once again worming its way into Fallon’s mind. He heard voices again, a chorus of them, chanting in time.
She sleeps, and she weeps in the depths far below,
And the Dreaming God is singing where she lies.
“I don’t give two hoots about any historical importance,” Val said. “I just want my life back. I’ll see if there’s a hammer in the focsle.”
She never made it. The sound of tumbling rocks grew louder. The sea foamed and roiled, tossing the yacht violently from side to side. Val tumbled, smacking her head hard again
st the rail. When Fallon got to her, her eyelids fluttered. She seemed unable to focus on him.
A wave crashed over them, threatening to engulf the yacht. The stone idol screamed, as if frustrated. Fallon looked along the yacht towards it, then up, to where The Old Man towered over them. The stone tower swayed, as if ready to topple. The sea all around them raised up in a bubble then parted to show what looked like a new domed shoreline rising up from the seabed. It looked like rock, right up until the moment the great fish-eyes opened and stared at Fallon.
The singing filled his mind, the choir raised in what sounded like desperation.
She sleeps, and she weeps in the depths far below,
And the Dreaming God is singing where she lies.
And suddenly Fallon knew. It wasn’t just a tune.
It’s a lullaby. And it’s all that has been keeping the God asleep.
The domed head rose farther out of the water, a hundred yards or more across; a huge mouth gaping, showing twin rows of gleaming razors.
Fallon left Val and hefted the idol in his hands. The singing filled him until he felt it a part of his body, alive in every cell of his being. He sang along as he tossed the idol back into the water.
It sank out of sight almost immediately, the song fading as it went into the depths. The dome of rock—for that is what it was once more—sank slowly under the surface. The Old Man fell still and solid once more, and the yacht bobbed in gentle ripples that slowly dissipated.
The song was the last thing to go, fading into nothing.
She sleeps, and she weeps in the depths far below,
And the Dreaming God is singing where she lies.
* * *
Val came to her senses after it was all done, just as Fallon handed her more torn up strips of cotton handkerchief.
“We’re going to need these until we get out of range,” he said.
“And how far is that going to be?” she answered, stuffing the wads into her ears.
“I was thinking maybe a honeymoon in New Zealand?” he shouted, and she drew him close as they left The Old Man of Hoy standing sentinel behind them.
BETTER HEARD AND NOT SEEN
Michael Penkas
Kevin Temple was afraid of the shadow that lived in his closet. But he was more afraid of his mother.
She stood in the doorway to his bedroom, the hallway light casting her unsteady shadow across the floor and over his bed. Though he knew it was impossible, Kevin could feel the cold of her shadow through the blankets. “I need to get up for work tomorrow at six o’clock, so I’m not going to hear anything in this room tonight, am I?”
Kevin shook his head quickly.
“You know what happens if I do?”
He nodded slowly. Even the memory of the belt made him flinch.
“There’s nothing in your closet except clothes, right?”
Again, Kevin nodded.
“OK.” She shut the door almost completely, leaving it open only a crack so that a sliver of light from the hallway could fall across the floor, missing his bed entirely.
And then Kevin was alone with the shadow that lived in his closet. He didn’t know if it was the shadow cast by something fearsome or simply a shadow that was fearsome all by itself. But he had seen it on and off ever since they’d first moved into this house three months earlier.
He’d liked the old house better, liked when his parents had lived together and neither of them had resented him at all. Now his mother resented him because she’d had to quit her old job for one that made more money and his father resented him because he had to pay his mother child support every month. He was seven, so they’d both thought he was too young to understand things like jobs and alimony; but he’d understood just fine. They didn’t want to live together any longer; but they could never really be apart because of him.
This new house was much smaller and cheaper and in a worse neighborhood than their old house so that Kevin wasn’t allowed to just go out and play with whatever children he could find. He’d overheard the realtor and his mother talking once, when they thought he wasn’t listening, about the history of the place, so he knew that somebody had died here.
Perhaps the shadow was the ghost of the person who’d died in this house. Or perhaps it was the thing that had killed him. Kevin wondered how anyone could have slept in this room and not noticed the shadow that slid out from under the door, roaming slowly across the floor until it found the bed. Perhaps the last person to sleep here always fell asleep right away…or maybe he’d been blind. But the shadow would slide up the side of the bed, then slowly move up towards Kevin’s head. How could a blind person not notice it? How could a sleeping person not wake to it? The shadow was as cold as his mother’s.
Even if Kevin had managed to sleep, he would wake if the shadow had made it to his bed, would watch in terror as it slid towards his face. He would look throughout his bedroom and outside and at the door leading to the hallway and try to find something, anything, that would cast a shadow that moved along his bed; but he would never find anything. It would come ever closer until it touched his neck and then he would scream.
At first, his mother had tried to calm him, assuming he was nervous about being in a new house. But after several weeks and a job that she hated, her patience had worn away and she’d begun scaring him into silence.
So Kevin lay quietly for an hour, eyes fixed on the bottom of his closet door. He was about to fall asleep, convinced that tonight there would be no shadow, when the door began to creak open. It had never opened in the past. The shadow had always slipped beneath it. But now it was opening and Kevin wondered again if the shadow had been cast by something all along, something that was finally coming out for itself.
He expected the door to open only a crack or at least to stop creaking at some point. But the hinges simply continued squealing until the door had completely come open, pressed up against the wall. Kevin couldn’t help but worry for a moment that his mother would hear the squealing hinges and come back in, belt in hand, to blame him for the noise.
But if his mother walked down the hall, he didn’t hear it, and if she had opened the door to his bedroom and was standing there, he didn’t turn his head to look. He saw and heard nothing beyond the closet, beyond the empty door. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness and he could see his shoes, shirts and pants all where he’d set them. He saw nothing standing before him.
Then, near the floor, reflecting the meager light from Kevin’s window, was a boy’s milk-white face. The eyes moved slowly around the room and he caught his breath when those eyes finally met with his own. He wanted to look away or close his eyes and pretend he hadn’t seen; but he couldn’t stop looking at the boy on his closet floor.
There was a shuffling sound as the boy reached out with a hand as white as his face and pulled himself a little farther out of the closet. His other arm hung limply against the floor and his knees wobbled around for purchase, as if his lower legs were useless. It wasn’t much noise, no more than Kevin would make turning in his sleep, yet again he wondered about his mother and whether or not she would hear. All the while, the white-faced boy kept watching Kevin, neither boy turning away from the other one. He did not smile or frown or glare hatefully. His face seemed to have no real expression at all. Kevin didn’t want to think too much on the fact that he did not see the boy blink.
It was nothing, just a dream he was having halfway between sleep and waking, Kevin told himself, until the crawling boy bumped against his bedroom door, knocking it completely shut with a loud thump and a soft click. The sliver of light that had been only a small comfort was now gone completely.
And the boy turned just enough so that there was no longer any doubt where he was heading. As he reached the side of the bed, Kevin pulled the covers up over his head. He knew it was stupid and pointless; but the reaction had come without thought and there was nothing else to do. He knew that it wasn’t real; but didn’t know how to stop seeing it.
He felt
the bed shake a little, then there was a dull thump on top of it, something brushing his leg through the blankets. He didn’t scream, knew it would not help. He closed his eyes, again pointless since he was already blind beneath the blankets. He felt the boy struggling up onto the bed with his one good arm and two bad legs. Neither of them said anything.
Kevin did cry just a little when he felt the blankets being pulled away and scrunched himself to the far end of his bed as they lifted far enough for him to see that white face staring at him, still with no expression at all. It took a full minute for the other boy to settle himself beneath the blankets and cover himself up.
And the two boys lay in bed together, in silence, for a very long time.
Kevin could feel the scream welling up inside him long before it came. He could feel it in the sweat drying against his skin and the blanket which couldn’t be warm enough and in his stomach that shook so much he thought he would vomit but instead of bile it would be sound that erupted from him. The sound rose through his chest and into his throat and out—
A cold, cold finger pressed against his lips just as they were about to open. And a voice whispered, “Don’t scream. Please don’t scream. Be very quiet.”
And Kevin obeyed the white-faced boy whom he could no longer see.
After a minute, the whisper said, “There’s something in the closet. You mustn’t wake it.”
The finger came away from Kevin’s lips, but they were still cold. After another minute, he whispered, as quietly as he could manage, so quietly that he barely heard himself, “My name’s Kevin.”
“Mine’s Richard,” the voice whispered back. “I used to live here.”
Kevin could feel the edge of the bed at his back. He couldn’t slide any farther away without falling off. He grabbed part of the mattress cover and held onto it as he tried to see Richard under the blankets. There was only darkness; but it was getting gradually cooler.