Innsmouth Nightmares

  Mother led her into the bathroom and showed her how to use sanitary napkins. At some point Ammie realized her mother was crying. “What’s wrong?”

  “I just…” Mother hugged her. “You’re so grown up now.”

  They held each other a long time; there was something fierce in Mother’s embrace, as if she feared Ammie would vanish should she release her.

  But she did release her, and Ammie didn’t vanish. Instead they spent the day together, chatting and cleaning and shopping and eating.

  Almost like normal people.

  Father came home a week later. As usual, he arrived smelling of brine and fish, carrying a bulging plastic trash bag. “Good catch,” he announced, smiling.

  Mother gave him a polite kiss and then whispered something to him. He turned to Ammie, his smile gone. “Well, then,” he said. Nothing more.

  But he had the same look she’d seen on the faces of some of the older people when she walked by.

  Early that evening, while Mother prepared fresh fish fillets for dinner, Father came to see Ammie on the couch as she played a game on her tablet. “How’d you like to go out with me tomorrow?”

  “You mean fishing?”

  “Sure. We’ll have to leave early, though, so I’ll get you up about five.”

  She didn’t want to go. She had a stack of new books from the library, she had new music she’d downloaded, and Martin was bored on his vacation (visiting family in Ohio) and spent most of his day texting Ammie. Today he’d sent her a picture of himself in his swimsuit. Ammie thought he looked cute.

  “You should probably try to get to bed early tonight,” Father said, before walking away. She couldn’t argue with him. She wanted to scream, to tell him, I’m almost an adult now, and I don’t like fishing, and it scares me, so why can’t I just stay home? But she didn’t. She knew she never would.

  She was already awake when Father knocked on her door at five a.m. sharp. “Ammie?”

  “I’ll be right down.”

  She got up, dressed, brushed her teeth. Her mother was waiting for her in the kitchen; that was strange, because usually Mother didn’t bother to get up when Father dragged Ammie out of bed for their fishing trips.

  Mother handed her a cup of hot chocolate (Ammie’s favorite) and a bag. “I made you lunch for…later.”

  Ammie sipped the hot chocolate, but was looking at her parents. They were glaring at each other in a way Ammie had never seen before: Mother almost furious, Father warning.

  Finally Mother blurted out, “Do you -?”

  Father cut her off. “You know we talked about this.”

  That was all they said. Mother gave Ammie a silent hug before leaving the kitchen. Father led the way out the front door. “Let’s go.”

  Ammie had never quite understood why these fishing trips had to start so early. Father had claimed that it had something to do with the tides, but Ammie couldn’t comprehend what or why. The hot chocolate had worked some magic to perk her up, but she was still moving slowly, not fully awake. Father, however, moved with energetic determination, even more than usual.

  They piled into Father’s pick-up, Ammie bundled in a heavy jacket, and Father pulled out of the driveway and headed for the wharf, only a few miles away. As they drove through the early morning, the horizon just beginning to turn a blue so deep it almost hurt to look at, Ammie saw that the old people, all the ones in the Victorian gingerbread houses she passed on her walks, were out on their porches or front sidewalks.

  What on earth are they doing…?

  As they drove through town, Ammie realized: They were all watching her. At first she thought it was just an illusion, that it was still too dark to see where their eyes were really turned, but after a few blocks she knew. Their faces were tilting in her direction as the truck passed; she could almost feel their eyes on her, measuring.

  Father drove in silence until they reached the wharf. By then Ammie was glad to be away from the houses and the elderly stares.

  The Atlantic Ocean was turning gold where the sun was cresting it, and Ammie was pleased to know that at least the day would be spent beneath blue sky and sunshine, not the colorless mist of her nightmares. They made their way around the wharf until they reached Father’s boat, the Nereid. There were other fishermen going out early, but Ammie felt separate from them, isolated. Of course she was the only girl she saw, but even beyond that…only one man nodded to her father, and then gave Ammie a look of frank appraisal that made her blood freeze. She was relieved when the Nereid was untied, the motor started, and they were picking up speed as they headed away from shore.

  For a while Ammie sat by the side of the boat, losing herself in the sight of the white froth their passage kicked up. The shore grew smaller behind them as they veered away from other boats. Father steered carefully around Devil Reef, and Ammie eyed its uneven dark gray surface uneasily. She’d heard stories about people dying on the reef, that the bottom of the ocean fell away to unmeasurable depths just past the reef. She was always glad when they’d left it behind.

  Unfortunately, the bright weather didn’t hold. Ammie looked up and saw a bank of mist ahead of them to the east. Father drove the boat into it, and soon the sun was hidden and the world was white and gray.

  Like the dream.

  Father slowed the boat’s speed down, checking a fish-finder scope mounted next to the wheel. They drove for a few more moments, slower, slower, until finally he cut the engine altogether. They drifted, the only sound the slap of water of on the sides of the Nereid.

  “You ready to fish?” Father was already getting a pole for her.

  Ammie peered down into the water. “What are we fishing for today?”

  Father didn’t look up from the hook and lead weight he was tying to her line. “Something special.” He finished and handed her the rod. He went to his big red tackle box, opened it, and retrieved an object. “Even the bait is special.”

  He showed her what he held: it was a tiny box, about the size of one that might hold a ring; it was made of burnished metal, and had some sort of swirling symbol carved onto the top.

  “Is that gold?”

  Father nodded, and then opened the lid. What Ammie saw inside made her gasp.

  The box held a small semi-translucent grayish blob, about the size of a marble. Within the organic jelly, Ammie thought she saw something moving, no bigger than an ant. “What is it?”

  “I told you—it’s special bait.”

  Father continued to hold the box out, and Ammie realized he expected something of her. She looked up at him, uncertainly.

  “You have to bait the hook yourself.”

  “Oh.” She started to reach up for the quivering ball, but hesitated before she touched it. Father nodded, and she picked it up. It felt oddly warm in her fingers, and vibrated slightly. She held it in her right hand, and ran her left fingers down the length of her line until she found the hook. She lifted the hook gingerly, afraid it would kill whatever the little egg-like mass held.

  “Go on,” Father urged her.

  She swallowed, lifted the hook, and ran it through the center of the blob. It seated firmly on the hook, but continued to tremble slightly. Father smiled, pleased.

  “Good job. Now get it into the water, quick.”

  Ammie moved the tip of her rod out over the water, released the catch on the reel, and held her thumb on the line as it unspooled. “How far?”

  “About a hundred feet.”

  The line continued to unwind, sinking, as Ammie watched the depth meter mounted on the reel. She wondered how close they were to Devil Reef, and how deep the ocean really was here. Finally the meter reached 100, and Ammie gave it a wind back to stop the release, then waited.

  The boat rocked gently, and she was aware of the presence of her father behind her. She asked, “Aren’t you going to fish, too?”

  “In a bit. But I want you to get the first one today.”

  She waited, keeping a thumb on the line, feeling for tellt
ale jerks. She tried not to imagine what might be at the bottom of the ocean, tangled in the weeds and rocks: bodies, battered by water and predators, torn apart, mere pieces to be hooked and pulled up…

  The mist around the boat thickened, cutting out more light. The water darkened as well, going from gray to almost obsidian, polished black that rolled slightly more, hitting the sides of the cruiser with wet smacks.

  Ammie asked, “Is there a storm coming?”

  “Just keep your attention on your line.” The force of her father’s tone shocked her. He sounded almost threatening, and Ammie wished she was anywhere but here, on this boat, with him, with this line—

  The line jerked.

  “That’s it,” Father said. “Pull it up!”

  Ammie started reeling. At first it seemed easier than she’d expected—easier than in the dream—but it went on, and her muscles began to feel the weight of whatever was on the line. She cranked, and knew she was sweating even in the chill mist, her arms starting to ache. She paused for a second, and her father’s voice was right behind her, close enough that she felt the warmth of his breath on her ear. “Don’t stop, Ammie—it’s almost here.”

  She breathed in and continued to reel up the line; at last she thought she saw something in the water, flashing just below the surface. She felt relief that it wasn’t something pink and gray and human, but it wasn’t fish, either. She saw the silver of the lead weight, but just below it, where there should have been the shimmer of scales, was nothing.

  Her father was leaning over the side of the boat now, not with the gaff hook but with a net. “Pull it up…just a little more…”

  She thought her arms would surely explode, but she gave one last crank, leaning back, and then something was in Father’s net. He lifted it and opened the catch box at the rear of the boat and lowered the net in, then withdrew it, now empty.

  Ammie kept the line taut as Father moved quickly to grab a long pair of needle-nosed pliers from his tackle box, which he used to remove the hook from her catch. He took the rod from her, and she fell back, exhausted, as he secured it in one of the holders attached to the sides of the boat. Then he nodded at the catch box. “Go see what you got.”

  Ammie rose and walked over to look down.

  The catch box had been filled with about a foot of sea water, and something floated in there now, a black mass plainly visible against the white plastic sides. It was about the size of a large tumor, and was covered with tentacles, dozens of them, jet black and each finished with a long, barbed hook. Even though Ammie couldn’t make out an eye, she had the sense that the thing was watching her. She felt this morning’s cup of chocolate churning inside her, she smelled the engine fumes, and thought she might be sick. Instead she sank to her knees by the catch box, staring at the glistening black thing.

  “What is it?”

  “Do you trust me, Ammie?”

  She wanted to turn and look at her father then, but she had the terrible thought that if she did, the creature in the box might leap up at her, attach itself to her. She saw that it was using its barbed arms to pull itself along the bottom of the box, and she wondered if it would eventually pull itself up and out—

  “Ammie?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, you trust me?”

  She didn’t. She wasn’t sure she ever had, but she did what she thought her mother had always done, what she thought maybe all women had done: she lied. “Yes, I trust you.”

  “I want you to put your hand in the water.”

  Ammie looked down again, saw the clawed tentacles, the way the thing seemed to be trying to draw itself toward her. “Won’t it hurt me?”

  “It’ll hurt for a second. But after that…”

  Maybe this was some sort of test, and she was supposed to say, no. For the first time, she would say, no, to her father, and he would nod approvingly. Or she would reach her hand forward, and he would stop her just in time, and then turn the boat around to take them home.

  Because she wanted to go home, she pulled back the sleeve of her jacket and started to reach toward the black thing.

  Father didn’t stop her. In fact, she saw determination, even anticipation, on his face. Her hand inched closer to the waiting monstrosity, and still he didn’t call out or rush forward. He wasn’t going to, and she was about to snatch her hand back when pain penetrated her fingers. She stared, dread flooding her, at the mass clamped around her hand, which was engulfed to the wrist. Tentacles throbbed and writhed, and she saw drops of blood—her blood—spray into the catch box. She screamed, shook her hand, but still it clung to her. She tripped and fell back, landing hard against the side of the boat. Her father was calling her name and saying something, but she didn’t care what, she only cared about getting the thing off her, ending the pain—

  And then it was done. The creature fell from her hand to the deck, dead. The pain vanished, leaving her to stare at her hand, at the dozens of pinpricks that oozed crimson, and she watched as the drops fell in slow-motion around her feet…wait, were those her feet? Those clumsy parts bound in rubber and canvas, laced with strings? And that bleeding mass at the end of her arm—how could that be her hand?

  Her head spun, and she instinctively reached out for the side of the boat. She had a flash of panic—I’ve been poisoned!—before her consciousness somehow detached itself and floated, calm. She was disconnected from herself…or was truly connected for the first time. She saw the water around the boat not as a lightless seething danger, but as a comforting blanket, something a mother would wrap an infant in.

  “Ammonite.”

  She heard her name—her real name, not that ridiculous short version— and she understood it at last: an ancient sea creature, beautiful and strong and protected, thought to be extinct…but it was not. She stood, trying to grasp it all. One thing rose above the rest: she wanted to be in the water.

  “Take off your clothes,” her father said.

  She did. They were no longer necessary, and she was happy to be rid of them. She was happier still when she leapt from the side of the boat and the sea received her like a lost lover. She swam down, her new sight adjusting as she dove lower and lower, her strokes sure and powerful. As the light from overhead dimmed, she saw more of her kind—the older ones, the ones who had spent their time on land (just as she would) and had finally returned to the sea, leaving behind the mammals, the ones they bred with who would never change.

  She swam toward the black mass that was called Devil Reef, down and down along its length, until she saw the ruined temples, and she understood that their gods (her gods) had died, and they were a failing race. They diluted their blood by mixing it with the land-dwellers; soon, their descendants would no longer be able to return to the sea. She wondered if she were the last of her father’s family who would know this change.

  But the grieving could wait. She swam past one that looked familiar, and asked how long they could stay. “For weeks, if you want to,” Father answered.

  “Yes,” she said, and wondered how far she could go.

  Lisa Morton is a six-time Bram Stoker Award winning screenwriter, author of nonfiction books and novelist, and Halloween expert whose work was described by the American Library Association’s Readers’ Advisory Guide to Horror as “consistently dark, unsettling, and frightening”. Her most recent releases are the novel Zombie Apocalypse!: Washington Deceased and the novellas The Devil’s Birthday and By Insanity of Reason (co-authored with John R. Little). In 2015 her next nonfiction book, Ghosts: A Cultural History, will be published by Reaktion Books. She currently serves as President of the Horror Writers Association, and can be found online at www.lisamorton. com.

  THE SEA WITCH

  James A. Moore

  1.

  “They have the best damned lobster bisque I’ve ever tried.” Lianne was talking but I was having a bit of trouble believing the words I was hearing coming from her mouth. Lianne, who hated seafood, was telling me about her new favorite seafood pl
ace.

  “So you’ve taken up smoking illegal substances as a hobby then?” I looked her way. Same great smile, same green eyes, reddish blonde hair pulled back from her high forehead, though her tresses were a few inches shorter. Same intoxicating freckles.

  Sometimes I hated that we were friends. Okay, most times. Being in the “friend zone” meant she told me her sorrows and I listened, because I was too damned stupid to walk away.

  She rolled her eyes and shot me a one-fingered salute.

  “I’m all good with seafood, Lianne. It was you that made that face the first time I mentioned going to a seafood buffet.”

  She looked out over the shoreline as the wind caught the tops of the waves and pushed them into a shimmying dance. A distance out in the waters the black blade of the Devil Reef broke the waves. These days they’d finally gotten smart and put a lighthouse out there to avoid any more accidents.

  “People change.” She smiled as she said the words.

  Lianne and her family had moved to Golden Cove five years earlier. I think part of me died that day. I remember helping her pack the truck and doing my best to keep calm through the entire thing and then I went home and stared at the walls of my bedroom, knowing I’d never see her again. I mean, yeah, it’s only a few hours drive from Boston to Golden Cove, but we were in high school and I didn’t own a car. The idea that my parents would ever let me borrow theirs for that sort of trip was a sad little joke.

  I guess once upon a time that would have been the end of our friendship but, between the Internet and cell phones, the world has changed. Believe me, I was grateful for that.

  There are some people where, it seems to me, a conversation can be put on hold for a decade and you still have no problem picking it back up. I have a few cousins like that. And I have Lianne.

  After almost three years of talking through text messages and the occasional phone call, we finally saw each other in person a couple of summers back. I fell in love all over again as soon as I saw her.

  It was only for a weekend that time. That was all I could afford by way of hotel rooms and there was no way in hell her folks were letting me stay at their place. They knew we were in the friend zone. They also were smart enough to know I didn’t want to stay there.