by Matt Hayward
“Grace, get in the car. Right now.”
Grace ignored the sound of her husband's voice and kept moving. The marshy earth sucked her feet with each step. The rain came down hard and heavy, rushing around her in a deafening white noise. When she reached halfway to the Sitka spruce forest, she paused.
“Go home, Fred,” she said. “There's something here I need to see. I need to prove it to myself.”
Fred sounded tired. “Grace? You're soaked to the bone. Come on, get in the car and let's go home. We'll go and see Father Doyle, okay? Talk this over.”
That got her attention. Grace turned and faced her husband. He stood by their car on the isolate back road, wearing a dark green jacket, hunched against the bad weather. His hood obscured his face.
“Don't you dare try and force your religion onto me ever again, Fred,” she said. “This is my choice, my life, and I'm doing this for me. Understand?”
Fred sighed. “I saw your computer history this morning, Grace. What's it all about? Will-o'-the-wisp, and such? You've got to be kidding. I mean, this is childish, you know that, right? Aliens, Bigfoot, monsters… Father Doyle has answers if you need them… Real answers. Now, come on.”
“Go home, Fred.”
Grace turned and continued through the marsh. She doubted very much that Father Doyle had answers. He couldn't pray away the tremors in her hands, or the rigidness in her body. Couldn't stop the aches, the depression, or the constant fear of degradation. Most definitely, he couldn't stop the bronchitis that'd developed.
Grace wiped her wet face and looked at her husband. “Fred, I need evidence. I need the cold, hard truth. And you can laugh all you want, about the lights, the video, if you think it looked staged… But that video was shot right here in the Wicklow Mountains, and it's as close as I'll ever get to the truth.” She sighed. “I'm sixty-eight years old, Fred. I need this for me, before I go.”
Fred scoffed. “Before you go? Go where?”
“Oh don't be such an old fool! I don't want to live with PD, Fred, why can't you understand that? I want to go on my own terms, doing what I want to do, even if that's something as silly as seeing Will-o'-the-wisp. I'm done with Father Doyle's praying, all right? The government thinks euthanasia is wrong, and I'm taking matters into my own hands. If going out here is dangerous, and I die, that's on me. But this is my damned life. Not yours. Now go home.”
“This is all because of that man, isn't it?” Fred said. “Darren Cross?”
Grace's stomach fell. She'd had enough. “How many times are you going to ask me about Darren Cross, Fred? He runs the cryptozoology website, that's all. He knows I live in Ireland so he sent me that video last night. This is still fresh. The people who uploaded it haven't answered any email, so, yes, a hoax is looking likely, but it's got me feeling alive. I'm not asking you to understand that, just to go home. Darren Cross is my friend.”
“Friend. Sure.”
Grace shook her head. “You had to be an asshole, right up to the end, didn't you?”
“What did you call me?”
There it is, Grace thought. The tone that developed when you lost your brother. Same time Father Doyle became your best friend.
“Say it again,” Fred said, his eyes narrowed. “Go on.”
“Asshole.” Grace licked at her lips. “Asshole, asshole, asshole.”
“That's it.” Fred started across the road and into the marsh, the earth slopping beneath his boots. “You'd do well to learn your place, Grace. A woman shouldn't be calling a man those kinds of things.”
“Oh, for fuck's sake. Don't you take another step towards me, Fred. Listen to yourself. That ancient tortoise, Doyle, has filled your head so full of shit that it's starting to come out your mouth. When did you get like this?”
But Grace already knew. It had been the night Fred's brother, Kevin, had been taken out by a drunk driver while walking home two years ago. After that, Fred had never been the same. Father Doyle stepped in, happy to help in his time of need, and having another male around seemed to comfort Fred. Grace's husband had never been one for emotional conversation. If he didn't want to talk to her, then maybe some time with Doyle wasn't such a bad idea. She'd been wrong, of course. Now her husband acted like one of those evangelical preachers on public radio. And when the Parkinson's developed, praise Jesus, Fred and Doyle had all the answers.
Fred grabbed her arm, but Grace yanked it back. “Don't. Don't you dare. Do you know how much pain I'm in?”
Rain tapped on Fred's plastic hood. “Then what is it you want, Grace, eh? To sit out here until the damn lights come? All because some Yankee charmer sent you a video? Is that it?”
Grace shook her head. “You know what, Fred? Yes, that's it. That's what you want to hear, right? Darren and I have been having an affair through the magical interweb, fucking on Skype and going on virtual dates. For God's sake, Fred, grow up. Darren sent me a video, one that looks like nothing I've ever seen before, and for the first time in my life, something impossible is looking plausible. So save your damn prayers.”
“Blasphemy. These freak lights, Grace? You know how stupid you sound?”
“I feel the same way about you, Fred. At least I have the possibility of proof. Don't like it? Then tell it to someone who cares.”
Grace began walking away, and coughed. She looked at her shaking palm, at the blood washing away in the rain. Her throat stung.
“We might not be in love, Grace. But I vowed on our wedding day to take care of you. In sickness and in health. I might not like it, but that's just the way it is.”
“If you want to take care of me, Fred, then let me do this. I'm not going back to Father Doyle to pray the sickness away. It's a terminal illness. I've accepted that, why can't you?”
For once, Fred had nothing to say. The rain continued smashing around them, turning the marshy land into a soup. A low mist curled at knee level, giving the place a cheap B movie vibe. Under any other circumstance, it would have been pretty to Grace. Now it looked creepy.
“This mist was the one thing in the video I thought gave it away as a hoax. It looked too staged. But, here it is.” Her forehead creased. “And there's the large moss covered rock that stuck out in the background. This is where it was shot. Right here.”
“Then where are your Will-o'-the-wisp, Grace?”
Fred's voice sounded very far away, masked by the blood thrumming in Grace's ears. A dizzy spell hit and she would have fallen if not for the vacuum of the mud. “They're right there, Fred,” she said, not believing her own words. “In the Sitka. Look.”
Ahead, three dim lights bobbed through the trees. They swayed like glow-sticks, casting long, moving shadows on the wet foliage.
“Looks like your reporter people beat you to it,” Fred said, but Grace could tell he didn't believe it. “Look, it's kids pulling a prank.”
The rain filtered Grace's vision. She squinted to see more clearly. No use. “I think this is it, Fred. I think we're seeing Will-o'-the-wisp.”
The three lights floated closer, brighter, making the slick bark of the trees look as if they were caked in some sort of transparent, glistening goop. They glided soundlessly, about a football field's length away now. Something inside Grace flipped.
“Fred?” Her mouth had gone dry. “Fred, are you seeing this?”
The lights were attached to figures.
A trivial piece of information floated to the surface of Grace's mind. Something she'd seen in a documentary about deep-sea fish. Anger fish, to be specific. A light protruded from the fish's head as a means to lure prey, coaxing them with dangling light. But behind the light, lay teeth…
As the lights advanced, Grace began to shake. The skin on the back of her neck crawled and the hair on her arms stood like tiny strands of cold steel.
“I don't know what I'm seeing…” Fred's voice came as barely a whisper.
The creatures were humanoid, but certainly not human. They were too long. Besides, no human could scuttle on all
fours that that fast. They were… Wrong.
“Grace, we need to get back into the car, now!”
Grace agreed, turned, and ran. The sloppy terrain gulped her boots, making every step a chore. Fred looked to be having the same problem. Grunting, she pushed forward, rain streamed down her face and dripping from her nose. She chanced a look back and a scream work its way up her throat. The creatures scuttled forward like spiders, their scrawny limbs arching through the marsh. They didn't make a sound.
“More of them!” Fred shouted. “Look!”
He pointing to the right, where further up the slender road, two more glided from the forest, lights bouncing. Their odd movement reminded Grace of oversized, four-legged insects.
Fred reached the car first, Grace still bogged down in the muck. She watched as he forced the driver-side door open and jumped inside. The ignition turned as she reached the road, finally pulling her leg free with a wet, slopping noise. “Fred! Wait!”
The engine spluttered, refusing to start, as Grace shambled across the road. She reached the passenger door and jerked it open, throwing herself inside.
“You asshole!” She punched him in the shoulder. “You were going to leave me out here?”
“What? No. I was just trying to get the car started!”
“You fucking asshole!”
The engine wheezed. Ahead, two abominations slithered forward. Grace looked out the driver-side window, her skin crawling at the sight of the other three as their dull headlights illuminated the marshland and cut through the mist.
“They're nearly here, Fred…”
Fred growled as he twist the key, willing the car to start. Grace heard him pray beneath his breath. Then the car came to life.
“Ha! I told you! Thank you, Lord, thank you, Lord…”
“Or thank Bobby Peters down at the garage for having a look at this damn thing last week,” Grace said. “Get us out of here.”
Fred forced the gear stick into reverse and the car began to roll with a whine. Then the engine cut. Slamming his fist into the steering wheel, he turned to Grace. “This is your fault, woman! This is where your damn blasphemy gets us! This is what you get for cursing the God Almighty! You and your godforsaken suicidal thoughts!”
“No, Fred. This is what you get for not taking Bobby Peters' advice and letting him fix the car. This is what you get for being a cheap, stubborn bastard, and not listening to anyone but Father Doyle. This is what you get.”
The creatures were around them now. Branch-like legs clicking off the tarmac, their swinging lights throwing shadows. This close, Grace could make out their facial features. Their faces did look eerily similar to an angler fish, lower lip eating the upper. The rain splashed down the window in a waterfall, warping the monsters as they scurried around the car like lions circling an unfortunate wildebeest.
The car rocked and creaked.
Tip… Tip… Tip…
A light invaded the back window as if a curious police officer wanted to see inside. Craning her neck, Grace looked behind, where one of the creatures stood on its hind legs, underbelly exposed against the glass.
“It's got a mouth on its stomach!” Fred shouted. “Demons, Grace!”
“My God…”
The creature's stomach had split down the center. Small, ragged teeth ran down the sides. Grace had a sudden image of being gobbled in, those lips working eagerly. Like going inside a bodybag, She thought. That's why their torsos are so long… Once stowed away, she could imagine acid hissing, like some sort of hellish car wash, melting her flesh down to the bone.
Fred shook his head with a disgusted high yelp. “Let me get through this, Lord. Please, get me through this.”
“What are you doing?”
Before she could stop him, Fred had reached for the hand break, slamming it down with a scream. The car didn't budge. He pushed back into his chair, trying to force the wheels in motion. “Come on, you piece of shit! Roll!”
“Stop it, Fred!”
“If we can get it rolling just a few feet, we'll be on the hill.” He threw her a look as if she were a slow child. “We'll roll down to the village, Grace!”
“I understand physics, you patronizing fuck! I just don't think it's a good idea! Sit still!”
“No!”
Outside, the Will-o'-the-wisp continued prowling the vehicle, their lights gliding like dorsal fins through the window. They moved in front, as if sensing Fred's plan and not wanting to be behind when the car began to roll. Her stomach knotted and jumped, and her hands were beginning to shake. She could feel another coughing fit wanting to escape but resisted. What if I do cough, hock up some blood, and they sense it? She worried.
“Stop it, Fred… Stop it, Fred… Just stop!”
“What?”
“Look!”
Two of the creatures had moved to Fred's side of the car. They scurried back and forth, as if trying to figure the vehicle out.
“Don't talk,” Grace said. Icy cold fingers worked up her spine. “Stay still. I think they're planning something.”
Suddenly, the two creatures began to spasm. Their spindly limbs quivered and their heads twitched from side to side, sending dull light swinging. Then their bodies began to pulsate and grow.
They were sizing him up, Grace thought. They’re preparing their bodies to fit him in…
The creature's stomachs elongated and fattened, a sickening slopping sound audible, even from the car. Then, as Grace shrieked, their underbellies fell open, loose lips flapping, splashing the tarmac with running liquid.
Fred's voice was barely audible. “Like snakes… They're probably able to swallow anything. Anything…”
With that, he opened his door.
Grace screamed as he leapt from the vehicle, the rain forcing its way inside the car and smacking her face. Without thinking, she grabbed the swinging door and slammed it shut, locking it. She patted her own lock. Already down. An involuntary noise escaped her lips.
From the rear view mirror, she watched as Fred jogged down the country road. He moved faster than she'd ever seen, but even if an overweight serial killer chased him, he'd be caught. He was an old man, after all.
Grace's skin crawled as one of the creatures shot past the car, the road ahead lit by its headlight. Its legs arched like a spider, the shadows amplifying nightmarish shapes. A thick slug-trail of transparent liquid slopped from its midriff. Fred had made it only a few meters before it caught him.
The fact that the rain tapping the car roof blocked out all other noise made it somehow worse to Grace.
The Will-o'-the-Wisp circled Fred, its light turning each wrinkle on his face to a deep crease. For a brief moment, Grace saw the terror in her husband's eyes, how he balled his hands to his chest, shaking, and she began to cry. “Fred!”
He turned, looking towards the car through the sheeting rain, his lower lip quivering. Then the creature attacked. It shot up suddenly, towering above him, the hideous lips of its underbelly trembling like an over-eager lover. Then the monster came down, engulfing Fred whole.
“No!”
The Will-o'-the-wisp walked in circles, slowly pacing the wet road. Its stomach bulged and kicked as Fred thrashed about inside, desperate to escape. Digesting, Grace thought, a wave of nausea washing over her. Her marriage to Fred might've ended when her husband had met Father Doyle, but she'd never wished him dead.
Then, slowly, thick red liquid began to slop from the monster's underbelly, slapping the road in a shower.
“Fred, you goddamn fool… I'm so sorry.”
The insistent rain lashed down on the car and the marshy landscape. Grace closed her eyes and listened. She had always liked that sound.
“If this were religion,” She said to herself. “You would be angels. Fallen from heaven. Physical proof.” She opened her eyes, seeing the car surrounded. “Darren Cross's angels.”
In the rearview mirror, the swollen creature had slipped back into the marsh, a dim light swinging through the fo
g. Back on the road, the crimson mess it left behind washed into the trench.
“And my reapers…” Grace continued, smiling nervously. “How about that? I was right, all along.”
With a sigh, she tried steadying herself, but her hands shook. I'm doing this for me, she thought. No matter how gruesome, no matter how painful. It’s my choice. And I want it. Yes.
Grace opened the car door, the hiss of the rain filling the air. The creatures stood back, cautious. They stayed a few feet away, a solid block, fencing her in.
“It's okay,” she said. “I'm not going to run. Not anymore.”
Grace stepped from the car.
About the Author
Matt Hayward is an Irish, Wicklow based author and musician. His debut novel, What Do Monsters Fear?, releases July 2017, and a follow-up, co-written with Patrick Lacey, is due in 2018. His work has appeared in Clickers Forever, Dark Moon Digest, Tales From The Lake, The Horror Zine, Tales To Terrify, and many others. He can be reached at [email protected]
Coming Soon
Severed Empire: Assassin’s Promise by Phillip Tomasso
The Bard’s Song – Volume 1
The Journal of Jeremy Todd by John Quick
Find these and other books at www.sinistergrinpress.com