Loch Ness Revenge

by Hunter Shea

  LOCH NESS REVENGE

  HUNTER SHEA

  Copyright 2016 by Hunter Shea

  www.severedpress.com

  For a man who knows his monsters, Shane D. Keene

  Chapter One

  Even the Scottish whisky can’t stop the nightmare from coming. And believe me, they have some pretty incredible shit here. The locals drink it like water, but I’m not a local.

  I may have been here for five years, but they’ll never accept this American interloper. Fine by me. I realize I’m just a transient, albeit one that’s been here for a handful of years. When the time comes, I’ll be happy to leave the Highlands forever. A girl can only take so much sourdough and tartan.

  Hmm, but I will miss the scenery. So pretty out here. Well, when it’s not foggy, overcast, or raining. And the Scottish men, nothing to complain about there, though I wish I could understand them a little better. I have a terrible ear for accents and sometimes I can’t believe we speak the same language. I was barely able to understand what went on in the movie Trainspotting. This is a whole new level.

  I’m up and sweating and can’t catch my breath.

  Again.

  Is it technically a nightmare when the thing that wakes you up in the dead of night is a memory?

  Not that it matters.

  Nightmare…memory…either way, I can never get a full night’s sleep.

  I slip my legs out from under the covers, grab the glass of tepid water I keep next to my phone charger, and gulp it down. When it comes, I sweat enough to soak through my clothes.

  Years ago, my simple solution was to sleep in the nude.

  It didn’t work out. Changing sheets is a hell of a lot harder than slipping on a fresh pair of panties, sleep shorts, and a T-shirt.

  The spare clothes are neatly folded on the floor by my feet. I stand, stretch, get down to my birthday suit, pat myself down with a towel, and get dressed.

  The radio is still on, some late, late night call-in show hosted by someone with such a thick accent, I can barely understand what the hell he’s talking about. Like I said, I’m Scottish tone deaf.

  Snapping the radio off, I collapse back into bed.

  The good news is, the nightmare never comes twice.

  The bad news is, falling back to sleep is never a guarantee. It’s almost four in the morning.

  Early to bed, early to rise.

  I went to bed at midnight. Not sure that constitutes early.

  I close my eyes, the remnant of the nightmare – memory – still playing like an old filmstrip as the heat from the projector bulb rapidly melts it away.

  It was 1995. Shania Twain had exploded on the music scene. I couldn’t stop playing her CD. The fact that it pissed off my twin brother Austin was just a bonus. He was all grunge, all the time, back then.

  We were camped right where my RV sits now. Me, Austin, Mom, and Dad.

  My father had been downsized by the genetics company where he’d worked for almost twenty years. They gave him a goodbye package that left us flush with cash. No tears were shed. He was a scientist toiling away for a corporate entity. He’d felt he’d sold his soul for long enough.

  So he took us out of school and we headed for Europe. He’d missed the chance to live his dream and backpack across the continent when he finished college.

  “It’ll be much more fun with you guys. I knew I waited for a reason,” he’d said.

  Austin and I didn’t care where he took us. We were just glad to be out of school for the rest of the year.

  We alternated between camping out when the weather was agreeable and staying in nice hotels, especially when we were in cities like Florence and Berlin and Barcelona.

  By the time we made it to Scotland, spring was fading into summer, and Dad wanted to sleep under the stars in the Great Glen, the glacial fissure that tore Scotland a new one 400 million years ago. The words lush and green are all you need to know to describe the Great Glen. Nature done did it right when she painted this scenery.

  Smack in the middle of the glen was a series of lochs, one of them being my current home and setting of my nightmare – Loch Ness.

  “We can’t go to Scotland without spending some time at Loch Ness,” my father had said. “Maybe we’ll even see the monster!”

  We thought that made this place the coolest stop on our trek across Europe.

  Kids are stupid.

  It was dark. Austin and I were roasting marshmallows over the remains of our fire. Our parents went down to the water’s edge to clean out the pot we used for cooking chili. I was playing Shania Twain on the boom box, but had to keep it low. When Austin tried to hit the Stop button, I whacked him on the back of his hand with the hot end of my marshmallow stick.

  “Jeez, that hurts you asshole!” he shrieked, cradling his hand to his chest.

  “You’re such a baby. I can’t believe you came out first. Mom saved the best for last.”

  He chucked a marshmallow at my head.

  “You’re more like my afterbirth.”

  I shrugged it off. We’d been saying the same things to each other for so long, we could recite each other’s lines.

  That was as close to ‘twin speak’ as we’ve ever come. We look nothing alike, we act nothing alike, and we sure as hell don’t think alike.

  It was then we heard the screams.

  Two screams, to be exact.

  My mother and my father.

  We bolted to our feet, spilling the plastic bag of marshmallows into the fire.

  There was a tremendous splash of water.

  We ran to them, heedless of what we might encounter. Someone was attacking them. A deaf person could hear their struggle, the pain and terror in their cries.

  We got to the shore a moment before we lost them forever.

  Their heads were visible, floating atop the churning water. Something big and black and shiny, like the body of an anaconda, was wrapped around their necks. It must have given a sudden, powerful squeeze, because their voices were cut sharply.

  “We have to help them!” Austin blurted, going so far as to get in the water up to his ankles.

  But I held him back.

  I watched my parent’s eyeballs puff up and explode from their sockets seconds before they were dragged down into the Loch’s murky depths.

  And just like that, they were gone.

  I watch them die every single night.

  I can’t un-see their eyes, blowing up to cartoonish proportions before popping like balloons filled with mayonnaise and blood.

  It’s why I fucking hate looking at people’s eyes. I can barely stand to look at my own in the mirror. I haven’t worn makeup in years just to save myself the horror.

  The clock says 4:15.

  I’m not the least bit tired.

  Early to rise it is.

  Maybe today’s the day.

  If it isn’t, oh well. I’ve got nowhere else to go.

  Chapter Two

  “Hello, Mrs. Carr.”

  “Someone’s up at the wee morning hours. You must be the only young person I know that doesn’t sleep until the crack of noon. I’ve just put some tea on the kettle.”

  I plop the basket of groceries on the old butcher-block counter.

  “No tea for me, thanks. I’m more of a coffee kinda girl. And I’m not exactly a teenager.”

  “You’re close enough.”

  Mrs. Carr is the owner of the little shop where I get my food and used paperback books. She’s as old as the Highlands and blind as a mole. She’s also sweeter than rock candy and the least nosy person in all of Scotland. She’s a very rare breed indeed.

  “Thirty is a pretty long way from sixteen,” I say.

  “You’re just a baby.”

  She has to br
ing each item to the tip of her nose to see the price sticker. The surprisingly new cash register beeps and chirps as she taps out the rolling amount without needing to look down. I trust she’s getting it all right.

  There’s a little community board tacked on the wall by the entrance. I notice that lately there have been a lot of flyers posted about missing dogs and cats. The latest is a pug named Maggie. I’m not a pug fan. Their faces look as if they’ve been smashed in with a cast-iron skillet. I have to admit, though, that Maggie is pretty cute.

  It makes me sad, because I’m pretty sure no one will ever see Maggie again.

  Mrs. Carr says, “It’s going to be a beautiful day. A nice one to be out on the water, if you can. You know, you can ask Billy Firth about renting his boat. He’s always looking to make a quick buck and if you tell him I sent you, I bet he’ll throw in some extra petrol for free.”

  She never remembers that I own my own boat. Score another check mark in the pro column for Mrs. Carr.

  “That sounds like a good idea.”

  I always say that.

  I don’t know who Billy Firth is and she never volunteers more information – like how I would go about finding him and his magical boat for hire.

  “You take care of yourself now, dear. See you tomorrow?”

  “You will.”

  I’m about to step outside when she calls out to me.

  “I almost forgot. I just got a box of books and found this for you.”

  She hands me a yellowed paperback of Michael Crichton’s Sphere. Somehow, she remembers I like to read thrillers. Crichton books, even ones like this that I’ve read a couple of times, are like gold.

  “No charge. You just enjoy it.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Carr. You’re the best.”

  She smiles, the wrinkles in her face smoothing out enough to make her look a few years younger than Noah.

  “You tell that to Mr. Carr. Sometimes that old codger needs a reminder.”

  The little bell chimes when the door opens. The paperback sits atop my bag of fruit, bread and cheese. It smells like someone’s attic, which is most likely where it’s been moldering since the late eighties.

  The sun is melting away last night’s clouds, birdsong in the air. There’s even a butterfly sitting on the hood of my car, a VW Bug I christened Eileen when I bought her a few years ago. She’s sunflower yellow and isn’t too fond of the terrain in winter or rainy springs. But I always wanted a Bug, damn the practicality.

  The drive up A82 to my RV on the western edge of Loch Ness only takes a few minutes. I remember when going up A82 seemed so picturesque, the wide swath of the Loch peeking out ominously from behind clumps of trees in bloom. Now, it’s just the place that connects my living space from where I get my food.

  I’m getting very practical in my old age. Or maybe I’m just losing touch with my romantic side. I really would like to meet a nice guy who can sweep me off my feet. It sucks sleeping alone. I’ve yet to find the man that doesn’t head for the hills after experiencing my night terrors all close and personal.

  That doesn’t mean I won’t keep trying. It’s just hard to find guys when you live in an RV in the woods. Pubs are fine for quick hookups, but I’m getting to the point where I need more.

  At least I will once I get done what I’m here to do.

  My RV sits in a small plot well off the beaten path. You can’t see it from the main road. The dirt track that winds down to my home is packed tight, thanks to Eileen’s treads. If you’re on the Loch during the fall or winter when the trees shed their leaves, you can catch a glimpse of my long, tan rolling home. I was told by the realtor that the plot was supposed to be the site of a pair of lake homes, but the investors ran out of money right after the land was cleared.

  Score one for me. I came to Scotland wanting seclusion and I got it in spades.

  I stow my food in the mini-fridge and contemplate sitting in my folding chair outside and reading Sphere for a while. It’s still early and there’s a nice, soft breeze. It’s not like I have a job to go to. I’m not at the mercy of a clock.

  But I am at the mercy of something much more demanding.

  Sighing, I toss the book on my unmade bed. It’ll be there when I get back. I need to burn some of the fever out of my brain first.

  Locking up the RV, I saunter down to the boat slip. It was made to hold two boats, but I don’t like neighbors. So, I bought up the property next to mine. The money Austin and I got from the insurance company was more than we could spend in our lifetimes.

  Accidental death by drowning paid big bucks.

  No one believes what we saw.

  We were young and traumatized, unable to fully process our parents drowning before our eyes.

  Whatever.

  My aunt raised us until we were eighteen. That’s when the money shifted into our accounts and my brother and I went off to separate colleges, never to return to my aunt’s house in Westport, Connecticut. She was nice and all, but a little snooty for my taste. Nothing looks better than Westport in your rearview mirror.

  Plus, I think she had been plotting ways to get that money away from Austin and me.

  My boat is a twenty-six-foot dual pontoon boat I named Vindicta. It’s Latin for revenge.

  I didn’t name my RV. I just call it home.

  Vindicta can hold up to a dozen people. It was designed as a fishing boat, which in a way, I’m kind of holding to that.

  It has a sun deck that I use on slow days, just sitting there, soaking up rays but never taking my eyes off the water. I had the motor retrofitted so she’s faster than any pontoon boat around and gives a nice, stable ride. She can hold a lot of gear that I stow under the leather couches and lounge chairs. That’s most important.

  I take her out to the center of Loch Ness. There are a few smaller boats out, men holding on to fishing poles, probably already dipping into the beer.

  They don’t appreciate the throaty rumble of my boat. Some have so much as told me, peppering in a few colorful words. I try to steer clear of them. I’m not in the mood for squabbling.

  It’s easy for them to blame me for the terrible fishing this season. They’re just not biting. It must be the American chippie in the loud boat.

  It’s gotten to the point where some university is sending a professor and a few grad students to study the water itself. It’s not like we’re seeing fish bodies floating everywhere. They suspect some kind of fungus or bacteria, something that’s driving the fish away.

  Just where to, no one is saying.

  I have my own suspicions. Maggie the pug, Bruce the mastiff, Sheena the tabby, and all those unnamed fish are in the same place – a big belly deep under the Loch.

  It’s hard to not feel anxious.

  Not after that TV crew from the US came over to take more sonar readings of the Loch. Someone from town had pointed them in my direction. I was, after all, the crazy American camping alongside the Loch, searching for proof of Nessie.

  Word getting out about my, uh, obsession, was all my fault. Chalk it up to way too much alcohol in a pub or two over the years. I’m the loose lips that sink ships.

  I’ll give the gang from the production crew credit. Even though I refused to be interviewed or have pictures or video taken, they still let me tag along. The producer, a decent-looking, middle-aged guy with a shockingly red beard, wanted to get in my pants. The dork in charge of getting permissions and interviews hoped that by befriending me, they’d wear me down and get me to agree to be part of their dog and pony show.

  Both were sorely disappointed.

  Though a quick tumble with Red Beard was tempting.

  Some strange hits popped up on their third day. Something big was moving under their ship.

  Then there was another large shape. And another.

  It rattled some cages. Everyone on the boat held their breath, the tension tighter than a Kardashian butt lift. The shapes glided past quickly, disappearing like phantoms.

  Then came the che
ers. Red Beard served champagne that night. He had proof of the Loch Ness Monster.

  Not any kind of proof you could use in a court of law. But in the court of cable-watching America, it was more than enough.

  “I hope, at least, we were able to bring you some closure,” he said to me that night, his words slurring slightly.

  “It ain’t over till the fat lady sings,” I replied, getting up and heading back to my RV.

  I didn’t need proof.

  I knew the monster existed.

  It ate my damn parents.

  But Nessie, or better yet, Nessies, had laid low for a long while.

  Were they back?

  If they were, I was going to throw them a welcome home party.

  Immediately followed by a memorial service.

  Chapter Three

  The knock on my RV door startled me. I was so engrossed in Sphere that I had forgotten where I was for a moment.

  “Who is it?”

  The blinds over the little galley table were open. I saw a blue van parked outside.

  “Samson Butchers.”

  Oh, right. I’d forgotten about my little delivery.

  I opened the door to a man who looked like a miniature Popeye. He was bald and squinty, with forearms as big as my thighs.

  “Afternoon. Are you Ms. McQueen?”

  “The one and only.”

  “Great. Sign here. And where would you like us to put it? You have a cold box somewhere close?”

  “You can leave it right there,” I say, pointing to the red picnic table.

  “On the table?”

  “Yep.” I scribble my signature on the receipt and hand the clipboard back to him.

  “It’s awful heavy. You sure you don’t want my partner and I to bring it to it’s…ah, final destination?”

  “The table is just fine. Thank you.”

  He looks at me as if I’ve gone off my nut. That might not be far from the truth.

  With an exaggerated sigh, he turns back to the van and barks, “She wants it on the table!”

  His partner, a kid with a mop of classic Justin Bieber hair, pops out from behind one of the open rear doors.