Dead Bait

by Romana Baotic (ed. )

  Spider Lake bellowed in fury. Above him, oak branches snapped and severed, raining down onto the ground, too far from his chair to reach him.

  The thrashing beneath the dock grew more frenzied and deranged. He set the butt of the rod into the tube holder between his legs. He wrapped one arm round the rod, holding it, and used the other hand to unsnap the scabbard on his hip and remove the hatchet.

  White sucking tentacles twisted onto the dock, leaving slime trails wherever they touched, reeking of bottomless, weed-swathed nightmares. He chopped and hacked at them as best he could while still controlling the jerking rod. Severed, the tentacles putrefied and sizzled away through the cracks in the planking.

  There was a continual strain on the line now. The pressure of a catfish which, fairly hooked, was merely swimming slowly, testing, scheming how best to carry on the fight.

  Bones stirred and came together, hoisting themselves up and out of the water. Bone fingers scraped at the dock and grinning, flesh-stripped skulls leered at him. They stretched out their arms and pointed at Fox, shaking and dancing, bones clattering, teeth chattering.

  Fox seized his .22 and shot them, shattering their skulls just as he had done over a year ago when....

  Their hands scrabbled at the wood even as they fell apart, bone by bone, and dissolved into ashen, steaming lumps on the slick dock.

  The line jerked, hard. He reached down to secure the seat belt that was supposed to hold him stable in the chair. He began to reel the line in. Hyacinth swelled and shifted over the lake, soon choking and surrounding the dock, slithering up and over the wood until it looked like Fox was floating on a sea of loathsome vegetation.

  The air popped and crackled, glowing with St. Elmo's fire. Then everything was still. Fox almost relaxed. Almost.

  The rod slammed down. Had it not been for the seat belt, he would have been yanked out of the chair into the water. The dock creaked and snapped.

  Fox screamed at the lake, tugging with all his might at the twisting rod. It pulled back at him, pulled until it seemed the very bolts holding the chair would snap and shear away. It pulled at him until he howled in madness. The only thing left in his mind was the battle to rend the heart of the lake.

  His wife rose drenched and filthy from the water.

  So it was her soul he had hooked and was now fighting for.

  Mud sheared off like lifeless skin and she stood there, pink and dripping, holding her arms open to him. Enticing.

  It isn't real, he told himself. It can't be real.

  Cheyenne was dead. Consumed, torn into tiny mouthfuls by the lake. But there she was, in front of him. Her raven hair shone in the moonlight like spun darkness. She was naked and perfect, nipples erect, lips moist and pouting, eyes pleading He could discern her scent clearly. She called his name faintly and he nearly let go of the pole.

  Until he saw the wet, tenebrous network of delicate lines that spiderwebbed her body. Until he saw her flesh shudder and burst apart into a ravenous swarm of glistening, creeping, beetle-like insects that began eating their way through the hyacinth toward him.

  He tried to scream.

  He wanted to scream.

  Only strangled gurgles came from his throat as he clawed at the seat belt, pushing frantically at the dock with his feet.

  Let go! Let go!

  He pounded at the buckle as the insects neared. He could hear the gristly chewing as they ate their way forward. His rod dipped down into the water and, when the seat belt abruptly let go, the sudden pull nearly tipped him headfirst into the lake and the swarm.

  Recovering his balance, Fox turned around and began struggling through the hyacinth covering the back of the dock, his rod held over his shoulder like a rope. He could hear crunching and crackling and feel bites as his boots dug into the rank vegetation.

  The drag on the line increased and, suddenly, he was anchored, his progress halted a foot short of the beach.

  He hauled at the rod. The muscles in his back and shoulders stood out like whipcords. Bones popped with the exertion, but he could go no further. Nor would he relinquish his catch to the lake. Not unless it slaughtered him.

  He looked up and gasped. The lady stood right in front of him, watching, urging. Tentatively, softly, she reached out her hand and tried to drag him toward her. He could feel her nails digging into his shoulder, penetrating, and he was able to inch his way off the dock. He gained strength and footing when he touched the shore and, aided by the lady, he made his way up the beach to the blasted oak.

  He wrapped an arm and a leg around a root and settled the butt of the rod in a crotch where rotted wood and worms had left a deep hollow. Then he tore at the reel, pulling up and reeling in, over and over until his muscles were torn, tangled knots and the rod felt like molten lead.

  The water below the tree was foaming with blood and small snapping mouths. Their noxious gases fouled the air with a miasma of sulphur and decay. The hyacinth, as far as he could see it, was quivering, filled with enraged red eyes all focused on him.

  And still he pulled and reeled, making an inch here, a foot there, losing three and regaining one. Always drawing his catch closer.

  Then, in a blink, the lake was dead quiet, the line slack.

  He could hear a faint roaring, more frightening for its muffled quiet. It grew closer and closer until the water exploded and a gray-green behemoth catfish with three-foot whiskers and seemingly longer teeth erupted from the lake.

  It flew directly into the tree, snapping branches and cleaving flesh. Its teeth and eyes sought Fox. It punched him in the chest with its broad, blunt nose, knocking him out of the tree before it could slam its jaws shut around him.

  Fox stood up and whirled around to face it. It was snared in the oak, speared by the branches. The treble hook had pulled through its jaw until it held to bone. Moss and gray worms drooped like saliva from its mouth. The drab ancient body was spotted with moss and leeches and scarred from innumerable battles. It squirmed and struggled in the tree as it watched him. Above, Baskerville howled.

  Now was the worst time. While it watched him.

  The lady stood by the tree and studied the fish. Then, as if proclaiming it of no further interest she nodded her head and vanished.

  On my own, huh? Well, who cares? He had caught the fish fair and square. He had beaten the lake.

  He walked over to the catfish. Its eyes followed him, knowing. He hated that, hated what he had to do as he used the sharpened tip of the rod to gouge out its mesmerizing eyes.

  As he dropped the bloodstained rod, the fish gave a great, heart-rending heave and tore itself from the tree, leaving a trail of intestine and roe behind. Its dorsal fin caught Fox's shoulder, slashing it.

  Then the catfish lay still, half in the lake, half out. Its sides were still throbbing, gills wide open, choking and gasping at the strangling air. All the fight had gone out of it, as if contact with the sand was more than it could bear.

  Got your ass now, Fox thought. That's one more for me.

  But Spider Lake did not give its dead up so effortlessly.

  The air was permeated with a gagging stench as corpses of the lake's long-dead victim’s rose from the hyacinth veil covering the water. They tugged at the catfish and bit at the line.

  "Damn you," Fox howled, "That's mine!"

  The dead glared at him and began crawling up the sand, mouths drooling and gnashing, knees and hands leaving pale gobbets of flesh immediately snapped up and swallowed by the rats scurrying between their legs.

  No. As he looked more closely, he could see that the rats were coming from within the corpses, causing the putrescent bodies to writhe and bubble as the rodents ate their way through.

  Fox pulled out his hatchet. The dead began wailing and pleading as he hacked at them. He chopped off hands and heads, which fell bloodlessly to the sand. The heads lay there. eyes staring up at him, mouths quivering and making plaintive mewing sounds that tore deeply at his heart.

  He struck mindlessly,
again and again. They kept coming, almost as if they wanted to be destroyed. He hacked at a body that tried to sink its black teeth into his leg, turned, and was poised for another attack when....

  He looked down into his daughter's eyes.

  She was cut and bruised and there were rats inside of her that made her jump and shiver and bulge.

  And when she called out to him, when she called, "Daddy?" and he saw the blood-soaked snout poke out of her mouth and sniff....

  When he saw that, saw the beady red eyes studying him, he sank the hatchet into her head down to the neck.

  She stood up and tottered unsteadily to the water. The axe handle protruded from her mouth. Fox called out to her.

  "Autumn?"

  She turned and looked back at him, her eyes glowing red. The ruins of her mouth moved and bit the wooden handle in half. She spit out the blade and the split halves of her head roiled together. Her flesh healed. She laughed and fell backward into the water, instantly consumed by those who waited below, leaving Fox alone and crying on the sand.

  It was over.

  The beach was silent and barren. It glowed silver-white in the now lucid moonlight. Fox looked back toward the water and wiped the tears from his eyes. Where the catfish had been lay his wife's pale body, torn by branches, tangled in line. Her once angelic face had been butchered by the treble hook. The bloody tail of the worm fell from her lips and stagnant, scummy water gushed from her throat. As he watched, she gasped, died, and was at peace.

  Finally.

  He wrapped his arms tenderly around her slight remains and picked her up, smearing himself with her watery blood. He hoisted her over his shoulder and made his way up the stone steps to the top of the cliff. Baskerville was nowhere to be seen, but the lady was standing there, observing him.

  For the first time he felt convinced that the ghost of the lady in white saw him, recognized him. She glided over to where he stood with Cheyenne's body cradled in his arms. She pressed her hands into the back of his wife's battered head. She twisted and pulled. The body shifted, convulsed, then was still. Fox craned his neck to look down. His wife's body was now whole and untouched, clean and redeemed from the lake.

  He looked up to thank the lady, but she was gone. Still, for a moment, he thought he saw the trembling outlines of a bleak, storybook mansion. Then that, too, drifted into the night and was gone.

  He buried Cheyenne behind the cabin after chanting ancient songs over her body and dressing her in the soft white ghost-dance dress she had loved. He planted an oak tree over her grave. There would be no marker. Fox knew where she lay. And he knew, somehow, that she would be protected and preserved should the influence of the lake ever reach this far. She would be guarded.

  But there were still remnants in the lake. Still souls so deep down and rotted that they would spend forever stalking the darkness beneath Spider Lake. Souls so hidden and corrupt that they glistened and shimmered with the evil of the waters.

  And soon, very soon...he promised Autumn...the blood - red moon would be full. The spirits would walk, and it would be a good night for fishing.

  CHUM BUCKET

  By Eric Hermanson

  The ocean's stink killed Bishop's appetite, winning out like it always did when he visited the docks. He found a sun-bleached bench overlooking the harbor and sat down, throwing away his half-eaten taco.

  "Damn things," he muttered towards the taco at his feet, still partially wrapped in its greasy paper. Further inland, he thought, I can plow through a dozen of them, but here, on this lonely Mexican seaport that might as well not even exist, my stomach disagrees. Additional proof of what he already knew. He hated the ocean. He hated its smell. As far as Bishop was concerned, the ocean was just a big, salty whore. An unending, unforgiving wet bitch that leaves her oppressive scent on everyone and everything she meets. The only thing he hated worse than the sea was his boss, for giving him this damn assignment.

  He scanned the horizon, carefully inhaling the same air most people considered 'fresh', but it stabbed at his sensitive intestines, causing all kinds of chemical commotion. The assignment should have taken days, not weeks, but he could not return to the States until he found his quarry. He searched every harbor and seaport along the Mexican shoreline, starting in Ensenada and working his way south. He spent far too much time in seedy taverns talking to smelly fishermen, never once getting a solid tip.

  His Spanish was terrible. His slick, big city style never mixed well with the crowds he encountered. One night in Mazatlan he was hit from behind and knocked out cold. He barely escaped with his life from a tavern in La Paz after mentioning the name of the boat he was looking for. The only thing that kept those guys from getting him was his .45.

  "Get lost!" He barked at a sea gull. The filthy bird cocked its head and screamed at him. It wanted the taco by his feet. Bishop noticed two more large gulls swooping down after the bird screamed, as if on cue.

  "Calling in back up, eh?" Bishop said.

  The birds smelled like the sea. He could see the disease oozing from their beady, aggressive eyes. Ocean vermin, he thought as he looked them over. Scavengers with wings. The leader bird danced closer to Bishop and screeched again, demanding the taco.

  "Here," Bishop said, wanting the birds to leave him alone, "knock yourselves out, you greedy bastards." He kicked the taco over the dock. All three birds took off after the treat, fighting and screaming. One of them snatched the taco out of the water and flew away with the other two hounding it until they disappeared in the bleeding sun.

  Half a pack of smokes later, Bishop was ready to give up. Time to move on to the next town, he figured, the next dock on the list. The only thing that helped take his mind off his hatred for all things nautical was the fact that Baja sunsets were the most beautiful he'd ever seen. This one was no less spectacular. The sun's crimson death bath on the big blue horizon threw awesome streaks across the sky like glowing tentacles, and for one odd moment, Bishop thought time stood still and he was nothing more than a dab of paint on some cosmic artist's canvas.

  When he turned and saw the old fishing vessel he’d been hunting slowing cruising into the harbor he was almost convinced he was dreaming.

  The boat was something to behold. It resembled the old black and white photograph his boss gave him, yet in person it seemed to carry an undeniable aura with it, some nagging presence imperceptible to the naked eye. At once it appeared unsafe and monstrous. At a second glance it seemed proud and strong, the most seaworthy craft ever to sail the blue.

  The ancient trawler cruised at a dull speed, barely a sound except for the sluicing of the calm, glassy water parting at its bow. Bishop could hear faint creaks and groans the vessel made as he watched it maneuver around a yacht and a smaller boat, aiming for the empty space at the far end of the dock.

  The sunset mutated into twilight, a succession of orange, red, and purple. Slowly, Bishop rose to his feet and began walking along the dock, pacing the boat. He kept his eyes glued to it, unable to see who was at the helm through the grimy cabin windows. He noticed a few bizarre symbols either carved or painted on the side of the hull, and Bishop finally confirmed the boat's name as it turned into its space and came to a stop.

  "Chum Bucket," he whispered, reading the name aloud. He looked toward the sky and folded his hands in a mock prayer. "Thank you," he said, "somebody up there likes me." The first part of his assignment was completed, now came the second.

  Bishop glanced around the lazy harbor. Except for a group of men at the opposite end of the docks drinking beer and bragging about the day's catch, there was no one else around but the gulls. He turned back to face the Chum Bucket and finally saw the old man emerge. Bishop ran his hand on the inside of his windbreaker and rested it on the butt of his gun for a second. The cool metal put a sneer in his fake smile.

  "Need a hand?" He asked the old man, who was attempting to tie off by himself while the Chum Bucket's engine coughed in neutral. The boss said he'd be alone, but Bishop was
still surprised an old timer could operate a 45 ft. fishing vessel all by himself. The sneer on his face waned as the smell hit him. The boat and old man together reeked like a decomposing carcass.

  "A hand?" The old man said without looking up from his knotting, "sure. And a couple legs, arms, and a torso would be appreciated, too."

  Bishop's laugh came out like a grunt. He wanted to gag. The smell was hammering him in the face repeatedly, each blow more sickening than before. The old man matched the other photo the boss had given him, which also made Bishop hesitate. Didn't the boss say that picture was from 1959? The guy looked exactly the same. Must be the scurvy, Bishop reckoned, makes an old fool live forever.

  The man finished tying off, then climbed back aboard the boat and turned off the engine. The battered vessel sputtered and coughed, and its wheezy breath finally gargled to a stop.

  "She's a beauty," Bishop called towards the old man after he went below. "How old is she?"

  "Over the century mark," came the reply, and the old man followed it out. Bishop examined him as the first evening star blinked overhead.

  The fisherman looked like something straight out of the Old Testament. He wore an unbuttoned white short-sleeved shirt, exposing a sagging chest with an assortment of scars and grey hair. He was awfully skinny, and Bishop felt the guy could use a huge plate of pasta. His legs resembled sticks with a thin layer of meat wrapped around them, his arms like long ropes with sinewy knots for muscles. The most interesting feature was his face, which Bishop thought resembled a sunken-eyed, spindly Ben Franklin with grainy white stubble. His forehead was infected with skin cancers, his long, white hair ended in dreadlocked tangles and hung like a dirty mop.

  "Wow," Bishop said, "How many engine's she been through?"

  "Just one, the original." The old man patted the boat's hull. The Chum Bucket groaned when he did, like a horse begging for a bullet.