I'm not just ranking my Top 20 Horror Movies and my Top 20 Horror Novels for you as I celebrate Halloween all month long here in the Land of Way. I'm also going to share some short fiction with you.
This is a story that is near and dear to me because while there are many things that I excel at in this life, fishing simply isn't one of them. I like fishing, so my shortcomings in this arena are difficult to shrug off. Maybe that's why I chose to write this tale, to convince myself that it could be worse. No, if I'm going to be completely honest with you, this is one of those short stories that was inspired by a particularly vivid nightmare. I imagine that many of my fellow writers who toil within the horror genre have translated bad dreams into grim yarns. Hopefully you guys will enjoy my attempt to do just that as much as I enjoy fishing.
Here
There Be Monsters
by
James Wayland
The pole was heavy
in his hands. A salty breeze washed over him, threatening to dislodge his
cap. It was chilly, but he was comfortable despite the fact that he was
wearing nothing but a pair of cutoffs and a ragged tee shirt. He had
kicked off his sandals earlier and the cold sand felt good beneath his feet.
Still, Barrett was
starting to think that he was wasting his time. He reeled in the piece of
squid he was using for bait and cast it out again. Despite all the weight
he had added to his line, he still couldn’t get it as far out as he wanted
it. The night sky was dark and the moon was presently concealed behind a
rolling grey mass of clouds, but it was easy enough to spot the white slashes
of foam where the waves were breaking. He wanted to loft his little clump
of squid ten to twenty feet beyond those telltale flashes of white, but he kept
coming up short. The long pole just wasn’t flexible enough to allow him
to cast like he wanted to, no matter how many sinkers he used.
The big man
grimaced, wondering if he should just call it a night. This seemed to be
a waste of time. There was no one else fishing along the shore, at least
not in this vicinity, though there was a lot of activity down at the
pier. It was so far away that he could make out little more than lights
and movement, but he was fairly certain that there was more action to be had
there. He didn’t want to stand elbow to elbow with a bunch of fisherman,
though. He wanted solitude.
Of course, if
things had gone according to plan, he would have spent this night on a boat,
fishing the deep waters of the Atlantic. Perhaps he would have taken a
twelve hour trip, and that might have allowed enough time for the captain to
guide the vessel into the gulf. Yet things had not gone according to plan
and there would be no deep sea fishing this weekend. With that in mind,
Barrett wanted to be alone. He wasn’t sulking, but he just wasn’t in the mood for company either.
Nestling the rod in
the crook of his arm, Barrett eased his flask out of his hip pocket and took a
pull. The searing heat in his chest was a welcome diversion, so he took
another pull before putting the flask away. “Come on,” he said aloud,
“Something has to be cruising along the shore. Have a bite to eat, why
don’t you?”
He shook his
head. It was a waste of time. An angler who did most of his fishing
on various riverbanks, he was totally out of his element here. Charter
fishing from a boat was one thing, but this shore fishing business wasn't
working for him. He had spent a small fortune on this giant pole and the
tackle that he needed to outfit it, but trying to fish the ocean from the beach
was a far cry from booking a boat or working to land a mudcat or a rainbow
trout from a riverbank.
No, Barrett didn’t
know what he was doing, but he was pretty sure that he was doing it
wrong. Hell, he wasn’t able to cast his bait out more than thirty
feet or so, and the tide was sending it back to him in a matter of minutes
despite all those massive sinkers and the weight they provided.
This was idiotic,
and while he didn’t want to visit the ocean without doing a little fishing,
this felt more like a misguided attempt than actual sport. Next time, he
wouldn't let anyone spoil his plans. Next time, he would be out there in
a boat, having fun while the captain and his mates did all the fretting.
Cursing, the big man returned the pole to the crook of his arm and dug the
flask out of his pocket once more. He took another deep pull. He
followed this with another, and then another, draining it.
Well, shore fishing
was a losing effort, but he was going to succeed at getting drunk. The
scotch was already making him feel a bit too warm and fuzzy for his own
good. Of course, Barrett was a man who could hold his liquor, and
catching a little buzz while he fished was nothing new. In truth, the big
man felt that fishing and drinking went hand in hand.
Feeling a little
better now that a familiar fire was at work in his chest, Barrett let
himself enjoy the view. The black water crashing into the sand was an
awesome spectacle, an endless expanse of darkness that rose and fell, pounding
the beach and then slithering backward before unleashing another attack.
It was massive and hypnotic, timeless and fearsome, a sight that should make
any man feel utterly slight by comparison. It was the sea, and on this
cloudy night, it was one giant mass of darkness, thrashing against the beach
and daring any man who stood beneath that starless sky to enter its warm
embrace. Yes, it was an amazing sight, but there was something spooky
about that black water thrashing at his feet. Barrett shivered, wishing
there was more scotch in his flask.
At once, the
massive rod in his hand bowed over. The big man stumbled toward the
water, stunned. There came another fierce tug and he tried to reel.
“Damn,” he muttered, sweat popping up on his brow. He pulled back on the
pole, working the reel for all he was worth, but it was slow going. “Got
something big,” Barrett exclaimed. “Got something very big!” He
looked around, wondering if there was anyone approaching who could appreciate
this stroke of luck, but he was still alone.
He tried to take a
step back, but there was another tug, and this was one was hard enough to drag
him forward. Instead of a step backward, Barrett took two big steps
forward, stumbled, and fell to his knees. He nearly lost the rod, but
somehow he maintained his grip and fought his way back to his feet. “Son
of a whore,” he cried. There came another stiff breeze and this time he
did lose his cap, but he was too involved in his struggle with whatever he had
hooked to care. He continued to crank the reel, but the line was
screaming and he knew that he was paying out more than he was managing to haul
in.
Barrett tightened
the drag and continued to fight, leaning back with the rod and digging his
heels into the cold sand. Yet he was still giving ground, and soon that
rolling black water was splashing against his ankles. “Come on, you,” he
shouted angrily, working the reel. There could be no doubt that he had
hooked something huge, something far larger than anything he had landed before,
to include the monster catfish that he had pulled out of the James River when
he was in his teens. He was practically a pup then, and the years had
been kind. Barrett was much bigger and much stronger now, but he was
still losing this battle. It felt like he was trying to reel in a Buick.
The pole was
doubled over, but it hadn’t snapped, at least not yet it hadn’t, so maybe it
was worth what he had paid for it. Yet despite all his strength, he
wasn’t getting anywhere with this son of a bitch. He was still swearing
and cranking the reel for all he was worth, but he was getting nowhere. Barrett
was forced to take another big step forward and now the ocean was washing
against his shins. The water was warm, much warmer than he had
anticipated.
The wet sand gave
him little purchase, and before he knew it he was taking another big step
forward. The next wave to fall upon the shore struck him in the
knees. A vicious yank nearly tore the pole from his grasp, but Barrett
gritted his teeth and held fast, grunting as he pulled the pole toward his
chest.
This was
incredible! He was willing to bet that no one over at that pier had
hooked anything like this tonight, but could he bring the damn thing
ashore? Furthermore, did he want to? He had no way of knowing just
what he had hooked, but even as he was pulled forward again, finding himself
waist-deep in that monstrous black sea, he knew that he couldn’t let go.
“You’re coming to
land, you bastard,” he howled, finally managing a step backward. He
reeled furiously, and fought his way back, willing himself toward the
beach. The next wave merely slammed into his knees whereas he had been
standing in waist-deep water seconds before. The big man chuckled even as
a big drop of sweat fell from his nose. “Getting tired now, are
you? Well, there’ll be no rest for you!”
In response, there
was a rumble in the distance that may have been thunder and a powerful splash
from somewhere nearby. It may have been his fish breaking the surface,
but he didn’t see anything. Still, he was encouraged, and he continued to
reel like a madman, working furiously to bring the fish in. Perhaps it
was merely wishful thinking, but he thought there was less protest from his
reel as he toiled. Maybe the big bastard was wearing itself out, and
surely he was making some serious progress as he labored. The muscles in
his shoulders and back were beginning to ache and he was perspiring
freely.
There was another
splash, this one closer than the first, and he thought he saw the rolling black
water offer up a plume of white foam some twenty-five feet ahead. “Yes,”
he shouted. “Come on, damn you.” He pulled back on the pole again,
feeling the line jerk to and fro as his catch thrashed in the surf. He
was grinning now, eager to see just what he was working against.
Suddenly there was
another mighty pull, as though the big fish was making one last attempt to
escape his clutches. Barrett had allowed himself to relax just a little
bit, and the wet rod slipped from his grasp. “No,” he shouted, lunging
forward even as his pole hit the water. He was hefty, but he was also
quick, and as he dove forward he found the reel with his right hand. Even
as he submerged, closing his eyes to avoid the sting of the saltwater, he
clutched his pole against his chest. The water receded as he struggled to
his knees, leaving him in maybe two and a half feet of water. Undeterred,
he was starting to reel again even as another wave slammed into him.
Barrett went to his
back, refusing to release his grip on the pole. First, he was knocked
toward the shore by that black ocean. Then, even as he fought to get his
feet under him without sacrificing his grip on the rod, he was yanked away from
the beach by the tide. He slipped beneath the surface again, clinging to
the pole with all of his considerable might with his right hand while he clawed
at the sand beneath him with his left, fighting desperately to right
himself. Finally he managed to get his big feet under him, digging into
the bottom with his toes as he stood.
He took a deep
breath, his wet skin breaking into gooseflesh as a stout gust of wind
assailed him. Now the water was nearly up to his chest, but he didn’t
bother with trying to back up. He was too busy working the reel, raising
it nearly even with his broad shoulders and trying desperately to regain any
ground he had lost with his big catch. He had been through far too much
now to lose it.
His beefy chest
heaving, his muscles burning from exertion, Barrett fought. He cursed
some more and he reeled even harder, his bloodshot eyes narrowing into vicious
slants. Nothing mattered but reeling, so reel he did.
Soon he was
rewarded with a splash some ten to fifteen feet directly in front of him.
He caught a glimpse of a massive fish rolling on the surface. He was too
tired to shout, but a triumphant laugh escaped him, and he did take a big step
back then. He pulled the pole tight against his chest and took another
big step backward, moving closer to the shore. Now he was standing
waist-deep in that black water, fighting to land something huge that was
getting closer and closer to the shore. Yes, the fish was big and the
ocean was fierce, but victory was almost his.
This had Barrett thinking
that shore fishing wasn’t such a bad idea after all. Whatever he had
hooked, he didn’t doubt that it would be far larger than that enormous catfish
he had caught in the James River. He had waited a long time to top that
one, but he had a feeling that tonight he was reeling in something that could
take a big bite out of that fish. He didn’t know what it was, and, in
truth, while he was rather adept at inland fishing and could readily identify
any freshwater catch, he wasn’t even sure that he would know what this thing
was once he managed to bring it in. It didn’t matter. He was having
a hell of a war out here beneath the night sky, and he had the biggest fish
that he had ever hooked on the end of his line. He would find out what it
was later. This would be a story that he would tell his grandchildren one
day, and this would be a struggle that he would remember for the rest of his life.
He was tired, he
was sweaty, and he was standing in the warmth of the ocean, but the smile on
Barrett’s face was a testament to his current joy. He cursed merrily,
cranking on the reel and watching as the fish broke the surface once
again. Oh, what a catch, and now that big mother was hardly ten feet
away.
The big man managed
another step back even as the ocean receded and now the black water was even
with his thighs. His nervous system came alive then, screaming of some
eminent danger that he had yet to behold. Puzzled, Barrett ignored
this powerful sense of dread and continued to work the reel. The fear
grew stronger and the big man tried to swallow only to find that his mouth had
gone dry. That's when a massive black shape shattered the surface of that
black sea right where his catch had broken the surface mere seconds before,
little more than a dozen feet before him. This creature born of darkness
made Barrett’s catch appear to be woefully insignificant. It was true,
the big man knew little about the fish of the ocean, but that huge dorsal fin
and that conical snout were unmistakable.
Even as the
strongest wave that he had encountered thus far plowed into him, Barrett’s rod
was ripped from his steely grip. The shark had taken his fish, but that
was of little consequence now. The wave had toppled him and a raw terror
the likes of which he had never known was now hell-bent on consuming him.
Barrett fought against the current and his raging nerves, digging his fingers
into the bottom and trying to right himself. There was no use, he was
knocked forward, his face pressing against the sand, and then he was dragged
backward as the wave receded. His need to flee had never been greater,
but the ocean was a cruel mistress and she had no intention of releasing
him.
Finally, Barrett
fought his way to the surface, laboring for breath amid that dreadful
current. It was as if that black ocean was trying to pull him to his
doom. Now the water was up to his chin, and he wasted no time in turning his
bulk toward the shore. He had seen the shark for but a second and he
didn’t know what kind it was or just how big it was. He only knew that it
was incredibly large, several times as big as whatever it was he had been
trying to reel in. Was it a man-eater? Was it ten feet long?
Fifteen? Longer? He had no way of knowing and he didn’t care to
find out.
As he tried to
fight his way toward the shore, he felt a surge in the ocean. A swell
lifted him upward, his feet dangling in the black water. He wanted to
turn and look to see if the monster was upon him, but he was too scared to do
so. He thrashed against the sea instead, screaming as something that felt
like sandpaper brushed against his leg and another swell in the water forced
him to his left. Barrett beat at the surface, trying to yank himself
forward. Another wave pushed him toward the beach and he did his best to
ride it, spreading his arms and raising his feet behind him. He glided
through the water, gaining precious ground, but an instant later the
current was hauling him backward.
“No,” he wailed,
“No, damn you!” Then he was coughing as his chin dipped beneath the
surface and he gulped down a mouthful of saltwater. He slipped under and
the awful tide yanked him farther from the shore. He was beneath the water for so long
that he became convinced that he was going to drown, but somehow he fought his
way back to the surface, refusing to give up. He was a little drunk, but
he was also a strong swimmer. He took a quick look ahead and saw that the
beach had become little more than a band of white that was receding in the
distance. He thought he saw his sandals, but he wasn’t sure. It
didn’t matter, he would never wear them again. The icy terror that
gripped him had blossomed into something much worse. A terrible certainty
had ensnared him, dousing his horror with anguish.
Now he did look
over his shoulder, and somehow his eyes were able to discern the monster even
though it was little more than a dark silhouette framed against a merciless sky
and all that angry black water. The shark seemed to rise up behind him,
appearing to tower over him, that horrible mouth stretching into a jagged grin
as the darkness that surrounded Barrett finally enveloped him.
