shortlittlescarystories

[shortlittlescarystories]

The Beast Within

Missing.

Disappeared.

Gone.

Detective Peters shook his head. These were all words that he’d utilised many times, but never on a case this perplexing. The boy had just vanished into thin air, not even taking his battered converse. He pressed his fingers to his temples, trying to ease out the stress headache gathering in his mind. He needed another coffee.

Overhead, the lone lightbulb spluttered, it too growing weary of the deepening mystery. The station had seen many a vanishing teenager over the years, but each had always returned in a timely manner. The local community was tight knit, and somebody always knew somebody who knew something.

Not this time. The only possible clue to the child’s whereabouts came in the form of a short story, ink barely finished drying on the thick parchment paper. Still, it would have to do, and he would have to find a way to solve the mystery.

Shrugging on his long coat, the drowsy detective started the short walk to the boy’s house. A dull fog rolled out over the village, cloaking crooked brickwork and blanketing thatched roofs. He stopped at the door, hand suspended between knocking and calling it a night.

No, he needed to find the boy. Pushing the door open with a sigh, he climbed the stairs. The boy’s room looked identical to his last visit, but he didn’t allow himself to lose hope.

Scattered books lay tossed around the small space, spines cracked and words leaking out into the worn shelves that barely contained them. Empty mugs lined the windowsill, a slimy film the only remanent of the coffee they had previously held. The faint smell of old furniture lingered in the air, giving the room the appearance of being from several decades in the past.

Balanced precariously on the walnut desk was the story, and it was this that caught Detective Peters’ eye first. Neat letters curled across the page, unravelling through the lines.

The boy has pretty handwriting, he thought. I’ll give him that much.

His eyes began to drift across the paper, taking in the familiar words.

Burgundy waves lapped at the surface, causing dense foliage to wave gently. The faint smell of decay filled the air, and trees rustled quietly, afraid to produce too greater sound.

He considered that he might know which lake the boy referred to, for it was a well-known and well feared location in the village.

Bubbles rose fervently from an unknown source, breaking the surface desperately to escape what lay beneath. A low growl emanated from below.

It broke the surface. Scales clashed with water, and it slithered towards the shore.

He ran, not daring to turn and face the beast. Dried grass crunched underfoot, the sound of his footsteps beating out a monotonous rhythm. Vines snatched at his feet; the forest reluctant to let him go.

The weary detective pressed his hands to his face. He was sure this was where the story had finished before, but yet there were more words left to read. He must be mistaken. It had been a long day after all.

Thump. He hit the ground with a yelp. It was over quickly; the hideous beast pulled him back towards its watery lair. Bubbles turned to still, and an uneasy quiet settled over the scene. It was done.

Eerie. The room suddenly felt far colder than it had previously, and he was almost sure he could see his breath curling upwards in the chilly air.

He supposed that he should go and examine the lake now. Not really one for superstition, he tried to push the rising panic out of his mind. The boy couldn’t have been taken by some watery monster. That was absurd.

He was a man of facts. So he would go and obtain facts. It was decided. He pushed the door open with a creak and stepped onto the cobbled street.

Flames danced excitedly in gas lamps, casting ominous shadows on stony houses. Clouds blanketed stars, but a late harvest moon peeked secretively through, basking the village in a serene silvery glow.

Breaking the quiet, his footsteps echoed through the streets. The path to the lagoon was a rarely travelled one, as few people dared to brave superstition and make the journey. Winding through dense undergrowth, he rounded down to the water.

Moonlight paved a silvery runway onto its surface; a guiding light for something yet unknown. He glanced around, shuffling his weight uneasily between his feet. The acrid stench of rotting fish filled the air.

Just as he had thought. Nothing here. No sign of the boy.

Something on the opposite side of the shore caught his eye. Fighting snaking vines and charcoal black sands, he worked his way around. Drag marks. He had seen many over his career, but never this large.

It couldn’t be. No monster existed, he reminded himself. It was an impossibility. And yet it was. Could it be that a monster had taken the boy?

A fierce gust whipped across the lake, causing tree branches to point at him, shaking bony fingers. Leaves rustled, goading him.

From deep beneath, a whispered chant began. Straining his ears, he struggled to pick out words. Bubbles rose languidly, then picked up speed. He turned to the forest, as if to run, but found himself unable to move.

He fell for it. Another one for me. He fell for it. Another one for me. He fell for it. Another one for me.

The grotesque words filled his brain, rising in volume and intensity to a deafening crescendo. Locked into place, he found himself unable to take control of his limbs.

Realisation struck like lighting in his mind. He had been lured like a sailor to a siren, caught by a mystery far beyond his comprehension. Caught in the allure of a tricky case, he had fed himself to the monster-boy.

Thump. He hit the ground with a yelp. It was over quickly; the hideous beast pulled him back towards its watery lair. Bubbles turned to still, and an uneasy quiet settled over the scene. It was done. Until next time.

[shortlittlescarystories]

What Lies Beneath

Of course, he’d heard the tales before. A vessel, centuries old, bested by a rogue storm, a roaming gang of pirates, a sudden westerly wind…

He didn’t believe any of it. People have always talked, and talk is just that. Words whispered by candlelight in shadowed parlours were rarely backed by the harsh reality of daylight. He would never let a shaky rumour stop him from visiting the best beach in Penwith, much less a collection of stories that barely followed any common theme.

His bravery was uncommon among the people of the sleepy village, for most were unable to set aside superstitions so deeply engraved into the fibre of the land. For that reason, few dared to cross the sands, despite the plentiful bounties of the narrow cove. No matter, he thought, for there were no fish as sweet as those from its shady waters.

A dull echo of boot against cobble resounded through the sloping street, and he steadied himself with his hands as a descended. He passed a bench adorned with drooping orchids, slowing to read the inscription. Another death, he mused to himself. No doubt somebody would find a way to tie it into the murky stories of long ago. All the more fish for him, he thought with a smile.

Nearing the end of the road, he trotted towards the taupe sands, feet sinking into the saturated dunes. Dense fog rolled across the bay, coating the horizon with a smoky haze. He wrapped his thick cloak tighter with a shudder, hoping the early morning sun sneaking over the clouds would dispel his miseries before too long.

Creak.

That’s odd, he thought to himself, but paid the mysterious sound no further attention. After all, the harbour was not so far away that such a sound was unusual. The gentle lapping of the water’s edge set his mind at ease, and he continued picking his way across the sullen landscape.

Snap.

He whipped his head around to the direction of the noise, stopping in his tracks. A decrepit boat stern pierced the fog, slashing into the sand before coming to rest at his feet. Tattered sails fluttered in the wind, their garnet hue contrasting the rotting oak planks.

A slatey grey anchor descended rapidly into the ground, its chain swinging violently from side to side with a shudder. The ship groaned against its tether, writhing in the sea foam before coming to rest against the rocks.

In the distance, gulls squawked menacingly, before circling and descending upon the wreckage. In a flutter of wings they departed, their scaly prizes flopping hopelessly between sharp mustard beaks.

The sight of fish lured him out of his revere, and he remembered his morning’s intentions. If this old lump of wood contained fish aplenty, then he’d be damned if he were going to give it up, sinister appearances and all.

With a start, he found himself moving forward, his boots no longer filled with the concrete of fear, rather the helium of foolish hope. As he neared the stricken vessel, a deep pungence infiltrated his nostrils – a sickening sweetness that could only mean one thing. Fish. Fish for days.

He hauled himself onto the decaying relic with a grunt, shifting his weight between his feet as he surveyed the strange intrusion. Upon closer inspection, the vessel featured a copper sextant, of a type not commonly seen upon more modern ships, yet the bolts and nuts of its construction still retained their perfect metallic sheen.

Wondering absent mindedly to himself why someone would equip a boat with such dated tools, he approached the fish storage hold. Apprehension leaving his mind, he descended excitedly into the dimly lit space. This is what he was here for.

At first glance, nothing appeared remiss. Shelves lined the densely packed area, stacked with slimy oblong shapes. Reaching out, he brushed the shapes with his fingertips, taking in their texture. Smooth and fibrous, they pulsed rhythmically under his palms.

Curious, he pondered, wondering which fish species had scales so miniature they formed such a smooth surface. No matter, the more exquisite the specimen, a finer price it would fetch. So unusually smooth…

Clunk.

He jolted with a start, the sharp noise collapsing the silence that had previously eclipsed the cove, a dagger through the heart of quiet. Straining his eyes, he realised that the hatch above had slammed in the wind, enclosing him in the space. His breath quickened, catching in his throat. Pushing his palms against the hatch achieved little, and he flopped down with a sigh, considering his options.

No sooner than he reached the ground, a ghostly glow emanated from between shelves, illuminating the cavity in a pale gold light, and flickering daintily in an unobservable breeze.

Casting his eyes over his newly illuminated surroundings revealed something so unexpected that he felt his stomach churn violently. Fighting to keep his breakfast, he noticed a slight swaying rocking the battered hull gently, somewhat like a mother would a baby.

He squeezed his eyes shut tightly, willing the new horror his vision had granted him to vanish. Upon opening them, he was once again greeted by the grotesque vision that plagued his mind.

Resting upon the shelves lay several hunks of flamingo pink meat, throbbing fiercely in time with the rhythmic motions of the ocean against the vessel. Thin tendrils snaked sneakily around creaky beams, before nesting themselves within piles of foul offal. Wisps of hair twisted between flesh, forming a nightmarish kaleidoscope of pink, blonde and brown.

It was like nothing he had ever seen before. Like nothing anyone had ever seen before. Of course, he had seen fish guts before, their putrid sweetness never so great than in fish from this beach, but fish was no match for what rested before him.

Lurching powerfully forward, the ship grumbled into motion. He heard a clang of metal, realising that the anchor must have become retracted. Before long, the swell of the ocean carried them away, stealing them into the fog. Silently, it wrapped its hazy arms around the boat, crushing it into a blurred embrace.

A drip, gurgle and splash filled the cramped cabin, followed by an icy blue fluid, swirling around his feet. Panic filled the air, consuming him. He beat his fists against the hatch, against the walls, against the shelves, until crimson merged with indigo, and his hands throbbed with salinity.

After the panic came the calm. He sunk into the water; energy depleted. The flickering light danced fervently until it too was extinguished, swallowed by the insatiable blue. Darkness swept into the waterlogged compartment, sweeping the curtains closed on the repugnant scene.

~

Few dared to enter the ghastly cove, for everyone knew the tales. But fortuity shines on the daring, and never more so in the days after tragedy.

Everyone knew: the days in which the fish of the sea tasted the sweetest, were the days just after a fresh disappearance. Most would grow comfortable with the assertion that it must be something in the water, never daring to question further.

For is it admirable bravery, inexcusable foolishness or bleak desperation that powers the few beyond the bounds of the sands?