SNM Horror Magazine

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Puddle of Filth

Alex Rios

The scariest thing in life is the body. We never really know what’s going on in there, until it screws you over. Sure, we all know what we’ve learned in school, anatomy, etc., and we have a basic understanding of how it works, but we never really know what’s happening in our bodies. We can’t control our hearts. We don’t feel our cells divide and reproduce; our blood fighting and flowing. We don’t know what kind of bacteria and viruses and worms are running rampant. It’s a whole different world in there and it’s out of our control. Our muscles grow, our bones brittle, our bodies change, and we can’t do a damned thing about it. Our bodies are our own worst enemies in the end and can betray us when we least expect it. Kind of like what’s happening to me right now.

Now I’m sitting in a pool of my own blood with a gun to my head. I just want this to end.

It all started a few days ago, probably a couple of weeks ago, not sure exactly. It happened so suddenly. It caught me off guard.

I worked in the construction business. Actually, I was more of a construction worker. But that’s beside the point. My crew was assigned to demolish a site and pick up the remaining pieces. The place was a junkie’s nest, a place where the local lowlifes would buy their poison and get high with a roof over their heads. It was filled with filth and had all sorts of shit strewn everywhere: a pig sty. The local cops had cleaned the place out a couple of times, but the creeps kept coming back after being released into the wild. So they ordered us to take the place down. The money was paid with half down so we didn’t refuse.

The building was a two story edifice, nothing too complicated for us. It was full of gang graffiti and at its foot lay a bunch of needles and an assortment of trash. The building was begging to be put down.

Jack, a fellow worker and I decided to head in and check the place out in case we found something we didn’t want destroyed. What we saw was pretty ugly. The place was trashed and full of cardboard beds, clothing, newspapers, needles, blood and crap. It had the smell of death, yet I was pretty sure the smell had dissipated a bit since the last evacuation. The floor was full of small pools of brownish liquid and I didn’t want to find out what that was although I assumed it was a combination of human waste and dirt.

We kept on looking through the junk and found nothing of interest on either floor. I figured the cops did their jobs. Upon returning to the ground floor we noticed a glimmer under a piece of cardboard. An iPod; looking to be in pristine condition.

“It’s mine!” Jack shouted to me as he pushed me aside and raced towards it.

I saw it first. It was technically mine. I was faster and more fit than that fatty, so I would get it first and brag about my new toy. What a fucking idiot I was.

I ended up tripping on my own two clumsy feet and fell into the stinking puddle face first. The sewer soup was everywhere: in my mouth, my eyes, and the inside of my nose. I was soaked in waste. It was not a pretty sight. I got up, spitting out what was in my mouth. Jack was laughing. He didn’t know how sad the event really was. But I don’t blame him. Nobody could have known what was going to happen to me.

“Are you okay, bud? Hope you didn’t hurt yourself. I’ll lend you the ipod sometime.”

We got outside and I cleaned up pretty quickly. I didn’t want shit stains on my clothes.

After that, everything had gone according to plan. We took down the building as ordered and stuck around to pick up the rubble. It was a pretty smooth job. Just another normal day of work, as usual.

I got home and began to feel sick. Something began bothering me in the pit of my stomach. My throat was dry. I began to sweat. Could’ve been a fever coming on -- and I treated it as such. I took a nice cold shower and popped some pills. I made myself a nice steak and some fries and had a nice dinner. I watched some TV and jumped on the internet for a while. It was a normal day and another normal night.

For a couple of days, everything was normal. I worked my shifts then came home, occasionally hanging with the guys at local bars. I occasionally felt tension and sensitivity in my skin and muscles, but it wasn’t alarming. I thought it was due to the job and the stress associated with it. I didn’t pay any attention to it and kept taking pills.

The next morning I noticed something odd as I gazed in the bathroom mirror before taking a shower. On my chest I had a couple of very small pustules, as if some insect bit me multiple times. I wondered where they came from. I may have got bitten or accidentally rubbed against something I might have been allergic to. So I popped them, disinfected the area, and took a shower, making note to mention it to Jack at work.

“It’s probably flu or something, it’s fairly common. It happened to my brother a couple of times when we were younger. Just take some meds and eat well,” he told me during lunch.

I was taking my medicine and I was taking care of myself, but it was just getting worse. More of the spots kept appearing over the next couple of days and I was feeling weaker than usual. My throat was constantly dry and I felt sick. So I went to a doctor.

Stupid doctors. They treated it like it was the flu, but then again the symptoms were very similar. They assured me it would turn out well and I bought the medications they prescribed. I took them and went to sleep.

And everything changed.

I remember waking up in excruciating pain. My eyes fluttered for a second and I saw a swollen piece of flesh before me. I freaked out and I moved away, only to realize it was my damn arm. It was pulsating like a beating heart, swollen like a balloon ready to explode.

I tried to get up from my bed and pain held me down. I noted that not only my arm was swollen, but my entire body was as well. My other arm and legs peeked out from underneath my sheets unveiling a terrible reality of bloated proportions.

 I was scared out of my mind. It was a nightmare; it had to be a nightmare. But I couldn’t seem to wake from it.

 I found myself bursting into tears as I fought to lift myself off the bed. Needles and knives stuck my body from all directions. I managed to lift myself enough to be able to peer into a mirror.

What I saw made me cry even more, and vomit. I was a blob, a giant piece of fat with barely recognizable human features. My eyes and mouth were hidden under flaps of swollen eyebrows and cheeks. My arms and legs looked like sausages; my torso looked like a medicine ball. I was a cartoon version of myself. I was the monster people put down in movies. I also noticed that the spots of pus were now pockets--huge and disgusting.

I couldn’t reach my cell phone and it was difficult to get out of bed. There was nothing I could do except wait it out and hope that whatever was happening to me would go away. I thought about Jack noticing that I missed work and coming over and helping me. I thought about how he might not have noticed and not come over, leaving me here. I thought about killing myself. I thought about many things all at once as I waited and swallowed the furious pain.

What seemed like hours passed and I was swelling even more. The pockets of pus grew larger quickly. I was already tired of screaming for help and my tears no longer came. I just stared helplessly at my deformed body changing in front of me.

My cell phone rang on the shelf by the bed. It had to be Jack or the boss, or whoever. I had to get it. So I reached for it, turning on my swollen body to extend my arm as far as possible and fighting the disgusting waves of nausea and excruciating pain. I had to talk to someone. I pushed my balloon body to its limit, until I realized that my body couldn’t take anymore.

It happened fast; too fast. I stretched too quickly. I felt my skin begin to rip underneath me. The pockets of pus all over my body exploded in unison, bathing me in my own revolting fluids. I saw the pus fly through the air and paint my room. My body was covered in wounds that looked like mouths begging to be fed as I writhed in agony. They were everywhere. I was bleeding to death. And I fainted.

I imagine I came to pretty quickly. I could smell the rot and the sewage I fell into at the building. I realized I was lying on it. I opened my eyes and saw my dirty brownish blood soaking my sheets and bed. It looked just like the puddle. The puddle was causing this. I was sure of it. I looked towards the wounds on my body and realized the swelling was gone. I was back to normal except for the fact that my body was covered in lesions, with chunks of flesh missing or dangling like rubber. I could see the rotting meat inside the wounds, pus already beginning to fester.

Something happened to my body when I fell into the puddle that day. My body had reacted negatively to it and somehow it made my body change for the worst. I needed help.

The phone rang again and this time my body permitted me to reach it. My brittle fingers mashed the key’s to answer and I put the phone to my ear. It was Jack.

“Hey man. Everything okay? You missed work today.”

I could hardly speak. My screaming damaged my cords. I could only manage whispering. “Jack. I need help. Awful things are happening to me; I’m lying on a pool of my own blood. Please get here fast.”

There was silence as though he didn’t know how to respond. He most likely didn’t want to believe me. I hung up and lay on the bed.

The bell rang a couple of minutes later. I shouted as loud as I could and, after what seemed like forever, Jack broke the door down and ran to my room. When I saw his face change into a horrible grimace I knew I was doomed.

“What the… hell? What happened?” He asked as he looked at me with pain etched on his face and in his eyes.

“The shit I fell in the other day. It did this and changed me.”

He didn’t believe me. “What happened, David? Who the hell did this to you?” He ran to my side and propped me up against the bedpost.

I saw my reflection in the mirror and I gasped for breath. I was even worse than before. I was missing half my face, which was probably on the bed somewhere. My body was mutilated far beyond recognition; a living fountain of blood, pus and shit.

I began to cry. Jack pulled out his cell to call for the cops. “My body did this to me. No one did this to me. I sure as hell didn’t. It’s my fucking body. It was that fucking puddle!”

“How could it be your damn body? How could your body break you up so badly from just falling in a puddle?”

I shook my head. I didn’t really know how to answer. My body reacted badly to the filth I ingested and absorbed. Like a cancer it was killing me from the inside.

“Let’s get you out of here.” He tried to lift me up and I screamed at the sudden surge of pain. Blood kept gushing out and I felt a side of my face spurt blood and pus. It was no use moving me. I was dying anyway. He put me down and began dialing his phone. “I’m calling 911. You’re going to be okay.”

I knew I wasn’t going to be okay. I was a bloody, haggard mess.

“Get me a gun.” I said as he looked at me. I was broken and I was leaking like a faucet. I was in pain and there was no going back. I couldn’t be fixed. I looked like I was a stab and burn victim who had been hit by a car.

“I can’t do that.”

I stared at him as I moved closer. More pus flowed from my wounds, stinking up the room. I pointed at myself as part of my face slowly began falling off. “I can’t take anymore.”

                                                            *

Jack left me alone as I requested. It wasn’t going to be pretty and I didn’t want him around. I was grateful that he respected my wish and didn’t try to stop me. He told me that he would call the police once he was outside and I was cool with that.

I don’t want to live this way. I thought I was safe and immune to dying young; that I would die of old age, or some outside force. But not because of my damn body. It betrayed me. My own damn body. My body.

Fuck it. I’m pulling the trigger…

*

Alex Rios makes his debut publication as a writer here at SNM and lands 2nd place! He was born in Methuen, Massachusetts, and is currently living in Puerto Rico. He's a English Literature major at the Univerisity of Puerto Rico. He writes short stories, comics and is currently working on a sci-fi/horror novel titled "Orion." Something to be said for a debut author landing 2nd at a magazine like SNM. We hope to see more of his writing here. Readers may contact him on his blogspot or sign the guestbook

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Monster Me

Indy McDaniel

“What…the…fuck?”

Chloe groaned, looking at the sticky substance on her hand. She looked up into the darkness above, unsure if there might have been a hidden camera up there somewhere. “Ya know, usually it takes two hot girls to have a proper Jell-o wrestling match.” She had done Jell-o wrestling once before, after taking a couple shots of Everclear. And although she much preferred getting sticky and physical with a girl in private, it had actually been pretty fun.

This wasn’t fun. This was the exact opposite of fun.

Chloe's head was throbbing. She lifted a hand to rub against her temple. The Jell-o substance on her hand smeared onto her head and she forced herself to open her eyes and look. It was hard to see in the gloom but she was sure that whatever was covering her hand was not the tasty snack she’d grown up on.

Looking around, she saw the room was full of the stuff. It was a couple inches deep on the floor and it wasn’t just on the floor. There was a thin layer of it along the walls. Looking up, she couldn’t see the ceiling clearly enough but she was sure if she could, she’d find it there as well. The only light in the room shone through the small, dingy window set into the door.

Sitting up didn’t do any wonders for her pounding head but Chloe didn’t care. She wanted to get out of this room, get herself cleaned up and find a change of clothing. The gunk had thoroughly soaked through the back of her shirt and pants, causing the garments to stick to her skin. And it smelled like... well, Chloe wasn't exactly sure what the hell it smelled like, but it most definitely was not a pleasant scent. Like taco farts and a skunk had done the nasty and spawned an unholy abomination of scents was about the closest approximation she could come up with.

Getting to her feet, she stumbled for the door, finding it hard to keep her footing in the slimy goop. It was like it didn't want to leave. Reaching for where the door handle should have been, she only felt a layer of the gunk. Her hand moved over to the other side of the door. No handle. She began to run her hands over every inch of it, feeling nothing but the sticky substance.

Reaching up, Chloe wiped the window, trying to clear it enough so she could look out. Even then, she had to step on her tiptoes to peek through. She silently cursed her small stature.

On the other side of the door, there wasn't really much to see. It looked as though she was in a warehouse. She couldn’t see anyone outside. Dropping down fully on her feet, Chloe began to pound on the door.

“Hey! Let me the fuck outta here!” she screamed, although doubted it would do much good. The walls were thick and the chances of anyone hearing her through them seemed slim. She continued to pound for a few more minutes before going back on her tiptoes and looking through the window again. Still, no one.

Turning away from the door, feeling more angry than worried, she started to look around the rest of the room, trying to see if there was another way out that she’d neglected to notice. The room wasn’t large and it didn’t take her long to confirm that she was, without a doubt, trapped. Not wanting to sit back down in the slime, whatever it was, Chloe continued to walk around the room, doing small laps. It was rectangular shaped. She figured ten feet across and six feet wide. Having discovered everything she could have about her surroundings, Chloe now turned her thoughts inward, trying to think of any reason why someone would want to kidnap her.

True there wasn’t a whole lot of ransom money to be made by holding check-out girls hostage. She had a couple ex-girlfriends who weren’t too happy with her, but none of them seemed the type to go to such an extreme measure to get back at her. Even if they did, they certainly wouldn’t go to the lengths of locking her in a room filled with slimy, oozing shit.  Seriously, what was the stuff? Chloe tried to flick some of it off her hand but it proved to be exceptionally tenacious in its desire to remain adhered to her.

She hadn’t informed on any mobsters or pissed off any drug dealers. On the contrary, her dealer loved her. She tried to think harder but her head was killing her. The sound of her feet squashing through the gooey gunk on the floor wasn’t helping matters. She stopped walking and, as much as she disliked the thought, she leaned against one of the walls. Since the back of her clothing was already soaked in it, it didn’t really matter.

The goo had soaked into her sneakers and socks, which was a particularly annoying sensation. Bending down, Chloe removed her footwear. It wouldn’t keep her feet from feeling the slime, but it was still more comfortable than having them contained in her shoes. As she stood back up, she realized the slime had soaked deeper into her shirt and pants, able to feel it along her waist.

Her anger flared up again and she charged the door, beating against it harder than before, letting out a slew of obscenities at a heightened volume. Stepping away from the door, she kicked out with her leg and was rewarded with a sharp pain shooting through her foot. Cursing more, she limped backwards and fell onto her ass; the slime splattering up onto her. Now her foot was throbbing along with her head.

Brilliant, Chloe, she thought to herself. Break your goddamn ankle. That’ll sure help you get out of this mess. Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, she began to think more, trying to remember how she’d gotten to this place. Everything seemed to be a blank though.

The last thing that she could remember was getting home from work. She’d been anxious to take a long bath. Double shifts at the Happy Piglet had a way of doing that to a girl.  She couldn’t help laughing at that now. To think, she’d thought she had needed a bath before. If only she’d known she’d be waking up in a room filled with nasty-ass gunk that smelled like death warmed over.

She’d been on her way to the bathroom and then...nothing.

She thought harder, trying to remember the slightest detail. Chloe’s eyes widened, the throbbing in her head making more sense. She’d felt a sharp pain at the back of her neck.

Reaching her hand to the back of her neck, she felt around before finding an area that was swollen. Running her finger along the bump, she felt a small hole at the center of it. Either she’d gotten bitten by the world’s biggest mosquito or...

She’d been injected with something. A knock-out drug of some kind. Well, that crosses the ex-girlfriends off the list, Chloe thought. Even if any of them were pissed at her enough to do something like this, she doubted they’d go to the trouble of drugging her when a knock over the head would’ve sufficed.

Then who? Who had kidnapped her?

Her head was throbbing too badly to come up with any more theories. As much as she hated to do it, Chloe laid back on the floor, feeling the slime squish against her hair. She needed to rest and hopefully get her brain to stop hurting so badly. Closing her eyes, she tried to focus on anything but the pain. Somehow, it worked and she started to doze.

***

When she woke, Chloe’s head felt a bit better but that was the last thing on her mind. The slime was now covering her legs completely. She tried to sit up but found it difficult to do, the slime clinging to her back. She could stretch it a few inches but that was all. Now she knew how her shoe felt when she planted it onto a piece of chewing gum.

Panic started to work at her and she began to squirm, trying to get herself free of the substance but finding it impossible. Even worse, the areas of her body that were covered had begun to tingle. It was a strange feeling, almost like when her foot fell asleep. Only this wasn’t just her foot. The tingling was damn near halfway up her thigh. Her breathing grew faster as the fear infected her.

Up until that point, she’d been more pissed than afraid, having been locked away against her will. It had been a potentially dire situation but she’d felt fairly confident she had make it out somehow. Now that she was essentially glued to the floor by the strange slime, it seemed like the situation had been far more serious than she realized.

Chloe continued to squirm until her energy was sapped. Her muscles felt exhausted and she couldn’t even bring herself to struggle anymore. She realized the slime had moved further over her, covering her stomach, almost reaching her breasts. She could feel it in her hair; against her scalp. Her arms and legs were completely submerged. The tingling had spread as well and seemed to be intensifying. She could only lie there as whatever it was she was trapped in the room with continued to cover her body.

Forced to remain still, she could actually feel it moving around her, incredibly slowly but still moving. Bit by bit, she could feel it consuming more of her, creeping up the undersides of her breasts, over her neck, along the backs of her ears.

The more she was covered, the more her terror grew. Finally, she did something she hadn’t done since she was a small child waking up from a nightmare.

She screamed!

Not a scream of anger or orgasmic bliss, but one of utter fear. When she’d been a little girl and she’d screamed in such a way, her mother would soon come rushing in to assure her that everything was all right and she was safe. That wouldn’t be the case this time.

As the slime touched against her nipples and further emerged up to her hairline and along her forehead, her fear-ravaged mind cracked. A nightmare, that’s what this was. It had to be. At any moment, she’d wake up, having drifted off in the tub. A very stupid thing to do, but she’d wake up before she slipped under the water and drowned.        

The slime had covered her chest completely, only the very front of her face still remained untouched. Tears rolled from her eyes, touching against the slime and submerging into it. Chloe’s bottom lip quivered as she cried. Any moment, she would wake up. The time in the room hadn’t just been the nightmare like her entire adult life had been. Any moment, she would wake up and she’d be in her bed, screaming, and her mother would come in and make everything better.

Chloe’s vision became obscured as the slime covered her eyes.

Any moment now.

The slime continued to creep over Chloe’s face.

“Mommy...” Chloe spoke softly; her voice sounding child-like and helpless. “Mommy, please. Make the nightmare stop.”

The slime covered Chloe’s mouth, silencing her.

***

Hours later, her still form stopped being so still. The slimy substance, which had hardened over her body like a cast, began to tremble. There was a cracking sound as a chunk of the stuff broke away and a glistening arm shot upwards. The skin was a mottled brown and rippled with muscles. Her fingers had fused into three larger claws, which moved back to grip the edge of the hole and tear away a greater chunk of the dried slime.

After a series of more crunches and cracks, she sat up. Her blond hair and clothing had been stripped away, but those were the least of the changes. The front of her face had elongated outwards into a short snout. Her lips were pulled back tightly against her face, revealing rows of sharp, carnivorous teeth. Her eyes had grown larger, turning a yellowish color with black slit irises.

Rising to her feet, she advanced on the door that had kept her trapped in the small room. She lifted a foot, now also adorned with claws as equally nasty looking as the ones on her hands, and gave the door a kick for the second time now. The metal screeched and tore away, skidding down the hallway beyond.

Expelling a low growl, she stepped out of the room and into freedom. Behind her, still stuck in the hardened goo was the skin of her old form she’d torn through. Gone was the plucky blond lesbian who stood barely over five feet tall. In her place was a six-foot-four beast designed to cause untold amounts of mayhem. Already, the slime was loosening back into its more pliant form, digesting the little bit of her old body and readying itself for a fresh subject, which the new Chloe was eager to go procure.

But first...she was hungry.

*

 

Eat Em Up, Yum!

By Trevor E. Donaldson

The rain tapped lightly on Andrew’s black fedora; its smooth flap letting the water drip down the slope and fall earthward. He relaxed slightly from the patter as it played out, but frowned as the wet fishy smell came with it. He stood near the edge of Lake Huron beneath the cedar trees in their corduroy bark. The trees twisted through earth and gravel to find the sun and stood like earthworms frozen in hard death. Andrew tapped his cigar once and brought it back to his mouth. The aroma of hot smoke entered his nostrils, overriding the fishy smell and his right eye teared up as the smoke caressed it.

The lake was churning and the crests steadily increased in size as the waves originated way out there in the deep terrestrial waters. The meteor shower last night had put some devilishly bright meteorites dead into the forest and lake and a prismatic hue filled the woods. Local folklore told of many other nights when meteorites had fallen in this local, not to mention the odd disappearances following such storms. Somewhere out there, Andrew felt that some leviathan swam and waited for human prey, but quickly brushed aside his xenophobic notion. He was reminded of how much he hated fish; no, hate wasn’t strong enough, he loathed fish. Their smell was savage and curdled his saliva when he thought of eating one. Their fins and scales reminded him of something primordial and dark, something from the dawn of time which spawned millions of swimming meat eaters.

Once, when Andrew was a child, he was playing at the beach with his family and came upon some leftovers from a seagull feast. Bones and guts lay torn open along the sand in a small oval of doom. Andrew had reached down and touched the bones to see what they felt like, when his mother yelled at him.

“Andrew put that down, it’s disgusting and you don’t want to catch germs.”

Andrew had dropped the bone and turned back, never thinking twice, but then, as he was riding home, his mind drifted back to the event he’d missed. That event so intuitive to nature, when the seagull had plucked the fish from the waters and brought it to land, rending and gulping down hunks of flesh and bloody innards. An itch had developed on his arm, and looking down to brush it away, Andrew saw its source; a single round scale had stuck to his arm -- and it moved! Slowly it flipped up and down against his arm, as if breathing the air. He had stuck his arm out the window then and watched as the scale was blown off, even after it held its ground against the wind for a few seconds. Ever since then, Andrew hadn’t liked the beach and never went there on his own.

He sat down and leaned back against a gnarled cedar tree, his Rocky Patel cigar knuckled between thumb and forefinger. The smoke drifted lazily up like a Djinn’s lantern and he looked back out over the lake in watchful tension. He stuck the cigar back in his mouth and held it between his left molars and canines, not breathing it in, just waiting. He stopped to savor the brief moments when the smoke plume created an opaque window to the lake and, after his eyes misted terribly from the smoke, he once again removed the cigar and brought his left wrist to bare. It was 5 o’clock, almost time for supper. This was his first visit to the lake and the family cabin since he was a boy, and not much had changed. Andrew had tolerance though, and learned that folks had their own tastes, and he wasn’t to judge them on it. A light summer breeze rustled his khaki shirt, and he turned to walk back into the cedar woods along the path his great uncle had blazed along in his younger days.

Great Uncle Walter was his name, the kind of man who loved the outdoors and hunted when the need presented itself. Those were the times, probably during World War II, when the land was affordable and a very good investment. Technology like cell phones and computers hadn’t made their mark on humanity in those days and men were still creatures of nature. Uncle Walter owned twenty acres in the region around the lake, and blazed trails over much of the territory. He had died when Andrew was young and had left the cabin and land to the family. Yet still, something of him remained in that old cabin, even the great moose head which hung over the fireplace, its great black eyes abysmal and accusing in death.

He wiped the sand and dirt from his shoes upon the Astroturf mat outside and entered the cabin. His gray haired mother stood with hands upon her apron as she sized him up.

“Hi honey, how was your walk?” Her smile was as warm and welcoming as ever; he gave her a hug and walked further in towards the den. Andrew’s Dad sat playing cards with Andrew’s Grandfather and several uncles and aunts who sat around the fireplace beneath the moose head. A rotten log burst sending sparks in the air. A small whoop rose from one of his Aunts and she giggled at her timidity.

Andrew looked into the kitchen, he saw his Grandmother and smiled as she labored to make food for the family. He frowned when he saw the fresh catch of fish lying on the counter, naked but for the rows of pink flesh indented where ribs had been. The head was gone and he could see the tail of one sticking out from the trash bin, its green and black color made it look fresh and wet. Grandma’s leg moved slightly and upset the trash bin sending severed fish heads onto the ivory tiled floor. A slight tang of vomit cleared the back of his tongue and settled near the tip; he swallowed it back down. His stomach knotted and he became nervous in the hope they would serve some beef or chicken to satisfy him. He knew he was being childish, but he could only think of the fish heads and how they ogled him with those beady dark eyes sitting in a lidless pale face.

“You know Grandma,” Andrew started to say, and she turned from her work smiling up at him. “Some fish feed off of lake or river bottoms and contract all sorts of diseases and illnesses like PCB’s.”

“Fiddlesticks, Andy, that’s just the silly nonsense young media journalists dream up to make a buck or two. Now you head on into the den and spend some time with Grandpa, he’s missed you.” She smiled her grandmotherly way and he left her to the cutting and paring of vegetables.

Andrew sat next to his Father and Grandfather as they played cards, watching their moves with a lackluster of intensity. His Grandfather leaned back in his chair, playing with a toothpick on his tongue. “You know, Frank, you and Andrew ought to spend more time fishing up here and do some hiking as well. I’ll bet you two have never been over the West trail that leads inland a bit. Uncle Walter blazed that one when he first moved in here, and said the best fishing was over in that direction. It has inlets from the lake here; in fact all the little ponds offshore are connected by tiny streams. It’s really quite amazing.”

The toothpick rolled over and found a place in his check. “Why, the fish I caught today were downstream from the pond that Uncle Walter set aside as his prime fishing hole. It’s too bad he’s not around anymore, guess he took off wandering too much and got eaten by a bear or something. Poor Aunt Leigh was quite out of her mind when she called the police. The police had been busy that night with all the meteor showers over the lake that year with the crazy folk that live up here and them backwoods superstitious hillbillies. But old Aunt Leigh was just squalin’ and bawlin’ that her Uncle Walter had wandered off after their evening meal and never returned. But after that night, she’d do nothing but sit and eat what Uncle Walter had caught from those ponds and streams. She died up here of asphyxiation, right there on the beach.” Grandpa nodded and pointed out the back porch and down fifty yards to the lake shore. It lapped quietly at the sand, never letting it go inland but always dragging it back into the lake, bit by bit.

“Supper time!” Grandma called over and into the den area. The hand washing lineup began and soon we were seated and eating. Each of us partook of the breads and vegetables, but I passed on the fish as it came piping hot from the stove. Black bars scarred the pinkish flesh where it had been cooked and the indentations remained moist and pale in between. Juices oozed from the edges and as knives cut and forks stabbed, Andrew’s arm itched right near that spot from so long ago. A grilled chicken breast was lain out on his plate by his Grandmother, piping hot but unfortunately a little dry.

Better than fish, Andrew thought and chewed the meat slowly, so his senses would block out any fish smell that came his way. His family’s oh’s and ah’s over the meal made him nauseous, but even more so was how they all polished up every last bit with glazed looks on their faces. The evening wore on and Andrew sat watching the sun move toward the horizon on its nightly journey.

“The sun doesn’t set for a few hours yet Andrew; it’s one of the longest days of the year.” His Father stood there behind him and put his hands on Andrew’s shoulders, giving them a warm squeeze. “How about we go for a little walk, just father and son? I’ll bring the poles and we can just enjoy the quality company.” Andrew turned and his father gave him a little wink in a bonding kind of way.

“Sure, Dad, let’s go. We can talk at least and I can watch you fish.” Andrew sighed and shrugged inwardly. He would avoid the fishing which he hated but spend some good time with his dad.

The men bade farewell to their family who all sat with lidded eyes upon the sofas and chairs watching the fire. Frank had his Milwaukee Brewers cap on nice and snug while Andrew wore his dark fedora, pulled tight around his skull. The night was crisp and free of the day’s humidity, but the taint of night’s cold had not yet reached the shore. With an old camaraderie, the two men walked down the old path Great Uncle Walter had blazed, which his Dad had called “a memory maker.”

Barely used, the path had overgrown in places leaving a slim line of dirt which had not borne the tread of men’s feet in ages. The slight breeze of earlier had calmed to a mere whiff of air and the insects droned heavily in their path. Several times both men had to swat and spit out a bug or two as they walked further inland.

Open shore soon became a cedar haven as a brownish bed of needles made the walking easier on the two. A faint orange paint stood out among several cedars and the men followed these further in.

Andrew figured they must have traveled a good mile in before they came to a small glade. Evening sun bore down from the west and skipped across the dark surface of the pond. A small rotted dock ran from the shore out a dozen feet to sit slanted in the water.

Andrew’s Father yawned. “Well so much for getting the edge on those fish.” He yawned again, this time deep and wet. Frank began to scratch his neck and flecks of dry skin wafted off in the sun’s rays like a light cloud of flies. More and more went until a few vivid scars showed up on his neckline. “Gosh Andrew, I’m feeling mighty parched.” His lips were dry and white when they were parted by a pink tongue that was moist and sticky with saliva. “Maybe a small dip will help.”

Frank turned to the pond, took his shirt off and dove straight in. The black water drank the man and was tranquil for several moments. Minutes passed and Andrew grew worried.  The sun sank down below the treetops and the last tinge of orange glazed the sky. The cedars had grown dark and empty; their emptiness was a morass of anguish.

Andrew sat by the water, his throat sore from calling out his Father’s name. Andrew had never learned to swim, and so he dare not jump in to seek his father. Then, a small ripple near the center of the pond grew and became a humped human head as it reached the shore. Andrew stood and shouted. “Dad, are you okay? I was worried.”

The form which neared the shore did not answer him, but as it grew closer, a torso rose from the water and the man looked straight at Andrew.  Whatever this was, it was no longer his Father. Strips of garlanded lake weed hung from the man’s shoulders and head. Water oozed out from his mouth and was followed by a gasping or gurgling in the man’s throat.

Then Andrew saw something that made him shudder. Three sets of gills were slit into the sides of his father’s neck, their foaming and frothy movements rose up and down from his skin. It was horrid to look at! Pale and mottled, shriveled and rippled as if worms and snakes crawled beneath his flesh. From his chest down to his stomach the things churned within, making his skin bubble and pucker. Eyes dark and barren of humanity seemed perched like round marbles within Frank’s skull. Their black opacity glistened and twitched as they studied the man before them.

Andrew no longer saw his father, but an unthinkable creature. He ran towards the cabin while the sunlight still illuminated the woods. Soon, twilight took over and silver streams of the moon were all that led Andrew back to the cabin. How Andrew made it back he couldn’t exactly recall; only that he had followed vague impressions of blazed cedar trees; the panic of flight giving him photographic recall.

With the cabin in sight, Andrew slowed his pace and stopped with his lungs aflame and hands upon his knees. He turned and looked back down the pathway where his father had been, and saw nothing. He was safe for now and would have to warn the others. The burning let up slightly and Andrew stood in the moonlit walk outside the cabin. No lights came from the cabin and the porch light was off. He peered through the windows at the glowing embers of the fireplace; but there was no trace of his family members inside.

Looking down, Andrew paused, turning his head quizzically. Stamped into the sandy walkway were many fresh footprints of various sizes. Each was not a crisp outline, but long and drawn out steps as if the owners had been dragging their limbs. The footprints led down toward the water, but there was nobody there.

Andrew walked down towards the water as it lapped the shore. Here and there the footprints receded back into the lake which had smoothed out the ends in its tireless efforts to clean up the sand. He looked out over the still lake where the moonlight cast a pale halo on the dark water.

Andrew waded in a few steps; then, hearing a splash, he turned to see several pairs of hands reaching up and out of the lake towards him. He struggled but was caught fast by many pairs of hands that dragged him down. Sand smacked his face as the cold, raw smell of dead fish filled his nostrils. Andrew tried to scream but his mouth filled with lake water.

*

Young Lillian laughed and ran down the beach ahead of her parents. The warm sand spread between her toes as she looked behind her to see the trail she made. She giggled as the lake washed her footprints away. Lillian ran faster and faster until the breath burned in her lungs, trying to outrace the great dark lake. She fell laughing into a small tide pool freshly carved by the lake. Her parents came running over when her giggles had stopped and the ear piercing shrieks had begun. Over and over Lillian screamed until her parents stooped and plucked her from the tide pool. Then her mother covered her mouth and gasped. There, floating in the tide pool was a grisly human skull picked clean by the seagulls, except for a slim pink ligament plucked and dangling from the eye socket. Beside the exposed human skull, a dark fedora floated, half-submerged by the tide.

*

Trevor Donaldson is a Book Dealer and Dark Fiction Author living in Green Bay, Wisconsin. Trevor’s works have appeared in SNM Horror Magazine where he won SOTM in February and was in Necrology Shorts. In 2010, his sci-fi novella entitled Derelict was published under the UnEarthed Press imprint, and that may be purchased at www.unearthedpress.com. With a Bachelors Degree in Business Trevor also has a background in literature and archeology which he integrates into his writing.

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Trevor Donaldson

The Muse

Neil Colquhoun

He waited. Tonight was the fifth consecutive night he’d camped out at the same spot. He was prepared, hoping that tonight would be when he hit pay-dirt and see the crabs.

It felt cold, the temperature having dropped considerably from its high during the day. But he would suffer for his art. As he thought about it, he realized it wasn’t really that cold outside; he just imagined he was cold because he remained still. Being static would give the icy fingers of the night the chance to grab a hold and squeeze the warmth from his body. When he began to feel those fingertips brush him, he'd shift from his position. For now, he had other things to worry about.

He had to stay still in the hope they would come. Why had they not appeared on any of the previous nights? Maybe he had moved around too much in his quest to keep warm and they heard him. He'd been impatient, not able to stay still. Tonight however, he would try his damnedest to be patient. He was itching to see the things the old guy had been talking about but was beginning to think it was a crazy idea. The story did sound a little far-fetched but he lived for that off-the-wall stuff. After all, who else would be on a deserted tropical beach in the middle of the night?

He found the beach entirely by accident. Out on a hike he  had emerged from the trees, blinking the blur from his eyes. Once his eyes adjusted he saw a little slice of Heaven. A secluded bay lay before him with golden sands kissed by the crystal-clear water. Instantly he fell in love with the thought of spending time in such a serene setting. The perfect place to re-discover his muse, he thought.

The hike had actually been his editor's idea. "Take a break. Go somewhere and relax. When you come back, you'll be ready to continue writing." A flight were booked and a plan was worked out for him to go someplace, chill out and hopefully find his elusive muse.

However, as the days passed, he hadn't come any closer to finding her. Where was she, he asked himself? Why couldn't he find her? He knew one thing though: she'd be well embraced when he did find her.

In his experience, women in his life were indecisive and prone to ever-changing moods, so it was natural for him to think of his muse as female. And like some of the women he knew, the muse did her own thing and if it meant splitting for a while, then that was how it was. He couldn't find her so he had looked for ways to alleviate his boredom. That was when he'd decided to take a long walk which turned into a hike.

As he pushed on, he felt good; the fresh air invigorating him, so he continued and ended up at the beach which brought him to a conversation with the old man.

As he stood at the tree-line, surveying the beach and marveling at the beauty of the remote spot, he felt an urge to go down onto the sand. Maybe this was where she was hiding? It was worth a shot, so he threaded his way down the rocky incline, through the thick bushes. The route barely qualified as a path as he made his way to the sand.

He walked along the beach, thinking of the island and how beautiful it was. Peaceful and serene, it was a world away from the life he led in the city. There, all sorts of horrors abounded, and it took a sensible man to get through the day without being subjected to the restless, insane and downright crazies who populated the city. Here, he could forget about all of that and just concentrate on his muse.

It was easy to see how people fell in love with the place. The seclusion was perfect, the ideal spot for someone to take it easy. Chill out, he believed was the term.

Lost in his thoughts, the warm sand felt good between his toes as he walked. The water was a brilliant shade of blue and was picture-postcard perfect. Trees and vegetation crept right up to the sand, creating a dense green wall which also served as a screen barrier. A divisible line between the lush greenery and the clean sands. For what must have been the hundredth time, or perhaps the thousandth, he thought of the surroundings. Blissful and serene. Maybe a little too perfect in hindsight.

He was about halfway down the beach when he passed a person sitting just inside the tree-line. His mind registered someone else was there but chose not to disseminate the information to his eyes or feet. So he kept on walking until he reached the end of the beach. There, he rested for a short while, taking sips from his water bottle. The sun was high and he reckoned it was about mid day. It was damn hot, he thought. The sweat dripped from his nose and he was a little out of breath. I'll have to get back into shape.

Before he headed back up the beach he drained the last of his water and stuffed the empty bottle in his backpack. He rested against the hot rocks for a minute, eyes closed, face upturned to the brilliant sun. Once he had rested, he began the long walk to the opposite end of the beach.

He noticed that there were several small boats out in the water. Had they been there before? One of the boats was anchored in the small bay and a man was seated at the rear, a fishing rod in his hand. The boats puttered slowly across the bay, trailing their nets. There was no evidence that this was good fishing ground, but what did he know? It wasn't as if he was an expert in fishing. Hell, he'd only lifted a rod once and been put off at how boring it was. Not for him.

He turned his gaze to the tree-line and saw how thick and lush the vegetation was. Palm trees with huge trunks, their large fronds hanging down, touching the thorny bushes. Then he realized why the beach was so secluded. As far as he could tell, the only entrance was the one he had used.

There was no slip for the boats so they'd either been launched straight from the beach or had sailed around the headland into the bay. His guess was that they had come in from the water side. He saw no sign of rope or anything else connected to a boat. Which made the beach all that more desirable for anyone seeking a respite from life. Apart from the boats in the bay, he was the only person enjoying the beach.

That is, until he stumbled upon the old man sitting in a chair slightly back from the tree-line. If he had not been scanning the trees and bushes as he walked he might have missed him on the second pass. The writer couldn't quite believe that there was somebody else there. So much for having romantic notions of enjoying the place. It was obvious it wasn't quite the out-of- the-way place he had imagined it to be.

He looked at the old man and saw him sitting calmly as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Sitting on a deckchair, on a secluded beach, with a beer in hand and cooler by his side. Oh, what he would give for a beer right now. The old man nodded at him and he returned the greeting then walked on.

The old man called out when he had walked a few feet by him. It crossed his mind to keep walking. He didn't  want company from anyone, but he stopped, turned, and studied him. The old man was smiling, his arm outstretched, the offer of a beer in his hand. "Sit," he said, "Plenty of time."

He had to agree. He did have plenty of time. So he walked back to the old man and took the beer then sat on the hot sand.

"My name is Wilson," the old man said and stuck out a hand.

The writer shook the offered hand warmly. "I'm Scott King," he said and laughed.

"What's funny?" asked Wilson and took a swig from his beer.

Scott did the same. It tasted good. "Nothing," he said. "It's just that I thought this place was deserted.

The old man looked at him with a funny look on his face. He smiled and the writer saw brilliant white teeth. Not bad for an old guy, he thought.

"Sometimes it is. Sometimes it's not," the old man said.

"Yeah, I can see that." He swallowed more of the beer. It was cold and he wondered how long the old man had been sitting at the beach. "How long have you been here?" he asked.

"A long, long time," Wilson replied.

"What, here at the beach?" He thought the old man's reply was a little strange. The old man was probably starting to lose his marbles, he reckoned.

"No," the old man replied and gave a laugh. "On the island, I've been here a long time. Here at the beach, a couple of hours."

"Okay."

With a conspiratorial air, the old man leaned in and lowered his voice. "It's not always deserted though. Just looks like it."

Scott didn't say anything. He had thought it was a secluded and remote beach but apparently it wasn’t. He waited. The old man had something to say and, in his experience, would soon reveal the information. Itching to tell him, the glint in his eye was of someone who knows something.

Both men drank their beers in silence. The old man sat back in his deckchair and stared out at the sea. The writer played his eyes down the beach, not looking forward to the rest of the long walk. In hindsight, it would have been better to keep on going and not to stop. Fatigue had stepped in and, combined with the hot sun, he could easily have taken a nap. Nevertheless, he had to go. He drained his beer and stood up. He set the empty bottle down in the sand at the old man's feet.

"Not going, are you?" Wilson asked.

A pause before responding.

Scott gazed forlornly up the beach. It would take him another hour to get to the end of the beach and another hour, maybe more, of a hike to his vehicle. If he didn't move soon he would end up walking in the semi-darkness. "Yeah, I've gotta go," he said.

The old man studied him for a moment. Then he spoke and Scott decided against heading off. The old man told him a tale which sounded fantastical and hooked him from the start. Now, this was what he was looking for.

Later, back at his hotel, he sat in his room and mused over what the old man had told him. He was intrigued and deep within his mind, a wheel slowly turned and meshed with a gear. The gear stirred up the ideas machine and he smiled. The muse was knocking at the door, asking to be let in, and he would welcome her with open arms. He would open that door, tell her to come in and kiss her on the cheek. When she returned he would finally be complete. He had the beginnings of a story. All he had to do was put some meat on her bones. And for that he would have to return to the beach. At night.

That was why he found himself at the beach for the fifth night running, looking for crabs. Now you might think that was a pretty strange thing for a writer to be hunting in order to get back on track. If they were normal run-of-the-mill crabs then that would be strange enough, because crabs in general don't really have the capacity to grab anyone's attention. Unless you were a horror writer, intent on having them crawl all over the hero of the story, crabs were just not that exciting. An ordinary story could have impact if there was a hook. Something like giant monster mutant crabs.

These were not any old crabs. The crabs which the old man told him existed on the island were the very same monster crabs a horror writer may dream up.

On the beach, at the old man's spot, he waited. Just like he had done on the previous nights. Tonight just had to be the night they appeared because, although the story idea was brilliant, he could see that muse getting itchy feet and staring longingly at the door.

He only needed to see them, see if they were real. The old man was pretty convincing in what he believed and had told him a rip-roaring tale.

If he could pull off this story he would be back on track and his life would be okay. The muse would fall back in love with him. Although, he wondered, would the muse sit out at night in the same spot, waiting for what seemed like hours?

He laughed to himself. What was he doing? Was he really that desperate? Did he really want to be out here? Did he need to be out here, on a beach in the middle of the night?

Those questions were easy enough for him to answer. He knew what he was doing and he wanted to be here. Besides, what the old man had told him had piqued his interest.

Enough, he told himself. It was time to watch.

He surveyed the sand again. It was empty with no sign of the fabled crabs. Damn, this was futile. Stuff the story's research. He could just make it up. This would be the last night he would sit out here, getting cold. The muse would have to like it.

Then...he sat bolt upright. There was movement in the sand, near the waterline. Could this be it?

He shifted slightly, angling for a better look. Nothing moved. "Damn," he said aloud. He hoped it was one of the crabs but maybe it was a trick of the light.

He crept from his spot, relishing the chance to stretch his legs and investigate. The blanket he wrapped around his shoulders was warm but he opted to leave it be. Stepping out from the undergrowth, he carefully trekked his way over the jagged rocks mindful that some of them were very vicious-looking. A person could do themselves a serious injury if they took a tumble, he thought. Once he was past the rocks he stepped onto the sand. His feet sank into the soft golden bed but he knew it would firm up near the waters edge. There still was warmth in it from the day's heat.

He stopped. More movement.

Yes.

He dropped into a crouch and remained still. The sand looked undisturbed but, as he waited, small mounds began to grow. Before his eyes, more mounds began to grow from the sand. He counted a dozen. They looked as if they were splitting open. He squinted, trying to make out what was happening. He had to move closer and get a better glimpse.

Ignoring the protests from his knees, he stayed low and edged closer. The first of the mounds was only a few feet away and now resembled a mini volcano. The top of the cone had blown away and he could see the interior. Something was inside.

He edged closer. The moonlight gave out enough light for him to make out what was inside.

Inside was a crab.

The excitement mounted inside him. He watched, enthralled as the crab moved its pincers and started to emerge from its  little hideout. This was what he wanted. Finally. But it was so tiny, nothing like the giant crabs which the old man made out were on the beach at night. Still, they were crabs.

More movements caught his eye; his concentration broken. He saw the other mounds and the crabs which wriggled out from the sand. This was fantastic but not what the old man had said would happen. Again, regular-sized crabs but not monsters.

The crabs scurried about back and forth across the sand, having escaped from their sand cones. He could hear the clicking of pincers but they were not going to do him much damage. He was about to stand up and return to the tree-line when the sand shifted in front of him. It rippled and rose upward, beginning to peak. What looked like a small volcanic cone was pushing up from the sand; the difference was this was much bigger than the rest of the mounds.

It kept growing. He watched transfixed as the sand grew higher.

It was if something big was desperate to break free from the sand. The speed of the growing cone was now increasing, the base spreading towards him. He took a few steps backward.

Then when it reached over eight feet high, it stopped.

He waited, expectant for something to appear.

When nothing happened he grew curious. The cone of sand and its smaller siblings looked so out of place on the golden flat expanse.

He was drawn to the large cone but was also hesitant. The small crabs were scurrying around his feet and...What the hell, were they forming an orderly line? He blinked his eyes, not quite believing what he was seeing.

The crabs formed lines in front of the massive cone of sand. They waited, clicking their pincers. At first, the clicking was  just random, sporadic and without meaning but, as he listened, he detected a rhythmic undertone. Before long the randomness gave way to a driving beat. He was curious and beginning to feel a little scared. He backed up a few steps, taking care on where he placed his feet.

He watched the crabs as they continued to click their pincers. They began to pick up the pace, driving the beat. It reminded him of the jungle drums favored by the natives in old movies. In those old movies, when the intrepid explorer heard those drums, it usually meant that he was in for the chop, sometimes quite literally. Keeping that in the back of his mind, he took a few more steps backward away from the crabs.

The cone of sand drew his eye and he wondered why the crabs were drawn to it. The whole scene was so out of place in such a scenic setting. What had been flat golden sand earlier in the day was now broken by the mounds from which the crabs had emerged. The massive cone of sand, bathed in the moon's glow stood like a sentinel. Before it, the crabs waited. He waited too.

As quickly as they'd assembled, they dispersed, scurrying away from the massive cone. The orderly lines soon disappeared as the crabs headed in every direction. He jumped as a few came towards him but quickly scuttled into the undergrowth. What was going on?

He looked up and down the beach but, as quickly as they had emerged from beneath the sand, they had gone. Strange, but he would grasp the opportunity. With one last glance in case the crabs had returned, he strolled towards the big cone.

It looked so much like a volcano. Waiting dormant, ready to erupt and engulf the unsuspecting, as he had expected from a pregnant volcano, a low rumble came from under his feet.

What the hell? He stopped and wondered if he was imagining it. Then it came again. NO, he most definitely was not imagining things. Something was happening.

The volcano was only a few feet in front of him. His eyes swept around the base but, apart from the one rumble below his feet, nothing else seemed amiss. It still looked like a pile of sand. Then he saw sand begin to trickle down the sloped sides.

He moved closer. Sand was running down the sides from the top of the cone. The low rumble came again. Only this time it was a little louder, and more intense. Was it something else? Maybe an earthquake? If so, he had a much bigger problem to deal with.

 A movement at the top of the cone caught his eye. Something dark, back lit by the moon high up in the sky. He squinted. It looked to all the world as if something was coming out the top.

Fascinated, he watched as the thing grew bigger as it made its way out. The thing began to take shape and he realized what it was. Impossible, he thought.

A short while ago there had been nothing. Now a monstrous thing was crawling out from the massive cone of sand. Worse was to come as a familiar clicking began. But it was faint and seemed far away. Maybe the crabs were heading in a different direction, he hoped.

The clicking grew louder.

The monstrous thing had almost made its way out the top. Its hands ended in long claws; human hands with claws instead of fingers clutched the side of the hole. The sand gave way and exposed more of the body. He saw a pink hard shell-like body and a human head. As if this vision wasn't strange enough, the crab was immense in size. The tiny crabs that had appeared to him were nothing compared to the monstrosity that hatched before him.

He shook his head. No, he wasn't dreaming. This was really happening.

The sand volcano then collapsed under the weight of the crab/ human hybrid. It slumped forward and landed on the sand, the pincer hands opening and closing in quick succession.

He was mesmerized as it stood; shocked at what he was seeing. He had wanted to see giant crabs but had never envisaged such a thing like what he was seeing. This was something else. This was more than just a giant crab. Oh, how he wished he had a camera for this was one of those priceless moments.

The crab monster sensed his inertia and moved across the sand towards him with alarming speed. He stumbled backwards and landed hard on the sand. His head slammed into the soft sand and his head rattled.

A split second later he snapped his eyes back open. The crab had closed the distance and was almost at his feet. He prepared to kick at the snapping claws and the crab stopped. It lifted its head and looked at him. He was close enough to make out the facial features. Everything about the head was human, right down to the eyes which held his stare. Pure malevolence.

For some reason they were at a stalemate. He lay on the sand, right leg pulled back ready to smash it at the pincer hands. The crab had its head raised, black cold eyes fixed on him.

He tensed his muscles, ready to move at a moment’s notice.

The crab thing seemed to sense his apprehension and scuttled forward a few inches. It was ready to strike. He was prepared.

Then the words of the old man came back to him. He looked closer at the face. The crab had moved slightly and the light from the moon gave him a view of the face. A human face.

Scott recognized the face. Was that why the crab monster had refrained from moving any closer? Did it recognize him? He saw this as his chance to get up. He planted his foot on the sand, but as he did so the spell was broken.

The crab's pincer hands clicked faster now. Excited, it scuttled toward him. The smaller crabs moved towards him, too. He frantically kicked out but the giant crab was on him, pinning him to the sand as it lay across his chest.

He couldn't move, the weight of the crab monster's body was pressing him into the sand. He smashed his fists against its shell but felt more like a mosquito biting a Sherman tank. It squirmed back on his chest. He tried to feel for a handhold but the shell was hard and smooth. It clamped the sides of his chest and nipped him.

He grimaced in pain, expecting the claws to dig deeper but the pain never came. He looked up and the human face of the crab looked at him. Up this close, he knew without a shadow of a doubt who it belonged to. Impossible or not, the face was that of the old man.

He frowned, confused for a second. Any further doubts were blown away when the mouth opened and the crab spoke.

"Hello," it said. "I think you've finally found what you've been looking for these last nights. I’m happy to accommodate you."

He was dumb struck. He couldn't respond and just opened his mouth. The words wouldn't come out and he lay there, mouth agape. There was no chance of him being able to say anything coherent after what occurred next.

The crab drew its pincer hand from his body and he felt relief, the pain subsided a little. Then, in one swift movement, the pincer forced his lips open further as it probed his mouth. He tried to scream but the pincer filled his mouth, rattled against his teeth and blocked his throat. He took a deep inhalation through his nose but it made no difference. He continued to struggle for air.

The pincer grabbed his tongue and, in that moment, he knew what was coming. He tried to move his tongue but the pincer held tight. He felt a violent and brutal tug as the crab drew his tongue from his mouth.

He felt his head being pulled forward, now moving towards his mouth. He could see the little sharp teeth which would soon tear into his flesh. He was going to be eaten by the crab. When he was inches from its mouth he instinctively tried to pull back.

The crab allowed him a little leeway as it toyed with him. Was that what he was? A plaything?

Then he felt an almost intolerable pain in his mouth as he felt his tongue stretching further than it should have been able to against the laws of anatomy.

"You will never be able to tell about what you have seen here tonight," the crab said then ripped his tongue free.

The rush of air into his mouth was sweet, the best he had ever tasted. His joy was short-lived as the pain assaulted him. He began to choke with every gulping breath he took. The blood from his wounded mouth collected at the back of his throat.

The last thing he saw before the blackness descended like a veil was the mouth moving towards him. A dark maw which opened to reveal the sharp, pointed human teeth which would rip him apart.

The last thing he felt was an incredible level of pain as the teeth bit into his head.

His muse was not the beautiful woman he had envisioned, but a crabby old man offering a beer.

*