by Molly Tanzer
She glanced back down at her feet; the smaller versions of the thing were all around her on her patch of land, some the size of a marble, others larger than a baseball, all with that impenetrable quality of being neither presence nor absence. On that scale, she recognized what lurked in the clearing—it was a larger version of that revolting plant she’d stepped in.
She ducked behind a tree when a figure emerged from the darkness beyond the bonfire, holding a copper vessel in its hands. It chanted some words, and the massive oily entity began to undulate and pulse. When the bottom unfolded upward like an umbrella into flabby petals whose gills glowed faintly, as if lit by distant stars, the figure in the robe poured whatever black and viscous fluid he had in his bowl onto the thing. It dripped and then swirled over the surface in chaotic whorls of light and color, pooling into eye-blindingly bright rainbow blotches as the cap began to swell and swell.
Fin glanced down—the little ones at her feet had also opened to glow like fireflies around her feet. As the larger one drank, they expanded so quickly the spongy earth around them began to crumble and then to dissolve in a wave. Fin stumbled as the patch she stood on gave way beneath her, then slipped, landing in a puddle of fluid that was greasy like oil but warm like blood. She tried to swim for the remains of the patch of land, but the wave of destruction grew and grew, and any ground she could reach was no longer ground, but something else. The grass upon it had turned to feathers and fur and scales; the dirt to streams and snaking stripes of impossibly black solids and bright liquids in more colors than her eyes could drink in. The trunks of trees bent down, probing and searching the carnage for some unknown purpose, like the tentacles of some sightless seeking creature.
Something from beneath the surface of the pink puddle wrapped itself around Fin’s ankle. She uttered one long but pointless scream before she was tugged under. The fluid filled her eyes and lungs, and she knew no more.
From
The Demon in the Deep
by G. Baker
Susan’s brother turned away. He could not bear to look at Miss Depth, not now that their friend’s eyes had gone black and her hair had gone white and she spoke with a different voice with a black tongue inside her mouth. Susan was frightened too, but she would speak her mind to this thing that claimed to be a demon.
“You have been causing too much trouble,” she said. “The seagulls are silent, the fish can’t swim, and the oysters’ pearls have all turned to dust. They are all afraid of you, because you have stolen our friend’s body and they think you’ll steal theirs, too. So you must go away—go away, and never come back!”
Miss Depth’s hair waved in the wind, her bare feet stood on the freezing sand, but it was not Miss Depth to whom Susan spoke. Something else now wore her skin, and when she laughed, it was not her laugh.
“I will not go,” said the demon. “Miss Depth invited me; it is not for you to turn me out.”
“Why would she do that?”
“Because your friend could not understand the ways of the world after her sister’s death, and she knew I could show her the truth of it all. It was a fair price I named, to grant her such understanding, and we struck a deal, she and I—and make no mistake, girl, she paid me gladly.”
Susan knew well how Miss Depth had suffered through her sister’s illness and after her death. Tears started in her eyes, freezing there before they could drop and sink into the sand.
“You dare speak of truth? Miss Depth loved her sister, and her sister loved the seagulls, and the fish, and the oysters. She would not have wanted you to frighten everybody and everything so badly!”
“I do dare speak of truth, and the truth is that Miss Depth could no longer see the usefulness of seagulls, or fish, or oysters after her sister’s death . . . but she did see the usefulness of me.”
Susan knew the demon wasn’t lying—its words cut through her like a knife, straight through her oilskin and what she wore beneath it, through her flesh, into her very bones, into her heart. Nothing but the truth could do that.
“Ah—I see at last you believe me,” it said. “So, will you believe me when I say that when the seagulls and the fish and the rest flee before me, it is because they are wise?” The demon smiled at Susan with her friend’s lips. “Are you that wise, Susan? Will you flee?”
1
It had looked like rain that morning, but by the afternoon the clouds had broken apart and burned away in the summer sunshine, and Ellie had herself a nice haul of weakfish and fluke, as well as a bucket of crabs. Her mother was delighted, and declared her intention to make crab stuffing for the fish, so Ellie spent a pleasant hour picking crabmeat out of claw and leg after her mother boiled them. She was happy to help; it was one of the family’s favorite dishes, but Gabriel loved it especially, and he was coming over for dinner.
Lester, too, did his part; he was picking raspberries from the thick bushes that grew in a tangled clump at the edge of the back yard. For dessert, her mother would make them into a sauce for some ice cream that Ellie and Gabriel would fetch from Lombardi’s, and Lester would come too, if he was up for it.
It was lovely and quiet on the back porch. The bees buzzed, dipping in and out of the wild climbing roses and the shocks of black-eyed Susans that her mother loved so much. Ellie had looked out on this yard almost every day of her life, in every weather, but the view hadn’t afforded her much pleasure of late. It was nice to just sit and appreciate it, for a change.
“What do you have for me so far?”
Ellie’s mother emerged from the kitchen to sit down beside Ellie, where she began to look over the generous pile of crabmeat and the yet larger pile of picked-over shells. Ellie didn’t mind her mother double-checking her work; she always managed to find a few more shreds than Ellie ever could.
“When the weakfish started biting I had hoped we could have stuffed fish for dinner,” said Ellie, cracking her knuckles noisily.
“It’s a nice little celebration.”
“I’m ready for one. It weighed on me, not knowing if he could go.”
“I know it did. The last two days, you’ve seemed much more yourself.”
Ellie frowned. She had tried to not let it show how much she’d feared failing her brother.
“All I meant is that you deserve leisure time, too . . . especially as you having leisure time means we have so much lovely fresh fish for dinner.”
That finally brought a smile to Ellie’s face—a smile that brightened further when she heard Gabriel’s footfalls on the grass. He’d come around to the back to say hello, the evening paper tucked under his arm. The look on his face when he saw Mrs. West and that pile of crabmeat side by side was everything she’d hoped it would be.
“Stuffed fish!” he exclaimed. “I hope you didn’t go to all that trouble on my behalf, Mrs. West.”
“And so what if I did?” She accepted a kiss on the cheek from Gabriel. “I do wish you’d call me Harriet, though.”
“I’ll be calling you Ma soon,” replied Gabriel, scooping Ellie up into his arms and planting one on her mouth that left her blushing. “Not soon enough, though.”
“Speaking of,” said Ellie’s mother, “when will I meet your folks?”
“My parents? Leave the farm? To pay a social call?” Gabriel pantomimed horror. “I’ll be amazed if they show up to the wedding.”
“Hello, Gabriel,” said Lester.
“Picking raspberries, eh?” said Gabriel, stroking his chin thoughtfully as he looked at Lester’s basket. “Wait, does that mean . . . Are we paying Lombardi’s a visit tonight, too?”
“That’s the plan,” said Lester. “The weather’s so nice, I’ll come along with you, I think . . . If that’s all right?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?” said Ellie. “Right, Gabe?”
“Of course.” Gabriel’s smile was big and wide, but Ellie detected a slight drop in his enthusiasm—so slight Lester didn’t notice. It was true she had spent the past few nights at home . . . She wondered if
Gabriel was feeling neglected.
“I think we’re down to the briny jawbone, here,” said Ellie’s mother, looking over her work. “There’s no more crabmeat hiding in these shells.”
“I did my best,” said Ellie. “I look and look, but I never find as much as you do.”
“Your eyes are good for catching them.”
“I think I’ve picked over the raspberry bushes, too,” said Lester.
“Robert will be home soon. I suppose I’d better start cooking,” said Ellie’s mother. “I ought to have had the potatoes in the oven by now.”
“Push me on the swing for a bit?” said Ellie to Gabriel as Lester followed their mother inside.
“It would be my pleasure,” said Gabriel.
Ellie’s father had hung the ancient rope swing in the boughs of the old oak tree as a treat for her eighth birthday, but the hemp was still sound and the board solid. Ellie’s rear end was a bit of a tight fit these days, and she had to hold her legs out straight so they didn’t drag, but it was still fun, especially when she had Gabriel behind her.
He tossed the evening paper into the grass and gave her a gentle push. When she swung back, he caught her and bit her neck, gently.
“Finally,” she murmured. “But not too hard; they’ll see the mark. Save it for later.”
“Are you coming home with me tonight?”
“Tomorrow,” she said. “I’ll rush through my run and be in your arms as soon as possible.”
“Run!” Gabriel seemed surprised. “I thought you were done with that now.”
“Oh, no. Why would I?” She turned around to grin at him. “After all, now I need to start saving for a trousseau.”
“In that case, I won’t object.”
Ellie still hadn’t told him about selling their wedding liquor . . . or about the man she’d killed. As to the former, she was hopeful she could afford to replace what she’d sold with something equally nice, therefore avoiding any wounded feelings on Gabriel’s part. As to the latter . . . she was hopeful she could just avoid telling him about that at all.
“Will you stop by Rocky’s on your way home tomorrow?”
Gabriel’s voice was studiously neutral, but she could feel eagerness radiating from him.
“Sure.” She too kept her voice even, but in truth, the idea excited her. Really excited her. She wondered if they had time for a quick one now . . . They could slip away from the house, out of view down the road a bit, or—
“Are you kids reading my paper, or may I have it?”
Ellie’s father stood on the back porch. The sun had sunk a bit; he was partly shadowed by the roof, a sharp slanted slash across his face that left only his right cheek and chin illuminated. Without seeing his expression, that hard and severe look he’d worn even in moments of relaxation since he’d come home, it was almost like seeing her father as he had been. There was even a touch of humor to his tone.
“You don’t have time for the paper now,” Ellie heard her mother say. “Dinner’s almost on the table.”
“You heard your mother. Come in and eat.” Over his shoulder, her father added, “And don’t forget my paper,” before disappearing.
Ellie hopped off the swing. “I’m glad you’re here,” she said. “It’s been so tense, recently.”
“Oh no,” said Gabriel.
“What’s wrong?”
Gabriel was staring at the edge of the newspaper—it was coated in some sort of dark juice or slime. Ellie touched it with her fingertips. It was oily to the touch, but thin enough to get into the creases of her fingerprint, like ink.
“Yuck,” she said. “What is it?”
“I guess it’s from one of these . . .” Gabriel nudged something with his toe, a dark and grotesque protuberance that looked out of place in the lush green yard, and at the same time seemed oddly familiar. Ellie squatted down, and upon closer inspection the golden rays of the late afternoon sunlight revealed an oddly cold and repellent greasy rainbow sheen playing across its surface.
That was why she’d recognized it. Walter Greene had had a sack of them in his hold, along with that booze. Ellie’s throat closed up at the thought of that night, too tightly for her to gasp.
“I’ve seen them around our place, too.”
She inhaled delicious air, once again able to breathe. “Oh?” she said.
Gabriel nodded. “My mother makes this stuff for her potatoes when they get blight. I’ve been using it on them. Works okay. They go away, but they keep coming back in other places. Odd for summer . . .” He shrugged unhappily, returning his attention to the paper. “It’s soaked in; what a mess.”
“Only just here,” said Ellie. “It was an accident; he’ll understand.” The fear that he wouldn’t pushed everything else out of Ellie’s mind, but thankfully her father told them not to worry about it.
The fish was flaky and good, and the potatoes crisp from the hot oven. There were also new peas from the garden, and sliced ripe tomatoes. It was simple food, simply prepared, but it tasted delicious—it tasted like home. And even more than that, while they were eating it felt like home, with everyone seeming to enjoy one another’s company.
“I don’t know when I’ve ever had such a good meal, Mrs. West,” said Gabriel as Ellie cleared the table.
“You’re always welcome,” she said, “and after you’re married, too, if you ever need a break from Ellie’s cooking . . .”
“Hey!” said Ellie, but she was smiling, as was her mother.
“Oh, I’m a modern man,” said Gabriel, winking at Ellie as she cleared the plates. “As long as my bride does the dishes, I don’t mind cooking.” Ellie rolled her eyes, but as she left the room she heard him say, “Anyway, I’m sure my mother will be sending me home with more pierogi and kielbasa than we can eat, given how she spoils me already.”
“And once you give her a grandchild or two, I’m sure she’ll be bringing them over herself,” said Ellie’s mother, to her dismay.
“Gabriel, Lester . . . let’s go for a walk,” she said, glowering at everyone from the doorway.
Ellie’s humor was quickly restored by the feel of Gabriel’s fingers twined with hers as they strolled down the lane into town with Lester. Lombardi’s carried more esoteric flavors like stracciatella and pistachio, but everyone in the West family liked their vanilla custard, flecked with luxurious bits of the bean itself. What with saving every penny they could, they hadn’t had ice cream in a long time—now that they had a bit of surplus they could splurge on a treat, which was nice.
They took their time getting there and then sat down for a bit to let Lester rest; Gabriel bought them a Coca-Cola to share in the shade of the Triangle Building.
They made good time home so that the ice cream would not melt too much, but as soon as she walked in the back door Ellie knew something was wrong. She and Lester instantly recognized the urgency in her father’s voice as it drifted in from the other room; they exchanged a significant look. Her brother put the ice cream in the icebox to help it stay firm, but Ellie had a sinking feeling that it would be quite a while before they ate it.
“Should we . . .” said Gabriel, but then Ellie’s mother appeared in the doorway.
There was a look that Ellie and her mother had often shared when Robert West was out of sorts. Tonight, however, Mrs. West wouldn’t meet her daughter’s eye. She stood there for a moment in the doorway, looking pale but resigned, staring at her hands.
“Ellie . . . your father would like to speak to you.”
“Alone?” Ellie’s stomach sank yet further. She had genuinely no idea what would be so serious as to require a private audience.
“I’m coming too.”
“It’s all right,” said Ellie, and was surprised to see a flash of annoyance flit across Gabriel’s handsome face. She couldn’t understand why on earth he would feel put out. “I’ll come right back.”
“All right. Lester and I can finish the dishes,” said Gabriel. “Mrs. West, go on and sit down.”
/> Ellie’s father was sitting in his chair in the dim parlor under the bright puddle of light from his reading lamp—but he wasn’t reading. The paper lay folded across his knees. He looked up at her as she approached.
“Ellie, I need to speak with you about something very serious,” he said.
“What is it?” she asked. “What’s happened? Ma wouldn’t say—”
“Your delivery—the one you said would be your last—it was to some people who lived over on Ocean Avenue?”
“Yes . . .”
“What was the family’s name?”
Ellie glanced down at the paper, feeling nervous now for different, unexpected reasons. “I can’t tell you,” she said.
“Was it Coulthead?”
Ellie tried to keep her face impassive, but her father saw what he needed to see in her expression. He stood, and handed her the paper. Ellie sat down in the other chair, so that the puddle of light from the lamp fell over the page. It was the trash gossip column written by an anonymous reporter who simply went by “The Prying Eye.” Ellie privately felt that column ought to be called “The Flapping Lip,” but this evening it contained something more than descriptions of people she didn’t know wearing dresses by designers she’d never heard of and jewelry she’d never be able to afford:
SCREAMS ON OCEAN AVENUE
Late-Night Party Antics Shock Guests and Neighborhood Alike
Readers will know that the Eye can be counted on to report on parties, but the truth is that parties do not always go according to plan. As Saturday night became Sunday morning, screams were heard on Ocean Avenue, when a light and lively luau-themed party at Mr. and Mrs. James Coulthead’s residence became much more serious. Eyewitnesses report that several guests, both men and women, began to exhibit symptoms of disorientation and babble about horrors no one else could see. Anyone who tried to comfort or soothe these people received only abuse for their trouble—one woman pushed her would-be savior into a rosebush; a man socked his best friend, perhaps former best friend, on the jaw. Police were called, and The Prying Eye (who was of course on the scene) saw the distinctive truck of Officer Hector Jones pulling up, meaning it is not unreasonable to suspect that liquor was involved in the disturbance. Whether too much, or perhaps some rotten stuff, was the cause of the scene remains to be seen; but we do know that whatever the cause of the outburst it was indiscriminate; even the sister of Mr. Coulthead, Miss Diane Coulthead, was spotted among the affected parties. No arrests were made, but it is possible further inquiries should—or at least, ought to—be made into this matter.
