The Switch House: A Short Novel

by Tim Meyer

  The beast was dead.

  And the bear continued to eat.

  SIREN'S END

  Clenching fistfuls of wet sand, the man climbed his way up the beach. Behind him, the waves clapped against the shore, sounding like the duel of distant pistols. Rallying against the pain, he forced his head around and glared at the ocean, the rocky sheet of endless gray. In that moment, somewhere beyond his vision, he heard his men scream, deck boards crack, and disturbed waters growl.

  Was it the waters that growled? he thought, looking up, spotting the sky and noticing it held the same colorless hue as the ocean—here, the world looked dead. Was it really the waters?

  Or something else?

  When he couldn't take any more of the dismal scenery, he returned to his long crawl. Up the beach, a stretch of dunes blocked his vision of the deserted coastal town, a place he'd been before, a place that ended up not being deserted at all. There was one place that had kept its lanterns lit—a small pub about two streets in from the dunes.

  If I can make it, the proprietor will help me. He had to. It was the least he could do. He'll nurse me back to health and then...

  And then what? The survivor had no ship; that had gone down in a glorious battle with the sea and...

  Those things.

  Whatever they were.

  He had no outs. He was trapped here. On this godforsaken edge of the world. This little island off the coast of the mainland.

  The survivor managed his way up the beach, writhing like a worm through the sand, kicking his legs in rhythm with his upper torso. Surprisingly, the dunes weren't hard to summit. He'd reached the top and scouted the first avenue he'd set his eyes on, located his bearings, and then decided which course to take.

  He slid down the dunes on his bottom. When he reached the stony, uneven road below, he tested his feet. His knees wobbled with the slightest bit of pressure. He sat back down. Five minutes later he tried again. Better this time. Easier. Less wobble in his knees, less ache in his bones. Not perfect. He spent another quarter hour standing, allowing his muscles to acclimate. It felt like he hadn't stood in years.

  How long had it been?

  He didn't know how long he'd been drifting in the Atlantic, floating among the flotsam of his ruined ship. Days? Weeks? None of it mattered now. His life—the only precious thing he had left to worry about. What little of it remained.

  He hobbled down the street, toward the small inn/pub combo. He took the cobblestone walkway two steps at a time, paused, and then took two more. This approach ensured his body would not become overtaxed. His muscles protested movement of any kind, and hot flares of pain streaked up and down his body. He longed for the comfort of a mattress and pillow, the warmth of a hot compress and kindling in a fireplace. Tea. Yes, lots of tea. The phantom aroma of a hot cup filled his nostrils and that alone was enough to keep him warm for the time being.

  A half hour later, the survivor found himself before Siren's End, the last pub on the edge of the world. He glanced around the dead street, remembering the days when this seaside town hadn't been so derelict, when townsfolk of all kinds populated these streets, bustling about their day. Those days were long gone, and it had been years since the shops around Siren's End had seen business, save for the pub and their occasional visits from passing fishermen and semi-lost seafarers. The occasional crew of adventurous pirates.

  Now, everything here was closed.

  Everything here was dead.

  Except for Siren's End.

  And Garrett Means, last captain of the King's Folly, aimed to find out why.

  * * *

  The buildings he passed were covered in soot, the fires that caused their condition long since smoldered. Debris littered the streets; old newspaper pages blew across his path, wooden slots from ruined crates and rum barrels lay across the cobblestone walkways, and spoiled food lined the gutters, too rotten even for the rats to claim.

  A town in utter ruin.

  When he arrived at Siren's End, he marveled over the impeccable condition of the inn's exterior. Fresh paint coated the brick facade. Black smoke unfurled from the chimney, suggesting the fireplace was in peak working condition. Gulls circled the sky above, hoping to secure fresh scraps from the kitchen.

  Captain Means heard nothing from his position. The place seemed quiet on the inside, along with the apocalyptic town it resided in.

  This dead city on a dead island off the coast of—if what Means had witnessed was any inclination—a future dead country.

  Means headed for the door and was surprised to find the entrance unlocked. He shouldered his way inside, stood in the open doorway for a moment and took in the sights of the interior décor. It was as nice as any other pub along the coast. A place nice as this should have packed in quite a crowd, but today the joint was empty. Not a single patron was cozied up at the bar or occupying the nearby tables and Means suspected the inn's check-in log would prove every available room vacant.

  Behind the bar stood a shadow.

  “You've returned,” the barkeep said, drying a drinking glass with a dirt-smudged towel. “With far less company than when last we met.”

  Tempted to rush the man, Means controlled himself, harnessing his raw emotions. He was in no condition to fight. No condition to take another step but he did so anyway, fending off the dizzying lightheadedness that crawled throughout his skull, erasing his worldly perception as it circumnavigated his dome.

  “You...” Means managed to say, continuing his little two-step toward the closest stool. “You...”

  “Yes, me. I know. A bastard, ain't I?”

  “Did you know? Did you know she was among them? My Isabella? My sweet?”

  The elderly man scratched his thick mutton chops with his free hand. “Isabella? Isabella?” He squinted. “Yes, I seem to remember an Isabella. Your sweet, you say?”

  “You know damn well. I told you we were searching for her during our first arrival at this godforsaken place.”

  “I recall, yes, I recall.”

  “Where is she now?” Means put out his arms, resting his palms on the edge of the bar. He didn't know how long he could support his weight like this—maybe a few seconds—and then lifted his leg so he could plant his rear on the cushioned stool. His other leg couldn't handle the shift in weight and gave out, causing him to fall to the floor.

  The barkeep heehawed. Another gut-shaking outburst followed. “Sure are a persistent bastard, aren't ya?”

  Harnessing a few shreds of strength, Means rolled over. He faced the barkeep, the reason his brain would manufacture nightmares for every sleep to come. His lips parted, revealing teeth as yellow as a ripe banana. More laughter came from the insidious proprietor; it echoed in the empty chamber that was Siren's End.

  “You fed us to those things,” Means said, his lips stinging with a numb sensation. He sat up, his spine feeling like it had separated in several places. “You... sent us to that island.”

  “Aye, I did.” The barkeep was pleasantly okay with this fact, causing Means cheeks to burn with indignation. “If it's any consolation, I take no pleasure in feeding them. They mean nothing to me.”

  A lie. A bold lie. His smiling face told Means that he enjoyed the arrangement very much. Too much.

  “You're a liar. A traitor to the Royal Navy.”

  The barkeep shrugged. “Perhaps. Perhaps, my boy. Perhaps.”

  Means felt a surge of energy flow through him, and he launched himself to his feet. The sudden movement caught the barkeep by surprise. The man's eyes flared, his lips naturally forming a tight oval. He backed away, seemingly expecting Means to clamber over the bar and begin his assault, a barrage of blows that would leave him bloody or worse. Dead, dead like the islands his little monsters ruled.

  “Do I scare you, old man?” Means asked.

  The barkeep didn't respond. He stared at Means, holding the dirty glass out in front of him like a pointy knife.

  Means bared his teeth. “I should kill you.” />
  The barkeep's rigid expression broke, and his twisted smile returned. “You won't hurt me. You won't dare. You've seen what the women are capable of.”

  “You are a devil.”

  “Of sorts.”

  Means couldn't believe what he was about to ask. “What sort of devil are you?”

  The barkeep brayed with more laughter, a deafening outburst that threatened Means's eardrums.

  “Man,” the barkeep said, his voice barely above a whisper. “The worst devil of them all.”

  * * *

  40 Hours Ago

  A pillar of fire in front of him and Means realizes the fore mast is burning. He turns and realizes the main mast has been set aflame, too. His men are scurrying across the deck, searching for either means of escape or recovery. Judging from the chaos, it seems the latter isn't likely. Men are abandoning ship, jumping overboard head first into the rough waters below. The entire stock of rowboats has been deployed, already gone amidst the fog, the all-encompassing white glow that surrounds them all.

  He quickly wonders how he ended up here. He remembers Siren's End, the barkeeper drawing them a map to the island located a little less than fifty nautical miles from where they had sat and drank ale, and ate until they slipped into mini comas.

  An Island of Women, he had said, which, to men who'd spent a great deal of time on the sea and limited hours amongst the company of women, sounded heavenly. They had set course at once and sailed west, toward the location of this great mystery.

  An Island of Women, Means remembers thinking. If Isabella is anywhere, she is there.

  Without much effort, they found the island. They discovered the women. But what happened after was very far from what the crew had envisioned upon hearing the barkeep's tale.

  What they had found there was death.

  Means shakes away the haunted memory of their visit. If he wants to survive, he needs to focus on just that, not past tribulations. He pushes himself to his feet and scrambles toward the edge of the ship. He looks down into the turbulent waters, eyeing the majority of his cowardly crew. They're swimming in the water. No, not swimming. Thrashing.

  They're not alone.

  The women are with them.

  Feeding on them.

  Their screams echo across the sea. The encroaching fog envelops them. All that's left of them are their final cries for mercy.

  Means turns back to the deck. The fire is out of control now, spreading down the masts, conquering most of the boom and the roof of the captain's quarters. His materials, most importantly the portrait of his Isabella and the diamond intended for her finger only, are most likely on their way to becoming char and ash. A tower of fire stands tall over the bow. There are minutes left before the flames will travel to the deck and burn away the last remaining lumber of the sinking ship.

  There's no rescuing King's Folly. They say a captain should always go down with his ship, but that's not for him. He has a reason to live—he has Isabella. She's out there somewhere. Among the women. Among the chaos.

  Maybe if I can convince her, he thinks. Maybe if I can show her how much I love her?

  He hasn't yet, which is why she left in the first place, why she joined this secretive commune.

  He thinks about hurling himself over the edge when he hears a voice call his name. It's soft and familiar, somewhat comforting despite the anxiety lacing his nerves.

  “Garrett?” she says, and Means turns to her.

  “Isabella?”

  She's standing in the center of the deck, Her Majesty's torn sails ablaze above her.

  “Isabella,” he confirms. She doesn't look the same as she had seven months ago, before her disappearance. She still has her slender appearance, her gaunt face, the features prevalent in the poor and homeless, but there is something different. Maybe it's her gown, the stark white garment that covers every inch of her flesh, making her look more angel than woman. Maybe it's the blotches of blood around her mouth, the remnants of her last meal. Maybe it's the teeth, those sharpened twigs of calcium, those tools of carnage. Maybe it's her nails, long and curled like hawk talons. It's the combination of these atrocities that contribute to her altered visage.

  The woman he loves is no longer the woman he loves.

  “What... what happened to you?”

  She smiles, her bloody lips curling at the ends. “I've been reborn.”

  “You've become a devil.”

  “No, Garrett.” Her face grows with concern as she steps toward him. “No, not at all. I've found a new way of life. That old life wasn't for me. You know that.”

  “We would have been happy together. You and I.”

  She shakes her head. “No, you would have been happy together.” She nods her head to the side and bends her knee, a courteous gesture that comes off more like a warning. “I told you the married life wasn't meant for me.”

  “Your father... he promised you to me.”

  Her posture stiffens; her features constrict. “I am promised to nobody.”

  “We had an accord.”

  “I am not property!” she spits, flecks of blood sent airborne. “I am not his to pawn! Like some basic treasure!”

  The venom in her voice nudges him backward. He feels the deck's rails against his back.

  “Isabella, I'm sorry.”

  “You men,” she continues, pointing at him as if he's every man that ever lived. “You men take and you take, and you don't consider us. Our feelings. Our wants and needs. You make us live like slaves.”

  “No, Isabella,” he says. His mouth is dry and cottony, and the words almost don't come out correctly. “I love you. You know I do. You have to know that.”

  “You smother us with your love.”

  Three shapes form in his periphery. Three women, all of them clad in the same white material, all of their faces stained the same red.

  “You smother us with your affection, your ideas of the perfect life.” The closer she gets to him, the tighter his throat becomes. “But you don't know perfection like I know perfection. You've never tasted the flesh and blood of men, of God's so-called greatest creation.”

  “Now hold on just a minute,” he says, barely. Feels like someone is squeezing his vocal cords. “You're sick. I can help you. I can nurse you back to—”

  “I don't need your help,” she says, lunging for him.

  Before he can react, her mouth is on his throat. A wave crashes against the ship, and a salty spray dots the back of his neck. The next thing he feels is his blood leaving his body via the gaping hole Isabella has created near his jugular. Squirts of hot blood run down his neck, underneath his attire, coating his chest and stomach.

  “Good-bye, my love,” she says with such disdain.

  His heart breaks in two as he's flung overboard, and into the stormy waters below.

  * * *

  Means clasped his hands around his throat, feeling his way around every inch of flesh. His heart sank when his fingers danced over the open area where flesh and muscle should have been. The cavity was dry and deep. The crusty nature of the wound suggested his body had recovered from Isabella's bite and was on the mend. But the depth and size of the cavity concerned him. It was deeper than an ordinary bite, at least by an inch or two, and about the size of a clenched fist. It wasn't exactly the kind of trauma one recovers from, even with proper medical attention.

  “Mirror,” Means demanded hoarsely.

  The barkeep had one handy behind the bar and brought it to him promptly.

  Means discovered his reflection. His vision was immediately drawn to the missing flesh on his neck. His breath caught in his throat upon witnessing his disfigurement. Bruised flesh surrounded the crater in his throat, the same purple-black marking that covered most of his arms and legs. He gently patted the wound and found it numb, probably why he hadn't noticed it earlier.

  The strength ran out of his fingers and he let the mirror fall on the bar top.

  “Quite the wound, sailor,” the barkeep sai
d with certain admiration. “Injury like that could kill a man.”

  He'd thought about that. It was miraculous that he had survived.

  “What were they?” Means asked, though he already knew the answer.

  “They're sirens, sonny. 'Bout the meanest creatures on this side of the hemisphere.”

  “And you're their what?”

  The barkeep squinted. “I'm their contact. I'm their caretaker of sorts.”

  The shadowy corners of Siren's End began to move.

  The barkeep hung his head. “I'm their slave.” He lifted his shirt to reveal a dozen of tiny bite marks, pockets of missing meat. “They're so damn hungry.”

  Means turned his attention to the moving parts of the room. Shadows closed in until the glow of the lantern reached their figures. They shrank back into the shadows.

  “Light keeps them away most days,” he said, covering his exposed belly fat with his shirt. “They won't kill me, though. Just feed off me when they want a little snack.”

  “Because you feed them much larger meals.” Means gritted his teeth. “Men. Entire fleets of men.”

  “It keeps me alive.” The barkeeper shook his finger at him. “You'd do the same in my position.”

  “This town? This island?”

  “Ate their way through it in a few months.” He sighed deeply. “Soon, there won't be any ships left in the Queen's Navy.”

  “What then?”

  The barkeep shrugged. “The homeland. All of Europe.”

  “We have to stop them.”

  The shadows hissed.

  The barkeep chuckled, an almost-silent vocalization. “There ain't no stopping them. They're determined.” He continued to shake his finger at him like a parent dishing out a good scolding. “Men like you created things like that. Remember this. You fathered these beasts.”

  His memory recalled Isabella, not the beautiful creature she was but the wretched monster she'd become. “I couldn't have... I only wanted to love. Her love.”

  The barkeep scoffed. “Love... is a two-sided coin, my pathetic friend. Can't have unity without the other half present.”