The first week was idyllic. We lazed about sunbathing, swimming off the boat, fishing, and playing cards. "I shall be fat as a house by the time we return," I pouted, stuffing down yet another gourmet meal. We listened to the ship’s radio from time to time and, to our dismay, heard a French tanker, the Ven du Sud, had disappeared, with all hands. Five days passed and the mystery remained unsolved.
And then a storm blew in. Tropical storms can be deadly at sea and this one grew rapidly worse. "Didn’t you check the weather?" I accused the captain. But he was passed out, drunk in his cabin, and didn’t respond. "Don’t you realize who I am?" I demanded. "When we get back to port, I’ll have your license!"
The winds and rough seas whipped our ship about and, despite the crew’s best efforts, forced us toward shore and onto a reef. The sound of the hull cracking open was unmistakable. We were going down. One by one, the crew succumbed to the crashing waves. In the end, only Tom and I survived.
As luck would have it, our wreck abutted a lagoon and an island. This island was so small as to be one of those that rose and fell beneath the sea so quickly that no one had the chance to either notice it or name it. Somehow we managed to reach land, where we clung to the few palm trees trying not to be swept away.
When the storm finally abated, we were able to explore and found, save for coconuts, the environment afforded little in the way of food. "There isn’t any fresh water," Tom announced sadly. "We’ll just have to make do with coconut milk." But this was barely enough to sustain life and any shelter we erected was quickly blown away. We knew we had to be rescued, and soon.
I noticed the shark the first day. A big fellow, easily identifiable by a badly scarred dorsal fin. He cruised without surcease, in his constant quest for prey. "Look at his fin," I cried out. "When he’s out toward sea, we can swim in the lagoon. One at a time, while the other stands watch. But when he’s in the lagoon, it’s too chancy."
There was an outcropping of rock several yards from shore and, if one stood on it, there was a chance that a passing ship might spot us. "We don’t have fire," Tom observed, "and waving might not be enough." I drew a compact from my pocket. The mirror proved to be cracked, but its refraction could still be used as a signal.
When the shark was otherwise occupied, we took turns swimming out to the rock with the mirror. One time, just after Tom had scrambled onto the rock, the shark returned and cruised the lagoon for two days, stranding my husband in the rain.
Weeks later, starving and desperate, we spotted a tanker within flashing distance and could make out crew on the deck. "They’re very close," Tom shouted and we hurried into the lagoon, swimming furiously toward the rock. Breathless with effort, we were half-way there, when that huge, scarred fin suddenly rose up between us and the rock. I looked at the rock and then back to shore. "We can’t make it!" I shouted. And the fin pointed in our direction and submerged.
At first, I thought Tom had panicked, much unlike himself, for he swam rapidly away from me, splashing loudly, shouting, "Come for me! For me!" And I realized with alarm, that he meant to sacrifice himself so I could gain the rock. Seeing he couldn’t be saved and not wishing to make his death meaningless, I hesitated but a moment before striking out. Only when I was atop the outcropping, did I look back to see the bloody water. My beautiful husband was gone.
But the tanker was about to pass without seeing me. Tears streaming down my face, I flashed the little mirror repeatedly. And yes, to my great joy, some of the men, a rough-looking bunch, went to the rail and pointed to me. The tanker veered off course and came closer, halting before the lagoon. The missing Ven du Sud! A life boat was being lowered and its men took up the oars. As they drew nearer, I could make out the faces of my rescuers.
It only took one look and I knew. They had the brown faces of natives, bizarrely painted. They grinned hugely, showing teeth filed to points, working their jaws as if chewing.
My supposed rescuers were cannibals!
They paddled fiercely, bringing their life boat alongside the rock. Then they reached toward me with eager hands. Involuntarily, I stepped backward, almost landing in the lagoon with its constantly circling shark. Even if it were possible to safely gain the shore, the island was so tiny, so free of vegetation, that there was nowhere to hide.
Feigning bravery, I drew myself up, haughtily demanding, "Do you know who I am?"
But neither my position, nor wealth, nor accomplishments mattered here. To the cannibals, to the shark, I was simply a lower step on their food chain.
It was Nature’s way, that in the end, we all become meat.
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IN FOR A PENNY
A small family farm - near Pine Grove, New Jersey - 1940
"In for a penny, in for a pound," Sally Tate’s grandpa used to say. Of course, he’d been referring to the labor put into keeping their little farm and family together, and working their crops until the harvest. But that was all over now. Grandpa was dead these 20 years and, despite Sally’s best efforts, all had failed. The bank was about to take their land. Worse yet, Social Services was about to take their children.
Sally donned her worn coat, then took up her purse and the baby bottles. Her husband, Jim, was out in the garage, filling the old station wagon with boxes, and placing their twin boys into a padded laundry basket. Rather than lose their children, the Tates planned to run. And in just one more minute, they’d have gotten clean away.
But here was the Social Worker, Miss Todd, entering through the kitchen’s back door without a by your leave. She clutched her battered briefcase like a weapon, and thrust a court order at Sally, who wailed, "But you can’t take our children!"
There was no mercy in the Social Worker’s eyes. "We’ve been over this, Mrs. Tate. The judge says I can. So you just get them and their suitcases out to my car." Her mean, little eyes peered down the hallway, trying to catch a glimpse of her prey.
"It’s the day before Christmas! Just let them stay until the New Year?"
"We must do what’s best for the children," Miss Todd insisted. "Besides, the roof is ready to collapse and the well’s gone dry so you and your husband must also vacate these premises."
"This land has been in my family for three generations," Sally cried. "Where shall we go?"
"You might inquire of that church congregation one town over."
Tired of waiting in the garage, Jim went back to the kitchen to fetch his wife, and found her at the mercy of Miss Todd. He entered silently and stood behind the intruder.
The loss of her beloved farm tore at Sally’s heart, but life without her children was unthinkable. Her babies would be separated, parceled out to different families. Families who couldn’t have children, who would pay anything to adopt white children, especially infants. Sally wondered if her babies were doomed to suffer beatings or neglect. Or to be abused like the neighbor girl, Hannah. She recalled that even after Hannah’s family recovered her, that girl was never right again.
No, she determined, this mustn’t happen to my children.
Miss Todd jabbered on, but Sally no longer heard the words. The blood racing through her brain was making it hard to think and she couldn’t breathe. As she stood there, struggling to keep from fainting, a terrible plan began to form. But no one in her family had ever done such a thing. Can I actually go through with this? Sally asked herself. And, surely, she would need Jim’s help.
Sally met Jim’s eyes and she saw a flash of understanding cross his face. Then he gave a slight nod.
In for a penny . . .
Miss Todd saw Sally’s expression and stopped in mid-sentence. She realized the situation had changed. Become somehow dangerous. The woman looked from one parent to the other then, with a desperate cry, turned and threw the briefcase at Jim. And missed.
The Tates remained as they were, not moving or speaking, as the Social Worker made a dash for the back door. Neither tried to stop he
r, but moved along on each side of their quarry, escorting her outside.
And why, Sally reasoned, should we have to dispatch her inside, then drag her weight down the steps.
As the woman hurried onto the lawn, Sally moved to block her path. A garden spade was leaning against the house and Jim took it up. Standing behind Miss Todd, he swung the spade in a mighty arc, connecting with her head. There was a noise, much like striking a melon, and she went down.
Sally looked at the fallen woman. "Do you think she’s dead?"
By way of answer, Jim stood over his victim and brought the edge of the spade straight down. The blow struck Miss Todd’s throat, nearly severing her head. "She is now," he muttered. Jim scooped up the briefcase and its loose papers, then emptied the cash from her wallet. He bundled the woman’s remains into her car and the couple hurried to the garage.
Jim put Sally behind the wheel of the old station wagon. "You drive north, up to Look Out Point. I’ll be right behind you, driving that harpy’s sedan. I’ll just push our problems over the edge. Then we can skedaddle."
By the time they reached Look Out Point, it was deserted. Jim managed to get the sedan over the cliff’s edge and hurried to the station wagon. "Git over," he told Sally. "I’ll drive." He carefully maneuvered the old car back onto the road. "The tide’s very strong here," he muttered. "Anything that falls in goes straight out to sea."
When they got to the crossroad, Sally asked, "Where do we go from here? Mexico? Canada?"
"Depends," Jim told her, "do you like it warm or cold?"
"You know I like snow, honey." And she snuggled against her husband. Sally could hear gentle snoring from the back seat and smiled. "We’re good parents. Really we are." They looked at one another, many questions unanswered. And how far could they get with only a few dollars.
"We’re going to make it this time," he assured her. "We’re a family that sticks together. No matter what."
"Do you hear that, Grandpa," Sally sang out.
"We’re in for a penny! We’re in for a pound."
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THE BEAST OF OLD KIRK CHAPEL
Village of Old Kirk, Scotland - 1947
Wee Timmy stood in the bright sunlight, beside the medieval chapel, the place where witches were once said to gather. His stubby, little forefinger traced the warning carved in the stone wall beside the north door.
Beware the beast that lurks below
where the tombs are in the snow
prowling about on hairy feet
hunting everyone it meets.
Donny, his younger brother, stood on tiptoe, craning to see the words for himself. As the boys stared, the crisp, autumn breeze swirled brightly colored leaves about them, creating the impression they were not alone. The smaller boy longed to take cover from the icy wind, far from this crumbling chapel, this haunted spot.
No longer used for worship, this 12th century structure had been damaged by German artillery during the recent war, but, somehow, the elaborately sculptured Celtic crosses and Pictish symbols that decorated the exterior had survived unscathed. Donny frowned and pointed to the stones below the warning. "What’s that?" he whispered.
Timmy ran one hand over the words beneath the message, words not neatly added by a stone carver, but roughly hacked into the exterior.
IT EATS CHILDREN
"Going home now," Donny declared in a tremulous voice. He began slowly backing up in the direction of his family’s cottage and Timmy had no choice but to follow. Too frightened to speak, the boys hurried back through the forest to their home and to their chores. In a short time, the strange message was forgotten.
But this chapel was a place where the Devil was once said to dwell. And it was a place where children eventually strayed to play and ponder the strange warnings. So it was only a month later that Timmy returned with his reluctant brother in tow. Snow had fallen during the night, creating a pristine blanket under the bright, blue sky. Finding the chapel’s doors blocked by newly fallen stones, the older boy assured Donny, "We’ll just have a look."
So they went around the side, searching for something out of the ordinary. As they walked, the boys ran their hands over the runic and religious symbols carved by early worshippers. Interspersed among these were both human figures and that of a fierce animal. The beast was depicted as hairy and standing erect. Its taloned hands appeared almost human.
"I never seen a one like that," Donny insisted, the last of his courage ebbing.
Timmy glanced around quickly, afraid such a beast might be watching from the woods. As they circled the chapel, they came upon the spot where German shells had collapsed one wall. Going up to the very edge, the two peered down into darkness. A snowdrift had gathered in the hole but, otherwise, it was too deep to see what lay beneath. As they turned to leave, Donny’s foot slipped. Before he could stop himself, he’d gone over the edge and landed in the drift.
Timmy screamed for his brother, but Donny was too busy clearing snow from his nose and mouth to answer. Taking up a fallen branch, the older boy thrust one end into the hole. "Grab this!"
"Too short," Donny whimpered, waving tiny arms. Then he gasped, for on the wall just above his head, was another roughly hewn message:
OUR CHILDREN ARE LOST
PRAY FOR THEIR SOULS
Donny’s ashen face stared up at his brother and then, he turned with a start, as if something had surprised him. A shadow fell over the child and, without even a whimper, the boy vanished. Timmy saw there was no hope and took off for home, his skinny legs pumping, shrieking for his parents.
Within minutes both parents and some of the neighbors had turned out, racing toward the chapel. The boy went to the edge and pointed into the hole. The others peered downward, but saw no trace of Donny. The father leapt down into the darkness. "There’s a tunnel here," he announced. "I’m going in." The others waited breathlessly, but the father did not return.
After a time the priest came sprinting across the frozen ground, holding up the hem of his cossack as he ran. The mother was on her knees in the snow, weeping. "Why can’t it just die?" she demanded.
"It would! If you’d just stop feeding it," was Father Albin’s heartless reply. "It can’t come to the children. They have to go to him."
Neighbor Andrew demanded, "Cannae not perform an exorcism?"
Osla, the eldest in the village, wobbled forward, leaning on her cane. "Years ago, there were those who tried to lay the beast. My mother, my grandmother, and my great-grandmother. Witches three. But the old priest, Father William, had them dragged off ere they finished." She fixed Albin with wild eyes. "Consorting with the Devil, he said."
"Then there’s none today who can lay the beast?" the priest demanded.
"Only five I was, but I remember the words to this day," Osla declared.
She tossed a bit of rowan and holly into the hole. Then raising her arms heavenward, she chanted.
Creature of darkness!
We stop thy eyes!
We stop thy ears!
We stop thy mouth!
And now we lay thee to thy rest
with rowan twig and holly sprig
to living death beneath the ground
no more to move or make a sound
So mote be it!
Osla had no sooner spoken, when a great rumbling rose up from the tunnel, shaking the earth. As the hole began to cave in on itself, the priest shoved the old woman and she pitched forward into the rapidly closing opening. Then the remains of the damaged wall tumbled in, effectively sealing the entrance with Osla inside. Everyone gasped and stared at the priest in disbelief.
"Go home and rejoice," Albin shouted merrily. "The Devil and his consort have finally been laid to rest." When his parishioners continued to fix him with horrified stares, he howled, "Cannae not see? Your children are safe now!"
Quite pleased with himself, he lifted his skirts and, skipping along, made his wa
y back to the village.
Timmy watched him depart. "Mummy!" he began. "If the priest has gone mad, will we still have to go to mass on Sunday?"
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PROJECT ATOM
A government project is used to commit murder - 1957
"Why Lenore chose to marry me, I’ll never know," I told Harry. "She’s a knockout. An accomplished scientist. And she overlooked other guys. Rich men. Chose to spend her life with me. Can you believe it! And me a high school, English teacher."
"Hey, Tim, the girls always came calling. Thought you were caring and romantic."
But no matter what my brother said, I knew I couldn’t compare to those other guys. Yet, Lenore had insisted upon eloping and we moved into the spectacular California beach house I’d inherited from a distant cousin. Lenore quickly redecorated our home and we were idyllically happy. Until she was appointed to head Project ATOM.
She’d patiently explained the meaning of the acronym ATOM, but in a short while my non-scientific brain would forget and I’d have to ask again.
Hers was a top-secret assignment, leaving us little time to be together. So I jumped when Lenore phoned from work and purred, "Sweetie, I miss you. It would be sooo very romantic if you’d come to the lab with a picnic supper. Don’t forget my favorite wine. About nine tonight? I’ll leave instructions to admit you."
Excited at the prospect of a romantic interlude, I prepared a four-course, gourmet supper and placed everything in a picnic basket. Fifteen minutes early, I approached the front doors. No guard was on duty, but an electronic voice instructed me to stand with my eye in front of the scanner. I did and the doors swung open. The corridors were clearly marked and I complied with each scanner request along the way. In a few minutes, I stood in front of heavy, double doors marked Project ATOM.
Again, the scan allowed me passage and I entered, calling out, "Lenore, it’s Tim."
Tiny Tales of Terror Page 7
