The exits were flying by and we still weren’t talking.
Whatever it was about long car trips I wasn’t sure, but it always seemed to bring out some long underlying fight or dispute that inevitably led to these long silences. She drove, eyes forward, occasionally looking towards me with that damn questioning gaze, as if to ask, “So… what’s your problem?!?”
It was always these little wars between us. We’d been married a year, and we were still feeling each other out, still learning about each other’s little quirks. This wasn’t a true fight, the explosive kind, just the gradual annoyances that build up when you spend as much time together as we did.
Finally, I relented, reaching forward to turn the music in the car down enough to start a conversation.
“Look, I’m sorry okay? I wasn’t trying to imply that she’s not a good person, I just think you need to stop letting her run all over you.”
She took that quick inhale, as if she was about to speak, but I cut her off.
“I’m sorry, I just don’t want to keep driving in this silence; it drives me nuts.”
Becca smiled a crack, and I realized we could joke about it now.
“You really are a turd,” she began, “and you’re right. Sarah’s got some issues, but she’s still my friend.”
“I know, I know, I’m just looking out for you.”
“I know you are, which is why I’m still putting up with you.” She broke into a grin at the last part.
“Right, right,” I replied, stretching out the second one to emphasize my sarcasm. “I thought it was because I’m such a stud in the bedroom.”
“Okay, just concentrate on the road Don Juan.”
And just like that, we were back to normal.
The weekend stretched out before us. We hadn’t been away by ourselves since the honeymoon, and the way things had been since then in terms of work, we were ready for some alone time.
Becca’s parents had a house on the Jersey Shore, in Ocean City. It was billed as America’s Greatest Family Resort, and during the summer, we usually spent a full week there with her extended family. The house was literally right on the beach. A small sand dune was the only thing between the house and the Atlantic.
The house, like most houses in the area, was a two-story two-family residence. The Stephen’s owned the second floor of the property, and from their deck, they could see the entire beach, from the distant lights of Atlantic City, to the lighthouse on Sea Isle City.
The floor plan of the house featured a large kitchen and living room on the ocean side, and 4 bedrooms on the streetside. A long hallway ran the length of the house, with doors on either side connecting to the bedrooms. The two bathrooms were both attached on either side to the bedrooms, allowing access to a bathroom in each bedroom.
I had been sitting on the throne many times when realizing that I had only locked the door I came through. This had led to a few embarrassing moments, but I had typically caught them before I was accused of exposing myself to my wife’s family.
As we got to exit 25 on the Garden State Parkway, we began the 4 mile drive to the house. We stopped at Boulevard Super Liquors to stock up on beer, wine, and whiskey, and then went across the road to a restaurant called Yesterday’s to order take-out.
When we got inside the restaurant, I was shocked. The bar area was full of people watching college football, eating, and talking.
“Babe, there’s a ton of people here.”
“Why are you so surprised?” she returned.
“It’s late November, I thought it would just be a few townies.”
“No, this restaurant does a good job of drawing year-round.”
We got our food, paid the bill, and headed back to the car.
I was pretty surprised at the amount of people at the place, and my shock at the number of people was confirmed once we got on island.
South of 34th Street, the town get progressively more and more deserted. The sun began to creep below the distant skyline, and the truck’s lights blinked on automatically. By the time we reached the stoplight at 52nd, we were the only car, parked or otherwise, visible on the road. The wind howled by the car, the only sound a clicking from the blinker on the dashboard.
The light turned green, and we turned down the road. A plastic bag drifted down the street in front of us, a modern-day tumbleweed in this ocean ghost town.
“Well, that’s weird,” Becca said, as we pulled into the driveway.
A dark purple Saab was parked in the driveway. It was an older model, around 1995, and a convertible. The black top stretched over the car like a swim cap. The hubcaps were lined in a tinted gold, that made the car look cheaper than it was, and it was obviously not maintained. Dirt and grime lined the sides of the wheels. There was definitely some neglect and hard driving going on.
“Lucy must have a renter,” Becca concluded.
Lucy Daniels was the old woman who owned the first floor of the house. In the three years I had been coming down with Becca, I had only seen her sunbathing on her back porch. She never went down to the water, or left the immediate vicinity of the backyard. Her floral-printed one-piece bathing suits were massive, like spandex moomoo’s, and her loose flesh was trying desperately to escape them at every turn. All of this was easy to think since she was such a wretched human being.
Becca’s dad (my father-in-law) Jim, hadn’t spoken to her in sometime, as they were constantly fighting over the property.
We each grabbed some bags, so we could make it in one trip. We walked past the car, and I smelled a strong odor, like sulfur and rotting fish. I stopped, trying to pick up where exactly it was coming from, but it was gone. I though nothing of it, and followed Becca up the first flight of stairs, where she had stopped by Lucy’s front door.
A poorly handwritten sign was placed in the window, it read: “This house is being rented, realtors please call for an appointment.” The blinds on either side of the door were drawn, and it was impossible to see inside.
Becca turned up the second set of stairs, and I walked a few steps behind, watching her ass move back and forth in her tight jeans. We had planned to work on getting pregnant during our weekend alone, and I was looking forward to the work. I reached out and gave her a quick playful smack on the butt, and she arched forward, and turned quickly to give me a look that said, “Can’t you wait until we at least get inside,” before flashing that beautiful smile of hers.
“Honestly David,” she scolded, “someone could see you doing that!”
“Like who?” I questioned.
“The... renter downstairs, he could be watching us right now!” She had added a spooky tone to her voice.
I smiled back, “we could invite him up for a show if you want…”
“Gross!” she exclaimed, freeing the hand that held her keys, and fingering through them, searching for the right one.
“I agree, gross.”
The door opened and we stepped into the dark main room. The sun was fully below the horizon now, but the only low light came from the large windows that looked out onto the porch, which offered a panoramic view of the sea. It was calm tonight, the tide only swelling slowly against the shore, a few lingering fisherman lining the darkening shore.
I put down the bunch of things I was carrying, and moved to hit some of the lights. Becca quickly ran down the hall on the left to hit the bathroom. I walked to the sliding glass doors and let myself out onto the porch.
As soon as the doors opened, the smell of salts hit me, and I was transported to every beach memory from my childhood. I closed my eyes and pictured the Cape Cod beaches, both on the shore and bay. I smiled despite the brisk November winds that cut through my loose jeans with an ease that bordered on simplicity. The difference in temperature between the street and the ocean side of the house was extreme, and I found myself wondering whether the water would still be warm enough to swim in, despite the air temperature.
Becca came to the open doors behind me, having to almost shout to be heard.
“What are you doing?!?”
“Nothing. Why?”
“You can’t leave the door open like that, the bugs will get in. My mom will flip.”
“Babe, it’s almost December, there aren’t any…”
The sound of the door sliding shut behind me ended the debate. I turned my back on the dark shifting mass and walked back into the house.
We started drinking, and made a fire in the fireplace, which consisted of turning a knob, getting the pilot lit, and observing the illusion of the fake logs “burning.”
I sipped whiskey and she had a glass of Pinot Grigio, blankets covering her legs as we sat and talked for hours.
“That car in the driveway was creepy,” she said, “and the way that all the shades were closed up… it was kinda scary.”
I thought about trying to scare her, tell her a story about the miscreant downstairs, get into her head a bit. It would be easy, she had a great imagination like that, and more often than not, it culminated in us holding each other tight in our bed back in Morris Plains. The vision of me playing the role of guardian, protector flashed in my head.
I leaned in for a kiss instead.
Before our lips touched, the unmistakable sound of the downstairs sliding door opening shook the room subtly. We paused; I looked at the clock. It was after midnight.
I stood up and walked to the window, and was surprised as a dark shape shuffled toward the path in the dune that led to the water. I suddenly felt exposed, a voyeur, and quickly turned away, shutting the long blinds.
There was an irrational fear that I had been seen, and when I sat back down by the fire, I was somewhat shaken.
“What happened?” Becca began, “Why are you so pale?”
There was distinct worry in her voice, and I didn’t want to play into it this time. I didn’t want to scare her for real.
“The guy downstairs...”
“It’s a man?”
“I think so. He just walked down to the beach,” my mind struggled for an explanation, “maybe he left something down there, or he’s drunk.”
“Oh.” Her response was small, and not fully without fear. “Take me to bed,” she finished.
We went to the back room, and while we held each other the way I had thought about earlier, I wished we hadn’t had to.
The next morning, all was forgotten, the sun had come and taken any fear away from the mystery neighbor downstairs, and we went about our day.
Becca cooked breakfast while I made coffee, and we played a few hands of Rummy before we fell almost effortlessly into lovemaking on the couch.
“I want to go for a walk,” she said afterwards, perspiration glistening on her bare chest.
“Sure,” I returned, “Let’s get dressed and go.”
She walked to the back of the house to get dressed, and I pulled on my boxers, looking out the glass doors, and found myself wondering if we’d see the guy from last night’s footprints in the morning sand.
We walked down the stairs together, they were the only way up and down to the second floor.
As I passed the door to the first floor, I strained to see into the space, but there was no break in the shades, no entry point for my walking gaze. We reached the walk, and I saw the purple car still parked in the driveway next to my truck.
The sand in the backyard was curiously devoid of any trace of tracks, although it appeared that there had been a boat or large object dragged to the house. A sea kayak under the porch verified this thought.
We turned towards the beach, and started out to the dunes. Just before getting to the beach path, I looked back at the first floor porch, at the door that had been opened the night before.
I swore I saw a quick movement in the swinging blinds.
We hit the beach and started walking. Typically, we take a right at the water’s edge, and don’t stop until we get to the end of the island, a good three-mile round trip. The day was unseasonably warm, and I removed my sweatshirt after a few minutes, allowing the sun to heat my black t-shirt. We reached the last jetty on the island, and when we climbed to the peak, we saw hundreds of cars, glittering on the littered beach.
There were trucks up and down the beach, and in front of all of them, men in waders were fishing. They had set up 10-foot poles, placed in the sand, and they sat in or stood by folding chairs, a cooler by their sides.
We looked down the beach, a line of men fishing the sea, and waited for a catch. Right in front of us, a middle-aged man began wading into the surf, taking the brunt of chest-high waves as the tip of his pole bent back and forth.
He would move in and out of the water, sometimes dragging and sometimes reeling. Eventually, he pulled what looked like a small shark from the water. He placed the pole back in its pipe, and walked to his chair. He pulled out some type of tool, and began going to work on the thing’s mouth. It was at this point covered in sand, and had ceased any strong movements.
When he picked it up after removing the hook, I felt myself gasp slightly, while Becca exclaimed “Oh,” flatly.
The creature was much bigger than either of us had thought, and its thickness in the middle allowed us to verify that it was in fact a fish, and not a shark as previously believed.
The fisherman walked back into the ocean, carrying the brown fish by its tail, and dipped it in the water, removing the accumulated sand. It was then that the shine of the fish caught my eyes, and I saw the deep green of its sides, and the tell-tale white belly. It had to have weighed at least 25 pounds.
“What kind of fish is that?’ Becca asked.
“Bass I think, Striper. Man, he’ll be eating that thing for a month.”
As I said this, the man submerged the fish fully, and seemed to will it back to life, the fish regained its strength, and began to whip its body back and forth. The fisherman let it go, and the fish disappeared into the foamy chop.
“Catch and release. Huh.” I said. I was surprised someone would just let something that size go.
“I’m not sure what’s worse,” Becca started, “catching the fish just to catch it, or killing it. I mean, think about the terror it must feel.”
“Or,” I returned, “think of the jubilation it feels when it’s let go. That’s got to be better than ending up as dinner. I guess it doesn’t matter either way, fish supposedly only have like a 5-second memory.”
“Well either way, I think it’s cruel.”
“Let’s go back,” I said, “there’s too much going on past here anyway.”
We turned and walked back to the house. Before making the final turn toward the dune, I noticed some fish bones dotted with maggots and flies, and thought again of the beautiful monster of a fish that the man had reeled in.
“No wonder they’re all fishing down there,” I thought aloud, “those Stripers are huge.”
We got back to the house without any sign of the mysterious visitor from downstairs. I still hadn’t told Becca about what I had seen the previous night, it would upset her.
Becca started cooking while I played some Solitaire, there was an unwritten rule about television when the two of us came down to the shore. There was a large 42” flat-screen, but we never turned it on. It felt simpler that way.
We ate steamed clams and a nice chicken salad, and broke out the wine. We each started with a glass before I moved on to Bud Light Lime, a new shore favorite.
The food was finished and we cleared the table, listening to music from Becca’s iPod as we played Rummy. The night extended and the beer brought a nice lightness to my head. I was smiling more, and I knew Becca was feeling it too. Her head began to droop toward the table, and I moved her to the couch to lie down.
I should mention it was only around 10 o’clock at the time, Becca’s an early riser, but that also means she’s quite the opposite of a night owl.
“Babe, let’s go to bed,” I implored, “You’re falling asleep.”
“I’m not.” Her insistence was cute, childlike.
“C’mon, let’s head back there.”
“No, I’m fine. Davey…”
Her use of that nickname meant a request was coming.
“Can you rub my legs?” she finished.
“Sure Babe, sure.”
Within 5 minutes she was out. I shuffled under the weight of her legs, and worked my way out from under her. She mumbled something, and turned in toward the back of the couch.
“Game over,” I said, and poured a glass of whiskey.
I started looking through Becca’s iPod for something to listen too, good whiskey music: David Allen Coe, Hank Jr., or Ray Lamontagne. All I found was some Miley Cyrus, proof that the younger generations are capable on outperforming their parents.
I decided to head down to my truck, where my own iPod was waiting. I kissed Becca on the forehead, and told her I’d be right back. She said something unintelligible, and rolled her head slightly.
I walked down the stairs, ignoring once again the lightless first-floor and its sign explaining the presence of a renter. Turning the corner to my car, I saw the familiar sight of the purple Saab parked in its usual spot.
I opened my car and grabbed the iPod, locked the door, and turned back to the side of the house. For no reason at all, I ran my fingers over the hood of the purple car, and felt how warm it was against my skin.
The night had dropped down in temperature, and it was easy to understand that the car had been running very recently. I shrugged and walked to the stairs.
When I reached the first landing, I tried peeking through the side window, to see if I could catch sight of any sign of life. As I was standing back up, the hallway light came on. It shook me, froze me in my tracks.
The door swung open violently, and I caught a glimpse of shining obsidian before I was pulled into the room, without even a chance to scream.
***
The fish good.
The fish and the cold and the dark good.
The sound of the sea, the underwater sound, the filled ears.
A slow heartbeat, the waiting.
The fish.
The big fish in the cold water.
Eateateateateateateateateat all winter.
So many fish in the rolling waves, the clean sand.
I eat until full and eat again.
Swimming and rolling and laughing in the cold black.
Resting so close in the manrooms.
My treat, my winter eateat.
And every now and then…
Every moon or so.
The Luck and the fight and the feed.
The stupid man and the long feed.
The land feed.
The special treat eateat.
***
When I woke up on the couch, David was gone. My head stung a bit, the beginnings of a hangover morning, but nothing too serious.
I looked across at the cable box for the time.
2:38
Shit.
Usually it was David, in this position. He always joked about being from a family of “couch-sleepers.” I got up, and rolled to my knees, standing up slowly as my eyes adjusted to the lights from the dining room table.
No David.
I called out then. Not afraid, not accusatory, not bitchy. Just a wondering where you are “David?!?”
Nothing. That was fine, he was probably back in bed, TV on, or some book propped on his chest. I stumbled back down the hall.
In the bedroom, the bed was made up as it had been earlier that day. That’s when I started to worry. The “David?” that came out next had a tinge of concern, and most certainly, fear.
I checked the rooms, and he wasn’t in the house.
I called his phone, and it went straight to voicemail. It must have been off.
I screamed then, and when there was no reply, even though I waited at least ten seconds, strained to hear a reply, there was nothing.
I was back in the kitchen, and I caught some movement on the porch, before it disappeared. Walking there, my fear mounted. I turned the blinds to get a better view, but before I could open them, a hand went flat against the window. It was webbed.
I ran screaming for the stairs as I heard the thing outside fumble with the door. Luckily we had locked it earlier.
“David!!!” the name a shriek in my mouth now as I ran out the door, down the stairs. I reached the first landing, and stopped. The lights were on in the first floor, and the door was open.
David’s iPod was on the landing, and his shirt was on the floor in the house. I walked towards it like a mummy. My legs were on autopilot. I bent down to feel the shirt, smelled it deeply and there was my David. He was here.
I looked around frantically, and found a block with the chef’s knives sticking out. I grabbed the meanest looking one, and started down the hallway.
I had never been this deep into Lucy’s house, that old bitch, but I realized instantly that the floor plan was exactly the same, and that there would be rooms on both sides. I snuck into the first bedroom on the left, surveyed it quickly, and moved to the bathroom that joined it to the next bedroom.
Nothing.
The next bedroom held more of the same. As I crossed the hallway to the third bedroom, I noticed that the second bathroom’s door was closed. I reached out my hand to turn the knob, but the pressure from my hand swung the door on its own.
This bathroom was somewhat different from the ones on our floor. It had clearly been outfitted for an elderly person, a person of considerable size. There were handrails everywhere, and a large walk-in tub that was almost a Jacuzzi.
David was suspended over the tub. I stared at him dumbly. Nothing escaped my mouth, no words no breath.
His eyes were blank. He was shirtless, and below his ribcage, most of him was gone. I stepped forward. His legs were still attached to his torso, but it looked as though his insides had been scraped out, like a pumpkin on Halloween. The guts were in a pile at the bottom of the tub, and when I looked back up, I realized I could see the front of his spine as he hung there.
I vomited in the tub, vomited all over his insides, and ran back into the hallway. Tears began to well up in my eyes as my body remembered to breathe. I stumbled forward, only concerned with getting away from what I had just seen, getting to the police.
There was a noise behind me. I wasn’t quite a click, it sounded deep and guttural, like someone choking on the word “chuck.”
I turned slowly, and something was standing at the end of the hallway. It was the size of a skinny man. I recognized its hands at once. It took a step toward me and seemed to smile, revealing a wide jagged smile filled with glistening teeth.
I ran then, fast, right to the door. It was locked, and I broke my silence with a rage-filled scream as I turned the handle, pushing and pulling on the door.
The thing was at the opening of the hallway now; it walked slowly, and had skin that looked smooth while as rough as a shark’s at the same time.
I made a run for the sliding doors. They were open, and I flung myself through them and out to the porch and the November night air. He was gaining speed, and as I threw my leg over the railing to get down, he almost grabbed me.
I started sprinting to the corner of the house, to get to the street, but it landed in front of me, forcing me to turn around.
I swear it was laughing, a sick clicking laugh that shook me.
I turned and ran to the beach. The sand seemed to slow it down, but it was still gaining. I ran over the dune and to the water’s edge. It stopped twenty feet away and cocked its grey head, and for the first time, I saw its eyes clearly. They were pure black, and spread too far apart for humanity.
I stepped backwards into the water. Again, it looked at me quizzically, cocking it’s head to the other side.
I had a plan now, turning, I took a few large steps into the water, the cold cutting into my legs, and dove in.
My breath caught in my chest. I surfaced and stood in water up to my chest, and felt nothing below. I opened my mouth to breath, willed my body to function, and noticed how bright the stars were so far from anything and anyone.
My breath returned, and with it came the pain of the cold water. I pumped my legs for circulation, and looked quickly at the shore. The thing was gone, and I had a horrifying realization as I felt something sweep strongly against my leg.
Something grabbed my hair, pulling me under briefly, toying with me, and I made a break for land, cursing my stupidity.
I swam hard, kicking and pulling with my hands. I was making decent progress, and only felt a quick stabbing pain at the backs of my heels, before it was gone. I got to about 10 feet away from the beach when I tried to stand up and collapsed immediately.
The pain was cruel and monstrous. I reached down with my hands into the black surf and felt my ankles. The tendons had been shredded. I turned and he was standing above me smiling. Water dripped down his body (I was now sure it was a man somehow) revealing pumping gills along his ribcage.
The smile, those rows and rows, got me moving again. I scrambled on my hands, dragging myself toward the shore, and knew he was walking behind me.
I screamed a few times, at him, at God, for David, but the surf always found my mouth, and I lay in the sand, exhausted, cold and bleeding. I rolled to my back, and he was looking down at me, cocking his head and smiling.
He reached his clawed and webbed hand towards my shirt, and ripped it away from me. He shredded my pants, and I lay on the ground, sputtering and crying, naked on the beach with this thing, helpless.
He ducked down to a knee, and craned his rounded head toward my face, and opened his mouth wide. It smelled of the sea and blood. He lowered his mouth to my white neck, and I could feel the small points of his teeth resting on my throat.
He bit down slowly, and my breathing became wet.
I saw him spit something aside before he grabbed my ankles, and began dragging me back to the house.
The stars were darkening, and the faint glimmer above reminded me once more of the morning’s Striper, swimming out in the diminishing ocean behind me, as my eyes closed.
Whatever it was about long car trips I wasn’t sure, but it always seemed to bring out some long underlying fight or dispute that inevitably led to these long silences. She drove, eyes forward, occasionally looking towards me with that damn questioning gaze, as if to ask, “So… what’s your problem?!?”
It was always these little wars between us. We’d been married a year, and we were still feeling each other out, still learning about each other’s little quirks. This wasn’t a true fight, the explosive kind, just the gradual annoyances that build up when you spend as much time together as we did.
Finally, I relented, reaching forward to turn the music in the car down enough to start a conversation.
“Look, I’m sorry okay? I wasn’t trying to imply that she’s not a good person, I just think you need to stop letting her run all over you.”
She took that quick inhale, as if she was about to speak, but I cut her off.
“I’m sorry, I just don’t want to keep driving in this silence; it drives me nuts.”
Becca smiled a crack, and I realized we could joke about it now.
“You really are a turd,” she began, “and you’re right. Sarah’s got some issues, but she’s still my friend.”
“I know, I know, I’m just looking out for you.”
“I know you are, which is why I’m still putting up with you.” She broke into a grin at the last part.
“Right, right,” I replied, stretching out the second one to emphasize my sarcasm. “I thought it was because I’m such a stud in the bedroom.”
“Okay, just concentrate on the road Don Juan.”
And just like that, we were back to normal.
The weekend stretched out before us. We hadn’t been away by ourselves since the honeymoon, and the way things had been since then in terms of work, we were ready for some alone time.
Becca’s parents had a house on the Jersey Shore, in Ocean City. It was billed as America’s Greatest Family Resort, and during the summer, we usually spent a full week there with her extended family. The house was literally right on the beach. A small sand dune was the only thing between the house and the Atlantic.
The house, like most houses in the area, was a two-story two-family residence. The Stephen’s owned the second floor of the property, and from their deck, they could see the entire beach, from the distant lights of Atlantic City, to the lighthouse on Sea Isle City.
The floor plan of the house featured a large kitchen and living room on the ocean side, and 4 bedrooms on the streetside. A long hallway ran the length of the house, with doors on either side connecting to the bedrooms. The two bathrooms were both attached on either side to the bedrooms, allowing access to a bathroom in each bedroom.
I had been sitting on the throne many times when realizing that I had only locked the door I came through. This had led to a few embarrassing moments, but I had typically caught them before I was accused of exposing myself to my wife’s family.
As we got to exit 25 on the Garden State Parkway, we began the 4 mile drive to the house. We stopped at Boulevard Super Liquors to stock up on beer, wine, and whiskey, and then went across the road to a restaurant called Yesterday’s to order take-out.
When we got inside the restaurant, I was shocked. The bar area was full of people watching college football, eating, and talking.
“Babe, there’s a ton of people here.”
“Why are you so surprised?” she returned.
“It’s late November, I thought it would just be a few townies.”
“No, this restaurant does a good job of drawing year-round.”
We got our food, paid the bill, and headed back to the car.
I was pretty surprised at the amount of people at the place, and my shock at the number of people was confirmed once we got on island.
South of 34th Street, the town get progressively more and more deserted. The sun began to creep below the distant skyline, and the truck’s lights blinked on automatically. By the time we reached the stoplight at 52nd, we were the only car, parked or otherwise, visible on the road. The wind howled by the car, the only sound a clicking from the blinker on the dashboard.
The light turned green, and we turned down the road. A plastic bag drifted down the street in front of us, a modern-day tumbleweed in this ocean ghost town.
“Well, that’s weird,” Becca said, as we pulled into the driveway.
A dark purple Saab was parked in the driveway. It was an older model, around 1995, and a convertible. The black top stretched over the car like a swim cap. The hubcaps were lined in a tinted gold, that made the car look cheaper than it was, and it was obviously not maintained. Dirt and grime lined the sides of the wheels. There was definitely some neglect and hard driving going on.
“Lucy must have a renter,” Becca concluded.
Lucy Daniels was the old woman who owned the first floor of the house. In the three years I had been coming down with Becca, I had only seen her sunbathing on her back porch. She never went down to the water, or left the immediate vicinity of the backyard. Her floral-printed one-piece bathing suits were massive, like spandex moomoo’s, and her loose flesh was trying desperately to escape them at every turn. All of this was easy to think since she was such a wretched human being.
Becca’s dad (my father-in-law) Jim, hadn’t spoken to her in sometime, as they were constantly fighting over the property.
We each grabbed some bags, so we could make it in one trip. We walked past the car, and I smelled a strong odor, like sulfur and rotting fish. I stopped, trying to pick up where exactly it was coming from, but it was gone. I though nothing of it, and followed Becca up the first flight of stairs, where she had stopped by Lucy’s front door.
A poorly handwritten sign was placed in the window, it read: “This house is being rented, realtors please call for an appointment.” The blinds on either side of the door were drawn, and it was impossible to see inside.
Becca turned up the second set of stairs, and I walked a few steps behind, watching her ass move back and forth in her tight jeans. We had planned to work on getting pregnant during our weekend alone, and I was looking forward to the work. I reached out and gave her a quick playful smack on the butt, and she arched forward, and turned quickly to give me a look that said, “Can’t you wait until we at least get inside,” before flashing that beautiful smile of hers.
“Honestly David,” she scolded, “someone could see you doing that!”
“Like who?” I questioned.
“The... renter downstairs, he could be watching us right now!” She had added a spooky tone to her voice.
I smiled back, “we could invite him up for a show if you want…”
“Gross!” she exclaimed, freeing the hand that held her keys, and fingering through them, searching for the right one.
“I agree, gross.”
The door opened and we stepped into the dark main room. The sun was fully below the horizon now, but the only low light came from the large windows that looked out onto the porch, which offered a panoramic view of the sea. It was calm tonight, the tide only swelling slowly against the shore, a few lingering fisherman lining the darkening shore.
I put down the bunch of things I was carrying, and moved to hit some of the lights. Becca quickly ran down the hall on the left to hit the bathroom. I walked to the sliding glass doors and let myself out onto the porch.
As soon as the doors opened, the smell of salts hit me, and I was transported to every beach memory from my childhood. I closed my eyes and pictured the Cape Cod beaches, both on the shore and bay. I smiled despite the brisk November winds that cut through my loose jeans with an ease that bordered on simplicity. The difference in temperature between the street and the ocean side of the house was extreme, and I found myself wondering whether the water would still be warm enough to swim in, despite the air temperature.
Becca came to the open doors behind me, having to almost shout to be heard.
“What are you doing?!?”
“Nothing. Why?”
“You can’t leave the door open like that, the bugs will get in. My mom will flip.”
“Babe, it’s almost December, there aren’t any…”
The sound of the door sliding shut behind me ended the debate. I turned my back on the dark shifting mass and walked back into the house.
We started drinking, and made a fire in the fireplace, which consisted of turning a knob, getting the pilot lit, and observing the illusion of the fake logs “burning.”
I sipped whiskey and she had a glass of Pinot Grigio, blankets covering her legs as we sat and talked for hours.
“That car in the driveway was creepy,” she said, “and the way that all the shades were closed up… it was kinda scary.”
I thought about trying to scare her, tell her a story about the miscreant downstairs, get into her head a bit. It would be easy, she had a great imagination like that, and more often than not, it culminated in us holding each other tight in our bed back in Morris Plains. The vision of me playing the role of guardian, protector flashed in my head.
I leaned in for a kiss instead.
Before our lips touched, the unmistakable sound of the downstairs sliding door opening shook the room subtly. We paused; I looked at the clock. It was after midnight.
I stood up and walked to the window, and was surprised as a dark shape shuffled toward the path in the dune that led to the water. I suddenly felt exposed, a voyeur, and quickly turned away, shutting the long blinds.
There was an irrational fear that I had been seen, and when I sat back down by the fire, I was somewhat shaken.
“What happened?” Becca began, “Why are you so pale?”
There was distinct worry in her voice, and I didn’t want to play into it this time. I didn’t want to scare her for real.
“The guy downstairs...”
“It’s a man?”
“I think so. He just walked down to the beach,” my mind struggled for an explanation, “maybe he left something down there, or he’s drunk.”
“Oh.” Her response was small, and not fully without fear. “Take me to bed,” she finished.
We went to the back room, and while we held each other the way I had thought about earlier, I wished we hadn’t had to.
The next morning, all was forgotten, the sun had come and taken any fear away from the mystery neighbor downstairs, and we went about our day.
Becca cooked breakfast while I made coffee, and we played a few hands of Rummy before we fell almost effortlessly into lovemaking on the couch.
“I want to go for a walk,” she said afterwards, perspiration glistening on her bare chest.
“Sure,” I returned, “Let’s get dressed and go.”
She walked to the back of the house to get dressed, and I pulled on my boxers, looking out the glass doors, and found myself wondering if we’d see the guy from last night’s footprints in the morning sand.
We walked down the stairs together, they were the only way up and down to the second floor.
As I passed the door to the first floor, I strained to see into the space, but there was no break in the shades, no entry point for my walking gaze. We reached the walk, and I saw the purple car still parked in the driveway next to my truck.
The sand in the backyard was curiously devoid of any trace of tracks, although it appeared that there had been a boat or large object dragged to the house. A sea kayak under the porch verified this thought.
We turned towards the beach, and started out to the dunes. Just before getting to the beach path, I looked back at the first floor porch, at the door that had been opened the night before.
I swore I saw a quick movement in the swinging blinds.
We hit the beach and started walking. Typically, we take a right at the water’s edge, and don’t stop until we get to the end of the island, a good three-mile round trip. The day was unseasonably warm, and I removed my sweatshirt after a few minutes, allowing the sun to heat my black t-shirt. We reached the last jetty on the island, and when we climbed to the peak, we saw hundreds of cars, glittering on the littered beach.
There were trucks up and down the beach, and in front of all of them, men in waders were fishing. They had set up 10-foot poles, placed in the sand, and they sat in or stood by folding chairs, a cooler by their sides.
We looked down the beach, a line of men fishing the sea, and waited for a catch. Right in front of us, a middle-aged man began wading into the surf, taking the brunt of chest-high waves as the tip of his pole bent back and forth.
He would move in and out of the water, sometimes dragging and sometimes reeling. Eventually, he pulled what looked like a small shark from the water. He placed the pole back in its pipe, and walked to his chair. He pulled out some type of tool, and began going to work on the thing’s mouth. It was at this point covered in sand, and had ceased any strong movements.
When he picked it up after removing the hook, I felt myself gasp slightly, while Becca exclaimed “Oh,” flatly.
The creature was much bigger than either of us had thought, and its thickness in the middle allowed us to verify that it was in fact a fish, and not a shark as previously believed.
The fisherman walked back into the ocean, carrying the brown fish by its tail, and dipped it in the water, removing the accumulated sand. It was then that the shine of the fish caught my eyes, and I saw the deep green of its sides, and the tell-tale white belly. It had to have weighed at least 25 pounds.
“What kind of fish is that?’ Becca asked.
“Bass I think, Striper. Man, he’ll be eating that thing for a month.”
As I said this, the man submerged the fish fully, and seemed to will it back to life, the fish regained its strength, and began to whip its body back and forth. The fisherman let it go, and the fish disappeared into the foamy chop.
“Catch and release. Huh.” I said. I was surprised someone would just let something that size go.
“I’m not sure what’s worse,” Becca started, “catching the fish just to catch it, or killing it. I mean, think about the terror it must feel.”
“Or,” I returned, “think of the jubilation it feels when it’s let go. That’s got to be better than ending up as dinner. I guess it doesn’t matter either way, fish supposedly only have like a 5-second memory.”
“Well either way, I think it’s cruel.”
“Let’s go back,” I said, “there’s too much going on past here anyway.”
We turned and walked back to the house. Before making the final turn toward the dune, I noticed some fish bones dotted with maggots and flies, and thought again of the beautiful monster of a fish that the man had reeled in.
“No wonder they’re all fishing down there,” I thought aloud, “those Stripers are huge.”
We got back to the house without any sign of the mysterious visitor from downstairs. I still hadn’t told Becca about what I had seen the previous night, it would upset her.
Becca started cooking while I played some Solitaire, there was an unwritten rule about television when the two of us came down to the shore. There was a large 42” flat-screen, but we never turned it on. It felt simpler that way.
We ate steamed clams and a nice chicken salad, and broke out the wine. We each started with a glass before I moved on to Bud Light Lime, a new shore favorite.
The food was finished and we cleared the table, listening to music from Becca’s iPod as we played Rummy. The night extended and the beer brought a nice lightness to my head. I was smiling more, and I knew Becca was feeling it too. Her head began to droop toward the table, and I moved her to the couch to lie down.
I should mention it was only around 10 o’clock at the time, Becca’s an early riser, but that also means she’s quite the opposite of a night owl.
“Babe, let’s go to bed,” I implored, “You’re falling asleep.”
“I’m not.” Her insistence was cute, childlike.
“C’mon, let’s head back there.”
“No, I’m fine. Davey…”
Her use of that nickname meant a request was coming.
“Can you rub my legs?” she finished.
“Sure Babe, sure.”
Within 5 minutes she was out. I shuffled under the weight of her legs, and worked my way out from under her. She mumbled something, and turned in toward the back of the couch.
“Game over,” I said, and poured a glass of whiskey.
I started looking through Becca’s iPod for something to listen too, good whiskey music: David Allen Coe, Hank Jr., or Ray Lamontagne. All I found was some Miley Cyrus, proof that the younger generations are capable on outperforming their parents.
I decided to head down to my truck, where my own iPod was waiting. I kissed Becca on the forehead, and told her I’d be right back. She said something unintelligible, and rolled her head slightly.
I walked down the stairs, ignoring once again the lightless first-floor and its sign explaining the presence of a renter. Turning the corner to my car, I saw the familiar sight of the purple Saab parked in its usual spot.
I opened my car and grabbed the iPod, locked the door, and turned back to the side of the house. For no reason at all, I ran my fingers over the hood of the purple car, and felt how warm it was against my skin.
The night had dropped down in temperature, and it was easy to understand that the car had been running very recently. I shrugged and walked to the stairs.
When I reached the first landing, I tried peeking through the side window, to see if I could catch sight of any sign of life. As I was standing back up, the hallway light came on. It shook me, froze me in my tracks.
The door swung open violently, and I caught a glimpse of shining obsidian before I was pulled into the room, without even a chance to scream.
***
The fish good.
The fish and the cold and the dark good.
The sound of the sea, the underwater sound, the filled ears.
A slow heartbeat, the waiting.
The fish.
The big fish in the cold water.
Eateateateateateateateateat all winter.
So many fish in the rolling waves, the clean sand.
I eat until full and eat again.
Swimming and rolling and laughing in the cold black.
Resting so close in the manrooms.
My treat, my winter eateat.
And every now and then…
Every moon or so.
The Luck and the fight and the feed.
The stupid man and the long feed.
The land feed.
The special treat eateat.
***
When I woke up on the couch, David was gone. My head stung a bit, the beginnings of a hangover morning, but nothing too serious.
I looked across at the cable box for the time.
2:38
Shit.
Usually it was David, in this position. He always joked about being from a family of “couch-sleepers.” I got up, and rolled to my knees, standing up slowly as my eyes adjusted to the lights from the dining room table.
No David.
I called out then. Not afraid, not accusatory, not bitchy. Just a wondering where you are “David?!?”
Nothing. That was fine, he was probably back in bed, TV on, or some book propped on his chest. I stumbled back down the hall.
In the bedroom, the bed was made up as it had been earlier that day. That’s when I started to worry. The “David?” that came out next had a tinge of concern, and most certainly, fear.
I checked the rooms, and he wasn’t in the house.
I called his phone, and it went straight to voicemail. It must have been off.
I screamed then, and when there was no reply, even though I waited at least ten seconds, strained to hear a reply, there was nothing.
I was back in the kitchen, and I caught some movement on the porch, before it disappeared. Walking there, my fear mounted. I turned the blinds to get a better view, but before I could open them, a hand went flat against the window. It was webbed.
I ran screaming for the stairs as I heard the thing outside fumble with the door. Luckily we had locked it earlier.
“David!!!” the name a shriek in my mouth now as I ran out the door, down the stairs. I reached the first landing, and stopped. The lights were on in the first floor, and the door was open.
David’s iPod was on the landing, and his shirt was on the floor in the house. I walked towards it like a mummy. My legs were on autopilot. I bent down to feel the shirt, smelled it deeply and there was my David. He was here.
I looked around frantically, and found a block with the chef’s knives sticking out. I grabbed the meanest looking one, and started down the hallway.
I had never been this deep into Lucy’s house, that old bitch, but I realized instantly that the floor plan was exactly the same, and that there would be rooms on both sides. I snuck into the first bedroom on the left, surveyed it quickly, and moved to the bathroom that joined it to the next bedroom.
Nothing.
The next bedroom held more of the same. As I crossed the hallway to the third bedroom, I noticed that the second bathroom’s door was closed. I reached out my hand to turn the knob, but the pressure from my hand swung the door on its own.
This bathroom was somewhat different from the ones on our floor. It had clearly been outfitted for an elderly person, a person of considerable size. There were handrails everywhere, and a large walk-in tub that was almost a Jacuzzi.
David was suspended over the tub. I stared at him dumbly. Nothing escaped my mouth, no words no breath.
His eyes were blank. He was shirtless, and below his ribcage, most of him was gone. I stepped forward. His legs were still attached to his torso, but it looked as though his insides had been scraped out, like a pumpkin on Halloween. The guts were in a pile at the bottom of the tub, and when I looked back up, I realized I could see the front of his spine as he hung there.
I vomited in the tub, vomited all over his insides, and ran back into the hallway. Tears began to well up in my eyes as my body remembered to breathe. I stumbled forward, only concerned with getting away from what I had just seen, getting to the police.
There was a noise behind me. I wasn’t quite a click, it sounded deep and guttural, like someone choking on the word “chuck.”
I turned slowly, and something was standing at the end of the hallway. It was the size of a skinny man. I recognized its hands at once. It took a step toward me and seemed to smile, revealing a wide jagged smile filled with glistening teeth.
I ran then, fast, right to the door. It was locked, and I broke my silence with a rage-filled scream as I turned the handle, pushing and pulling on the door.
The thing was at the opening of the hallway now; it walked slowly, and had skin that looked smooth while as rough as a shark’s at the same time.
I made a run for the sliding doors. They were open, and I flung myself through them and out to the porch and the November night air. He was gaining speed, and as I threw my leg over the railing to get down, he almost grabbed me.
I started sprinting to the corner of the house, to get to the street, but it landed in front of me, forcing me to turn around.
I swear it was laughing, a sick clicking laugh that shook me.
I turned and ran to the beach. The sand seemed to slow it down, but it was still gaining. I ran over the dune and to the water’s edge. It stopped twenty feet away and cocked its grey head, and for the first time, I saw its eyes clearly. They were pure black, and spread too far apart for humanity.
I stepped backwards into the water. Again, it looked at me quizzically, cocking it’s head to the other side.
I had a plan now, turning, I took a few large steps into the water, the cold cutting into my legs, and dove in.
My breath caught in my chest. I surfaced and stood in water up to my chest, and felt nothing below. I opened my mouth to breath, willed my body to function, and noticed how bright the stars were so far from anything and anyone.
My breath returned, and with it came the pain of the cold water. I pumped my legs for circulation, and looked quickly at the shore. The thing was gone, and I had a horrifying realization as I felt something sweep strongly against my leg.
Something grabbed my hair, pulling me under briefly, toying with me, and I made a break for land, cursing my stupidity.
I swam hard, kicking and pulling with my hands. I was making decent progress, and only felt a quick stabbing pain at the backs of my heels, before it was gone. I got to about 10 feet away from the beach when I tried to stand up and collapsed immediately.
The pain was cruel and monstrous. I reached down with my hands into the black surf and felt my ankles. The tendons had been shredded. I turned and he was standing above me smiling. Water dripped down his body (I was now sure it was a man somehow) revealing pumping gills along his ribcage.
The smile, those rows and rows, got me moving again. I scrambled on my hands, dragging myself toward the shore, and knew he was walking behind me.
I screamed a few times, at him, at God, for David, but the surf always found my mouth, and I lay in the sand, exhausted, cold and bleeding. I rolled to my back, and he was looking down at me, cocking his head and smiling.
He reached his clawed and webbed hand towards my shirt, and ripped it away from me. He shredded my pants, and I lay on the ground, sputtering and crying, naked on the beach with this thing, helpless.
He ducked down to a knee, and craned his rounded head toward my face, and opened his mouth wide. It smelled of the sea and blood. He lowered his mouth to my white neck, and I could feel the small points of his teeth resting on my throat.
He bit down slowly, and my breathing became wet.
I saw him spit something aside before he grabbed my ankles, and began dragging me back to the house.
The stars were darkening, and the faint glimmer above reminded me once more of the morning’s Striper, swimming out in the diminishing ocean behind me, as my eyes closed.
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