Alan Baxter - The Gulp - Five Tales of Horror

Patrick wondered about the other part of his dream, that was only flitting around his mind in disconnected gossamer images. Something tall and thin. Some sensation of loss. He wanted to ask Torsten and Ciara about that but couldn’t find the words.

He watched the film, uncomfortable. And he had even more reason to look forward to the morning and their onward journey.

Halfway through the movie, Edgar got up and offered drinks. Patrick had a bourbon, but decided it would only be the one. He didn’t want to feel again what he’d felt that morning. Ciara and Torsten both accepted a second round a little later as MacReady dipped red hot wire in a petri dish on screen. Ciara threw Patrick a surprised look when he declined, but she said nothing.

When the film ended, Edgar said, “Shots!”

“Oh, not again,” Torsten said.

Edgar went to the drinks dresser anyway and turned back with several shot glasses of the pale green Blind Eye Moonshine. He walked over, offered them around.

“I don’t think so,” Torsten said.

“Come on, man! Just one. Especially if you’re leaving tomorrow. You can’t get this anywhere else in the world.”

Torsten laughed and took a glass. “Just one!”

“Same for me,” Ciara said, taking one.

Edgar turned to Patrick, but he shook his head.

“You sure?” Edgar asked.

“Yeah, really. Thanks though.”

“Okay, it’s your loss.”

The band took one each and Edgar said, “Imagination!”

They all downed the shots. The band made no reaction at all, but Torsten and Ciara both shuddered and grimaced.

“It’s so weird,” Ciara said. “The sensation is kinda horrible, but it’s also delicious.” She drew in a long breath. “And there’s that lovely spread of warmth. Really, what is this stuff.”

Edgar smiled, and shook his head. “Another?”

“No, thanks,” Patrick said. “Come on, let’s go to bed.”

Ciara shook his hand off her forearm. “It’s barely after ten o’clock.”

“You know, I will have another,” Torsten said.

“Me too!” Ciara said, casting a defiant glance at Patrick.

“Shirley, you want to get the drinks?” Edgar said. “I feel like playing a song.”

Several guitars were on their stands along one wall behind a sofa and Edgar picked one up. Patrick had a sudden and urgent desire to not hear the man sing. He didn’t want to hear that strange not-quite-Gaelic language again. His gut shivered with a kind of trepidation.

“You sure you won’t come to bed?” he asked Ciara. He tried to put a little intent into his voice, tried to make something tempting of his expression like he wanted to spend some private time with his girlfriend. But his discomfort must have simply made him look weird.

Ciara frowned, then laughed, a little embarrassed. “You can crash if you like. Are you feeling okay?”

“A little off if I’m honest. Will you come with me?”

She tipped her head to one side. “You really want me to? I’d like to stay and hear Edgar play.” Her eyes seemed more challenging than sympathetic.

Patrick chewed his lower lip, uncertain. Should he insist on her coming? Would she, even if he did? And why was he so uncomfortable?

“You go,” Ciara said. “I promise I’ll follow you up soon, okay? I’m tired too. Maybe half an hour, I’ll join you.”

Patrick nodded. He could hardly insist she come now when she’d made such a seemingly reasonable offer. “Okay.”

Edgar grinned and perched on the arm of a couch, put the guitar on his knee. Patrick almost ran up the stairs, so desperate was he not to hear the man’s song.

He waited half an hour, and Ciara didn’t come. He thought about going back down, checking on her. But he’d looked like such a fool if he pulled a stunt like that. They were leaving the next day, he decided to focus on that. He got ready for bed, brushed his teeth, took a leak, then padded back across the hall to his room.

He’d been in bed only a few minutes, still no sign of Ciara, when he heard a sound. He froze, listened hard. Something was moving above the ceiling. He remembered the high, A-frame roof of The Manor, imagined there must be quite an attic up there.

The sound stopped for a moment, then resumed. Something moving, something quite large. Then definite footsteps. Was a person up there? One of the band?

He heard Simone’s voice from next door. Something in German, and he caught Torsten’s name. He smiled. If Torsten was heading to bed, surely Ciara would be up any moment. He turned his ear back to the ceiling, wondering at the possibility of a person there, but was distracted again by another voice from the room next door.

“Not Torsten. It’s Clarke.”

Patrick sat up in bed, alarmed, then hurried to the adjoining door and put his ear to it. Clarke was so quiet and unassuming compared to the others in the band.

“Clarke? What you want?”

“Torsten is enjoying a drink and a song downstairs. You want some company?”

“Clarke. I don’t know.”

“I’ve seen the way you look at me. You like what you see, huh?”

Patrick frowned. If he was honest, Clarke was probably the best looking of the guys. They were all lean, that hard-body rock star aesthetic. The three of them all had long hair, Edgar blond and the other two black, whether natural or dyed he couldn’t tell. But Clarke’s hair was thick and shining, his jaw square, strong cheekbones. And he had that quiet, brooding thing going on.

“I’ve got a little drink for us,” Clarke said. His voice had moved into the room now, Patrick imagined him at the foot of Simone’s bed.

“What is it? Not the moonshine?”

Clarke laughed. “Of course the Blind Eye Moonshine. Come on, just a sip.”

“I don’t know.”

Patrick fought an urge to swing the door wide, confront Clarke, tell the bastard to leave Simone alone. That would be the worst white knighting. She was a grown-up, she didn’t need saving. Not yet anyway. If she tried to send Clarke away and he refused, then Patrick would get involved.

Simone’s bed creaked. “Clarke, I don’t know.”

“How about I try to convince you?”

“Oh? How?”

“Here, take this. Have a drink. Just a sip. That’s the way. Now lie back and spread these lovely long legs.”

Simone gasped.

“Good?” Clarke asked, a little muffled.

“Oh… OH!”

Patrick shook his head and moved away from the door. It was all their business now. And if Clarke was so certain Torsten wouldn’t disturb them, perhaps it was a safe bet that Ciara would stay for more drinks too. He felt at a loss, stranded on his own in a crowded house.

The noises from the next room became more urgent, more excited. Patrick got back into bed and pressed the pillow over his head. Eventually, despite all his discomforts, he fell asleep. And dreamed.

He stood on a beach surrounded by thick, verdant bush. Strangely ancient vegetation, thick trees with even thicker undergrowth. He couldn’t imagine being able to fight his way through it, but where was the town? A stench of rot filled his nose, made his bile rise. He looked down to see the gravelly black sand was slick with even blacker, oily slime. Rain fell, cold and stinging against his face, stuck his hair flat to his head. The wind was cold and heavy, pendulous clouds, arcing with streaks of purple lightning, filled the lowering sky. He almost felt as though he would be able to reach up and touch them. Gaping red wounds opened in the clouds and things fell, far out near the horizon. Things that writhed and flapped and flexed as they tumbled down. Then nearer, close enough to see some details, though most was lost to silhouette through the haze of rain and darkness. Was it night or a stormy day? Some creatures had seemingly too many limbs, certainly more than four. Some had appendages that whipped like tentacles in the wind of their falling. They hit the turbulent waves and sank away.