Alan Baxter - The Gulp - Five Tales of Horror

He sensed eyes on him and turned. A tall, thin, pale figure stood just past the tree line, watching him. Its long arms hung at its sides, blood red nails pointing at the slime. Ribs and hips jutted from that too pale skeletal frame, red eyes in their black nests of cobwebbed veins never left his, never blinked. Another joined it. Then a third. Then a fourth, though this one was a little different, slightly altered in shape. Three male and a female he realised, his thoughts almost too slippery to lock down. Something roamed back and forth just behind the four, in the shadows of the trees. Something like them but taller, more bent and crooked. They raised their long-fingered hands, the four, and beckoned to him. He shivered, knowing that to go to them meant certain doom, but compelled to do just that. He tried to cry out a denial, but only managed a broken croak. He turned to run, slipping and sliding on the rotten ichor that covered the beach, washing up with the churning waves. Out there, the creatures continued to fall from rents in the heavy, lightning-struck clouds.

He ran anyway, falling, hands slapping into the ooze that stank like rotten flesh. He staggered up, ran again, fell again. Over and over he climbed to his feet, ran, and fell, but he refused to look back towards the trees, refused to even acknowledge their presence, beckoning him. Over and over again he ran and fell until, exhausted, sobbing, he lay in the fetid slime and didn’t try to rise again.

Patrick woke as the grey light of dawn smudged the windows where he’d neglected to draw the curtains. He felt more exhausted than when he’d gone to bed, his dreams fresh and frightening in his memory, but tattering and fluttering away even as he tried to hold onto them.

He sat up, bereft. Ciara lay next to him, calm and relaxed in her sleep. In the low light, she seemed thinner, her cheeks hollowed by shadows. But he smiled, glad to see her there. She’d come to bed eventually, and today they could leave.

He didn’t want to wake her even an hour later as the sun streamed in through the window. Another bright, clear, blue day, but cold outside, dew glittering on the grass below. Patrick trudged downstairs, found Howard and Edgar talking quietly in the kitchen as they worked on breakfast. A huge pan of scrambled eggs sat on the stove. If nothing else, the band were feeding them well.

“Mornin’, champ,” Edgar said. “Sleep well?”

“Not really, no.”

“That’s a shame. After your early night and everything.”

“I seem to have bad dreams here.”

Howard laughed. “Everyone has bad dreams here.”

Patrick frowned. They were still in makeup. Could he fool himself any longer? It clearly wasn’t makeup. But what the hell did that mean. The two stared at him with their dark, crimson eyes. Their red nails glittered. Patrick’s dreams skittered around the edges of his mind, details smudging even as he tried to hold onto them.

“You can go whenever you want,” Howard said.

“What?”

“The Gulp has a habit of swallowing people,” Edgar said. “But sometimes it spits one out.”

“What?” Patrick said again.

“Mornin’ all youse cunts.”

They turned to see Clarke stroll in, grinning.

“Seen a ghost, Patrick?” he asked.

Patrick ran a hand through his hair, trying to get a grip on the morning’s proceedings. Leave, that’s all there was to it. They were leaving today. Concentrate on that.

Shirley came in, went to the counter. “Morning, fuckers. I’ll get the toast on. Get your friends up, Pat, or the eggs will be cold.”

“Fuck.” At a loss, he did as he was told. He knocked on the Germans’ door first, and Torsten grunted a query. “Breakfast is ready.”

“Okay, be right there.”

He went into his own room, sat on the edge of the bed. Ciara turned over and smiled up at him. “Morning.” She looked pale, and he thought she really had lost weight. Her cheeks were hollow, not just shadowed.

“You okay?”

“Sure. Just really tired, is all.”

“Sleep well?”

She grimaced. “Ugh. Nightmares, I tell you. These tall creatures with black and red eyes, chasing me.”

A shiver passed through Patrick. “They catch you?”

“Every time! And they kinda suck something out of me, like they’re draining me, then I wake up. Then it starts over again.”

Patrick shook his head. “Fuck this place. We’re leaving today, heading on towards Sydney, yeah?”

“Sure, if you want.”

“I do want.”

“Okay. You all right?”

She looked suddenly scared. Was she taking his lead? If he seemed scared, did she take that seriously? Perhaps, and if so, that was okay with him. “Yeah, I’m all right. I just want to get on, that’s all.”

They sat around the big kitchen table and tucked into the eggs. For a couple of minutes it was a companionable silence, then Edgar said, “So what’s the plan for today?”

“Heading off,” Patrick said quickly. “On up the coast towards Sydney.”

“You don’t fancy staying a bit longer? You’re welcome, you know.”

“Thanks, but I think–”

“I want to stay,” Simone said. She glanced at Clarke and gave him a sly smile. He winked at her.

Ciara looked from Simone to Clarke and back again. “Oh! That’s where you went last night?”

Clarke shrugged, grinned at his breakfast.

“We need to get on,” Patrick said.

“Stick around for the week,” Edgar said. “We’re playing in Enden on Friday, you could head off from there.”

“It’s only Monday,” Patrick said, and hated the edge of panic in his voice.

“Farmer’s Markets today,” Shirley said. “This afternoon. You should check them out, down at Carlton Beach.”

“Oh, hey, get me some bugs!” Howard said. “I’ll make a special dinner.”

“Fucking bugs?” Patrick said.

Howard laughed. “You heard of Moreton Bay Bugs? No? Sometimes they’re called slipper lobsters or flathead lobsters. Anyway, they’re a kinda of lobster, obviously. There’s a variety you can only get right here, around this part of the coast. Go north of Enden or south of Monkton and you don’t get them any more. A few of the local fisherman always have them for sale at the markets. Get a bunch and I’ll make this amazing chili pasta dish with them for dinner.”

“Sounds amazing,” Ciara said.

“It’s to die for,” Edgar said with a grin. He looked at Patrick as he said it.

“Okay,” Torsten said. “Let’s stick around a bit longer, yeah?”

“Sure,” Ciara said.

“I want to,” Simone said, and shifted her chair nearer to Clarke’s. He leaned over and kissed her. The other band members laughed.

Edgar still held Patrick’s gaze.

Patrick tore his eyes away. “I thought we agreed to leave today.”

“Does it matter?” Torsten said. “We have no real agenda.” He rubbed under his eyes and Patrick thought the German looked a little pale and drawn too. All three of his friends did.

“I want to hear the band play again,” Ciara said. “You really don’t mind us staying here the week?” She looked at Patrick. “It’s free accommodation too!” She quickly turned back to Edgar. “We’ll buy some food and booze, of course! We don’t expect you to keep us.”

Edgar shrugged. “I already told ya, me cassa, you cassa.”

“Tell you what,” Patrick said. “We’ll stay if you four wash off your makeup!”

Edgar laughed, the other three grinned.

“Patrick, don’t be rude!” Ciara said. She looked at him with a shocked expression.

“How is that rude?”

“Excuse him,” Ciara said to the band.

“Don’t excuse me!” Patrick looked around the group and they all looked back, every one of them with some kind of surprise or pity in their eyes. How was he the odd one out here? “You won’t take it off? Or you can’t?”