Alan Baxter - The Gulp - Five Tales of Horror

Despite his determination, sometime after midnight, the muffled thumps and laughter of the party still in full swing below, he fell asleep.

He stood on that slick, blackened beach and stared out over a turgid sea. Something huge and bright and red boomed in the sky and thick clouds blossomed down, arcing with purple lightning. The creatures began to fall. He turned a circle, saw the beach was entirely surrounded by thick bush. Another sudden split in the sky, out there over the land, bright red like an explosion, and another rain of creatures. Some looked dead already, falling limp and unmoving. Others writhed, some vigorously, some weakly. Surely the fall would kill them? The ones over the ocean might survive if they didn’t drown, but these, slamming down into the bush from thousands of feet up, would be smashed to pulp. He squinted into the sudden and drenching icy rain, tried to see what they were, but even in the stark flashes of lightning, they were featureless. Twisted bodies, often too many limbs, tumbling and turning.

He heard scraping sounds behind and spun around, saw those horrible flat, wide lobsters crawling from the surf onto the slimed black sand. Only these were huge, the size of small cars, and their bodies swarmed with hundreds of the small ones, skittering all over their hard carapaces. Babies , he thought. We ate their babies .

He turned again, nervous of the tall, pale creatures wanting him, but they were nowhere to be seen. Some dream fugue part of his mind suggested they wouldn’t come, not yet. Because they weren’t asleep yet, they still partied downstairs. But they would come, soon enough. He wanted to run away and started along the beach, looking for a way out. But the bush was thick and unbroken. He reached one end of the beach and the rocks were rough and climbable, but only to a certain point before they became treacherous and led only to another small cove, this one all rock, the ocean crashing against the stone. He stood on a jutting point and bellowed his rage.

No one heard.

In the early hours of Tuesday morning, dawn smudging the sky outside, he was woken by movement. Ciara crawled into bed beside him.

“We need to talk,” he said. “Please.”

“Later, Pat.” Her voice was thick with sleep and booze. She stank of alcohol. And something he couldn’t place in his half-awake state.

“Please,” he said. “Ciara, it’s too important.”

She turned onto her side, but reached one hand back, patted his chest. “Okay, but in the morning. I’m so tired.”

He sat up, stared at her as her breathing sank instantly into the long, deep cadence of sleep. Maybe he should pick her up while she was passed out, carry her to the campervan and just drive away. Leave everything behind and get out while he still could.

His heart raced at the thought, it was so simple and so perfect.

Soft voices came from the hallway outside. Patrick hopped up, went to the door and opened it a crack to peer out. The four band members came through the door at the far end of the hall. The one that led to the attic where the old man lived. The four of them looked fresh, invigorated even. Did they draw power from the old man somehow? The man who made me, shall we say , Edgar had said.

“Let’s feed,” Edgar said quietly. “See you all in the morning.”

Shirley laughed. “Sweet dreams, my brothers.”

They each slipped into their own rooms using keys from their pockets. At the last moment, Edgar paused and turned to stare right at Patrick. Patrick gasped, jumped, but Edgar only smiled. He winked again, slowly, then went into his room.

“That’s it,” Patrick said, closing his door. “That’s fucking it !”

He dressed and looked at their few belongings. They were backpacking, so travelling light. Mostly clothes and toiletries. He could easily just leave all that behind. He put his phone and wallet into a bumbag he always wore when they travelled across borders. His passport and other important documents were in there. If they lost everything else, this small and ridiculous bag on a belt was all he really needed. Ciara had one too. He searched her side of the bed.

As he looked for her stuff, she moaned and rolled over. Her back arched gently off the mattress and her lips fluttered, almost as though she dreamed of being kissed. Her breath stuttered softly out. Her cheeks seemed to tighten against her skull.

“Fuck it!” Patrick muttered.

Let’s feed…

He found Ciara’s small leather bumbag half under the bed and quickly checked it. Passport, wallet, phone. All the essentials. He strapped that to himself too, his in front, hers behind. Then he turned to the bed, carefully moved back the covers. She wore only an oversized t-shirt and shorts, but that would have to do. He couldn’t hope to dress her.

He slipped his arms underneath and lifted her off the bed, then remembered the closed bedroom door.

“Fuck it!”

He put her down, hurried over and opened the door. Then he remembered the front door downstairs. And the door to the campervan. It had a sliding side door, he could put her in that way, but how would he carry her and open it up. And what about the keys.

A slight sob escaped him. “Think, Patrick!” he told himself. He checked the bumbag and the keys were there. But should he open up all the doors first and then grab Ciara and run?

“What are you doing?”

He gasped, turned back to the bed. Ciara stared at him, frowning. Her eyes were dark as night even though dawn was slowly brightening the room. He was so tired, so confused.

“Ciara, I want to go. I want to go right now.”

She furrowed her brow, like she was seeing him for the first time. “Patrick?”

“I’m serious, Ciara. Please. I can’t explain, and I’m sure you’ll understand more once we get some distance between us and this place. I want to go. We have to go.”

“Patrick, I’m tired. Too tired.”

“Ciara!”

“But okay. Just not right now. It’s the middle of the night.”

“It’s dawn.”

“You know what I mean. And what about Torsten and Simone?”

“I… I don’t know.”

She patted the bed beside herself. “Rest, yeah? For now. In the morning, the four of us, we’ll talk about it.”

“I just want to go!”

“All right. But in the morning. We’ll tell Torsten and Simone.”

“If they won’t come, we leave anyway, yeah? Ciara? Please?”

She gave him a crooked half-smile, but her eyes were sad. “Okay, Pat. Okay.”

He drew in a ragged breath and came back to the bed. As Ciara lay down again, he unclipped the two bumbags and tucked both safely just under his side of the bed. He didn’t think he’d sleep any more, but he was so very tired. He drifted in and out of fitful, restless dozing.

The winter sun was bright through the room when he woke. He jerked up, turned to see Ciara, but her side of the bed was empty. Looking at his watch, it was past noon. How had he slept so long? He got up, headed for the door, then paused. He fetched the two bumbags, put them both on as he had the night before, then zipped up his baggy black hoodie. It covered both well enough.

Downstairs a few stragglers from the previous night’s party loitered around on the couches and armchairs. No sign of the band or his friends. He went back upstairs and checked the siblings’ room, but it was empty, the bed neatly made. Or not even slept in.

Back downstairs he searched the kitchen and other parts of the house. Nothing. Back in the lounge room he approached the nearest reveller, a small blonde woman with goth makeup wearing a tight, short-skirted dress and Doc Martens.

“Have you seen my friends?”

“I dunno. Who are your friends?”