Alan Baxter - The Gulp - Five Tales of Horror

And it was. Smooth, gently glowing with reflected light, the myriad tendrils inside languidly writhing. The pinkie finger-sized hooks and curls of the outer edges of the egg lay relaxed in the water, shifting ever so slightly in the soft current from the filter. Waves of rainbow iridescence rippled across it, mesmerising in their beauty.

He glanced at his right hand, the one he’d held the egg in. It still itched, the index fingertip still burned. He saw tiny marks on the pad of his finger, minuscule bumps like gooseflesh. He pressed at it with his thumb, but there was no pain. The itch across his palm was distant, not really much to worry about. He dropped his hands and stared at the hypnotic beauty of the thing he’d caught, glistening under the aquarium light.

Troy startled when his phone rang. As he pulled it from his pocket to answer he caught sight of the time. Just after 9pm. He’d sat for nearly four hours staring into his tank, but it only felt like minutes. His stomach rumbled with hunger. The call was from his mother.

“Hey, Mum.”

“How are you, darling?”

“Just fine, thanks. You?”

“Oh, you know. I’m still alive, ha ha.” She did that a lot. Not a laugh but saying the words “ha ha” like they were punctuation.

Troy didn’t have anything to say, just stared at the egg with the phone pressed to his ear.

“Anyway,” his mum said after a moment. “Lunch on Sunday, your brother and sister are both coming, Dad’ll be there, of course. Can you come?”

Far out, Christmas had only been a few weeks ago, and she was gathering the family again already? “Yeah, sure. What’s the occasion?”

“Oh, Troy, does there need to be a reason? We’re a family.”

Family . He smiled at his egg. “Yeah, of course. Okay. I’ll see you about noon on Sunday.”

She was saying something else as he took the phone from his ear and hit the End Call button. Absently, knowing he was likely to forget, he tapped ‘Lunch noon’ into his calendar for Sunday and set an alarm for 1 Hour Before Event.

His stomach roiled again and he realised he still hadn’t eaten. His phone was still in his hand. The time said 11.15pm.

“What the fuck?”

Troy tore his gaze form the tank and turned his back. A sensation of loss and longing gusted through him, but his mind also cleared a little. Hunger dragged at him. Refusing to look back at the fish tank, he walked into the kitchen corner and put together a cheese and ham jaffle. Quick and easy. He stood at the counter and ate it with his back still to the egg.

He desperately wanted to look again, but a sense of disquiet tugged at him. He resisted the urge and went into the bathroom, showered, brushed his teeth, and then crossed the hall to his bedroom, all the time ignoring the lounge room behind him. He fell into bed, scratching absently at his right palm, and exhaustion swept over him.

He had the dream again. The one with the slippery, black beach, the red, gaping sky, the things falling. He’d had it on and off his whole life. He felt like it meant something, but he wasn’t sure what. He always mostly forgot the details on waking. His phone alarm went off at 4.30am, still set from the day before. He rolled over, looked at it for a moment, then ended it. Reset it for 7.30. He’d skip fishing for today.

It seemed only moments later that it went off again, and he sat up in bed with a groan.

“At least it’s Friday,” he muttered.

He staggered into the front room and went to the kitchenette in the corner, started coffee. He realised he was avoiding looking at his tank, but that was okay. He needed coffee first, and more food. He crunched Vegemite toast as the percolator coughed and spluttered on the stovetop, then he poured the coffee and finally turned to look at the egg.

Immediately the sense of wonder filled him again, the urge to nurture. Mug cupped in both hands, he went and sat on the arm of the armchair beside the tank, the closest he could get and still sit down. The egg glowed, it seemed to exude contentment. The vallis plant all along the back still had those small blisters, only larger. The normally tall, flat leaves seemed to sag and curl slightly. He noticed the fish were still gathered up the other end and they all looked… odd. The guppies and tetras were humped, like their spines had arched upwards. The swam a little listlessly, gills wide, mouths working harder than usual. The small catfish, usually industrious little creatures always vacuuming at the gravel with their bristly noses, drifted a little lacklustre. Their usual colour was muted, pale.

Was the egg poisoning them somehow? Troy pulled out all his test kits, adding drops of the relevant chemicals to small glass vials of water from the tank. pH level, ammonia, nitrite, nitrate. It all came up good. He was as diligent with his fishkeeping as he was with everything else in life and prided himself on the health of his pets.

He frowned. Why were they so… affected?

He did a twenty-five per cent or so water change just in case and added a little conditioner to the new water he put in to avoid any pH shock. Then he did a dose of Melafix, a general antibacterial. He did a maintenance dose once a week on Mondays anyway, but another one wouldn’t hurt. He usually dosed the tank for three straight days whenever he put new fish in, so he supposed the addition of the beautiful egg counted the same.

Satisfied he’d done all he could, he sat watching again. His phone rang. As he tapped to answer, his eye caught the display. 9.30am and Boyd calling. His boss, and he was an hour late.

He quickly put some gravel into his voice. “Hello?”

“You planning on coming to work today? I was generous yesterday, but you were only ten minutes late then.”

“I’m really sorry, Boyd. I’m sick as a dog today. I meant to call you earlier, but must have passed out again.”

Boyd’s voice softened immediately. “You okay? I mean, you need help?”

“No, thanks. Maybe something I ate? I’ve been up all night. I’m really sorry, man. I’ll be there Monday.”

“Okay, well take care. Go to the doctor if you don’t improve.”

“I will.”

“Call if you need a lift or something.”

Troy smiled. Boyd Turner was a good guy. He’d taken over the factory when his father retired, keeping it in the family. The man was only about forty-five but managed that rare combination of being one of the lads and a respectable elder. Troy hated to let him down. “I can walk to Tanning Street Medical Centre in a few minutes if I need to. Thanks though.”

“Okay,” Boyd said. “Well, you take care and I’ll see you on Monday.”

“See you then.”

He hung up and saw his phone battery was low. He moved to the couch where a charger cable lay along the arm, always ready, and plugged it in. His palm itched and he looked at it, saw the same bumpy flesh across it as he’d noticed on the fingertip before. The finger had become more misshapen, the bumps pressing together to make his fingertip appear swollen and irregular. The burning had intensified, his hand stiff and tingly when he clenched it. Weird, he thought, as he watched the egg.

It was his phone that distracted him again a few minutes later, this time Brendan Testa calling. Troy’s best friend since high school and an all-around good guy. “Yo, Bren. What’s up? You not working?”

“Working? I finished an hour ago.”

Troy pulled the phone from his ear, looked at the display. 6.02 pm. What the actual fuck? How did this keep happening? “Oh yeah, right,” he said. “Lost track of time.”

“Pub tonight? Missed you last night.”

Troy decided to play along with the lie he’d used earlier. “Yeah, must have eaten something bad, I was sick all night. Slept it off today though. See you about seven.” His stomach grumbled. He’d gone hours without eating again. “Might grab a bistro dinner, actually.”