Tim Meyer - The Switch House

“I recall, yes, I recall.”

“Where is she now?” Means put out his arms, resting his palms on the edge of the bar. He didn’t know how long he could support his weight like this—maybe a few seconds—and then lifted his leg so he could plant his rear on the cushioned stool. His other leg couldn’t handle the shift in weight and gave out, causing him to fall to the floor.

The barkeep heehawed. Another gut-shaking outburst followed. “Sure are a persistent bastard, aren’t ya?”

Harnessing a few shreds of strength, Means rolled over. He faced the barkeep, the reason his brain would manufacture nightmares for every sleep to come. His lips parted, revealing teeth as yellow as a ripe banana. More laughter came from the insidious proprietor; it echoed in the empty chamber that was Siren’s End.

“You fed us to those things,” Means said, his lips stinging with a numb sensation. He sat up, his spine feeling like it had separated in several places. “You… sent us to that island.”

“Aye, I did.” The barkeep was pleasantly okay with this fact, causing Means cheeks to burn with indignation. “If it’s any consolation, I take no pleasure in feeding them. They mean nothing to me.”

A lie. A bold lie. His smiling face told Means that he enjoyed the arrangement very much. Too much.

“You’re a liar. A traitor to the Royal Navy.”

The barkeep shrugged. “Perhaps. Perhaps, my boy. Perhaps.”

Means felt a surge of energy flow through him, and he launched himself to his feet. The sudden movement caught the barkeep by surprise. The man’s eyes flared, his lips naturally forming a tight oval. He backed away, seemingly expecting Means to clamber over the bar and begin his assault, a barrage of blows that would leave him bloody or worse. Dead, dead like the islands his little monsters ruled.

“Do I scare you, old man?” Means asked.

The barkeep didn’t respond. He stared at Means, holding the dirty glass out in front of him like a pointy knife.

Means bared his teeth. “I should kill you.”

The barkeep’s rigid expression broke, and his twisted smile returned. “You won’t hurt me. You won’t dare. You’ve seen what the women are capable of.”

“You are a devil.”

“Of sorts.”

Means couldn’t believe what he was about to ask. “What sort of devil are you?”

The barkeep brayed with more laughter, a deafening outburst that threatened Means’s eardrums.

“Man,” the barkeep said, his voice barely above a whisper. “The worst devil of them all.”

40 Hours Ago

A pillar of fire in front of him and Means realizes the fore mast is burning. He turns and realizes the main mast has been set aflame, too. His men are scurrying across the deck, searching for either means of escape or recovery. Judging from the chaos, it seems the latter isn’t likely. Men are abandoning ship, jumping overboard head first into the rough waters below. The entire stock of rowboats has been deployed, already gone amidst the fog, the all-encompassing white glow that surrounds them all.

He quickly wonders how he ended up here. He remembers Siren’s End, the barkeeper drawing them a map to the island located a little less than fifty nautical miles from where they had sat and drank ale, and ate until they slipped into mini comas.

An Island of Women, he had said, which, to men who’d spent a great deal of time on the sea and limited hours amongst the company of women, sounded heavenly. They had set course at once and sailed west, toward the location of this great mystery.

An Island of Women, Means remembers thinking. If Isabella is anywhere, she is there.

Without much effort, they found the island. They discovered the women. But what happened after was very far from what the crew had envisioned upon hearing the barkeep’s tale.

What they had found there was death.

Means shakes away the haunted memory of their visit. If he wants to survive, he needs to focus on just that, not past tribulations. He pushes himself to his feet and scrambles toward the edge of the ship. He looks down into the turbulent waters, eyeing the majority of his cowardly crew. They’re swimming in the water. No, not swimming. Thrashing.

They’re not alone.

The women are with them.

Feeding on them.

Their screams echo across the sea. The encroaching fog envelops them. All that’s left of them are their final cries for mercy.

Means turns back to the deck. The fire is out of control now, spreading down the masts, conquering most of the boom and the roof of the captain’s quarters. His materials, most importantly the portrait of his Isabella and the diamond intended for her finger only, are most likely on their way to becoming char and ash. A tower of fire stands tall over the bow. There are minutes left before the flames will travel to the deck and burn away the last remaining lumber of the sinking ship.

There’s no rescuing King’s Folly. They say a captain should always go down with his ship, but that’s not for him. He has a reason to live—he has Isabella. She’s out there somewhere. Among the women. Among the chaos.

Maybe if I can convince her, he thinks. Maybe if I can show her how much I love her?

He hasn’t yet, which is why she left in the first place, why she joined this secretive commune.

He thinks about hurling himself over the edge when he hears a voice call his name. It’s soft and familiar, somewhat comforting despite the anxiety lacing his nerves.

“Garrett?” she says, and Means turns to her.

“Isabella?”

She’s standing in the center of the deck, Her Majesty’s torn sails ablaze above her.

“Isabella,” he confirms. She doesn’t look the same as she had seven months ago, before her disappearance. She still has her slender appearance, her gaunt face, the features prevalent in the poor and homeless, but there is something different. Maybe it’s her gown, the stark white garment that covers every inch of her flesh, making her look more angel than woman. Maybe it’s the blotches of blood around her mouth, the remnants of her last meal. Maybe it’s the teeth, those sharpened twigs of calcium, those tools of carnage. Maybe it’s her nails, long and curled like hawk talons. It’s the combination of these atrocities that contribute to her altered visage.

The woman he loves is no longer the woman he loves.

“What… what happened to you?”

She smiles, her bloody lips curling at the ends. “I’ve been reborn.”

“You’ve become a devil.”

“No, Garrett.” Her face grows with concern as she steps toward him. “No, not at all. I’ve found a new way of life. That old life wasn’t for me. You know that.”

“We would have been happy together. You and I.”

She shakes her head. “No, you would have been happy together.” She nods her head to the side and bends her knee, a courteous gesture that comes off more like a warning. “I told you the married life wasn’t meant for me.”

“Your father… he promised you to me.”

Her posture stiffens; her features constrict. “I am promised to nobody.”

“We had an accord.”

“I am not property!” she spits, flecks of blood sent airborne. “I am not his to pawn! Like some basic treasure!”

The venom in her voice nudges him backward. He feels the deck’s rails against his back.

“Isabella, I’m sorry.”

“You men,” she continues, pointing at him as if he’s every man that ever lived. “You men take and you take, and you don’t consider us. Our feelings. Our wants and needs. You make us live like slaves.”