The air was thick and the color of the world was murky gray. Meriel tried to take a deep breath and sit up, but was unable to do either. She gazed straight up, since it was the only thing she could do, and watched as hazy clouds floated by. She was stuck on her back . As she lay there a faint hissing sound kept nagging at her. She was able to look left and right, but all she could see was sand. She could feel the cool gritty stuff all around her, and when she forced her head to look in the direction of her toes, she could tell that she'd been completely buried in sand.
She began to struggle in a feeble attempt to break free, but then she noticed that she was not alone. A small boy wearing nothing but a pair of dirty khaki shorts was kneeling about where her knees would be. His head was down and he appeared to be carefully carving something. Meriel realized that he must be shaping the sand that she'd been buried it. The plastic shovel in his hands made soft noises as he concentrated on his work.
His dark hair hung in long wet curls that fell forward, hiding most of his face from her view. She was transfixed by his diligence as he carefully moved each small bit of sand into it's proper place. Hoping she wouldn't startle him, she called out.
"Hello? Can you help me?"
He stopped his work, but continued to stare at the sand before him. She could see that a faint smile had crept onto the boy's face and she got the distinct impression that he was enjoying her discomfort.
There was a flash of brightness to her left and she caught some movement out of the corner of her eye. It proved to be a difficult task, but she turned her head as far as it would go. Her cheek grated against the rough sand and fine granules collected along the ridges of her ear. Ignoring the irritation, she strained to see what had drawn her attention. There was someone walking towards them on the beach. It was a woman wearing a long white gown. Her hair was long and dark, her face familiar. Mom.
As she drew closer, Meriel wanted to call out, but every time she opened her mouth the wind would pick up and threaten to fill her throat with sand. She remembered the boy. When she turned her head back, he was no longer looking at the sand. He was facing her in a crouched position. His whole body was tense as though he meant to pounce. Meriel began frantically thrashing about as she tried to loosen the earth's hold on her. Two glowing yellow orbs stared at her from beneath tendrils of dark, matted hair. They were so luminous that they cast the rest of his face in shadows.
The boy was poised to strike, but just as his muscles started rippling to life in order to put him in motion, the woman stepped up beside him. Her hand rested atop his head and his whole body relaxed. As she ruffled his hair affectionately, he settled back on his heels and looked up at her with sweet longing. Meriel watched as Mom picked up the boy who she suspected was more creature than human and allowed him to wrap himself around her as though he'd been nothing more than a frightened child. Mom's arms wrapped tightly around him in return as he buried his head in her shoulder.
The wind was whipping itself into a frenzy. Sand was clouding her vision, and making it difficult to breathe. A storm is coming. She fought against the confines of her sandy grave, trying to free herself before the wind could finish the job of burying her. She wanted to call out to Mom, but couldn't draw enough air to get anything above a whimper out. Finally she started to feel herself gaining space. Her arms could move more freely. She was going to break out.
Boosted by the confidence of her small success, she fought harder and felt like crying as her fingers began to break the surface, then her arms. With some upper body freedom she began digging away at the sand above her chest. When she could feel movement she planted her hands on either side of her for leverage and pushed up with all the strength she could muster.
Pushing and straining, she broke the surface and was able to sit up properly. Brushing the sand from her eyes she looked for Mom and was surprised to see her right where she'd left her. Gazing out towards the sea, her dark hair thrashing wildly as the coming gale gathered its strength. Meriel marveled at what a striking woman she was. Her skin was so pale and looked smooth like porcelain, a faint blush swept across her cheek bones and her lips were a rosy and full. It was Mom, she was certain of it, but this was not the woman who raised her. The woman before her seemed stronger. It was as though she'd never known a lifetime of fear and tragedy. Meriel watched as a single tear slid down that perfect cheek and landed in the tangled mass of hair Mom was cradling at her breast.
The woman who was her mother, but wasn't, tore her gaze away from the waves breaking on the shore and looked down at where the boy had been playing. Meriel watched as her eyes stole up the length of her still submerged body until they finally found their way to meeting her own. There was so much sadness there that Meriel could feel tears stinging, blurring her vision.
She blinked them away and looked down at what the boy had so meticulously created. From the waist down there was a graceful fish tail, complete with fins and a pattern of scales. It was perfectly shaped and she wanted to laugh at the obsurdity of it all. She looked back up at Mom, but the woman just hid her face in the boy's hair and began to cry silent tears.
His eyes were yellow, with flecks of green. Her father! She tried to yell to the two of them, but no sound came out. Instead there was an all too familiar whine that was building around her. She cast furtive glances in every direction, but could see nothing but sand and salt water. The sound was enough to set her heart to racing and ignoring the silent pair, she began trying to dig up her legs.
No matter how hard and fast she pulled away the sand she couldn't even make a dent. It simply slid back in place, even retaining the basic fishy shape that it had been carved in. The ringing was intensifying and when she looked up the first of several hulking bodies pulled itself onto the shore. No! Her skin prickled with terror as she watched three more climb out behind the first, followed by more. Soon there were dozens of them crawling onto the shore, forming a tight ring around the strange trio and closing in.
Meriel looked up into her mother's face, hoping to find some help there, but there was nothing but fear. Mom was shaking her head and screaming something at her. The mouth formed the words, but the sound refused to come out. She forced herself to study the lips, trying to decipher their meaning. Wait cup...wade up...wake up! She was dreaming. The relief washed over her, but the dream didn't fade. She slapped her face, and though she was reeling from the sting she could still see the shadowy lumps as they made their way awkwardly towards where she lay trapped.
Once again she began trying to pull herself free from the ground, but she couldn't even feel her legs, let alone move them. She tried to dig again, but it was a futile effort and she slumped forward as her chest heaved and she tried to catch her breath. With her heart hammering in her chest and the high-pitched siren, that she now knew belonged to the creatures of the sea, ringing in her ears, she tried to fight the panic that threatened to choke her and once again began using her hands to try and slide herself free.
In agony, she glanced once more at Mom. Her face was slick and wet from crying, but she made no move to come closer. Meriel stopped her struggles and forgot the things crawling towards her.
"I'm sorry, so sorry...I shouldn't have left you," she sobbed silently.
Mom stopped crying and shook her head. Meriel just kept repeating her mute apologies until the storm became so fierce she could no longer open her mouth without it filling with grit.
Her eyes were burning from sand scraping her delicate retinas. She forced herself to look at them. Her mother and her father clinging to each other as though they were the only two people in the world. She reluctantly broke the gaze with Mom to look upon the boy who had helped to create her. His face was still turned away, but she could see that his skin was pale and his arms and legs were slender yet strong. He seemed younger than she thought he actually was and she couldn't help wondering what sort of a man he would have grown to be if not for the unfortunate nature of his parentage.
As though he could hear her thoughts, his head swung around to face her. Twin pools of dark viscous fluid stared back. She watched in horror as his mouth fell open and the piercing song of his breed shot forth, filling her ears and her mind with the sound. She threw her hands to her ears but it did no good. She dug the heels of her palms in and pushed harder. Something cracked. Thinking she was making progress, she renewed her efforts until at last she was able to wrench herself free.
It felt too easy, and when she looked down to where her legs should have been, she could see why. The skin of her waist was hanging in stringy tatters and blood was rapidly filling the depression that her body had left in the sand. She tried to scoot back from the rising red tide, barely registering that it was pouring from the gaping hole where her hips and legs should have been. Mouth wide, not willing to believe her own eyes, she tried to look to her mother, but couldn't take her eyes off her child father. He was still shrieking at her, but his eyes were now running down his face, leaving thick black streaks and falling in thick black drops at Mom's feet.
Releasing himself from Mom's grasp, he crawled across the sand, scuttling with the precision of a crab towards the blood-filled tide pool that her retreat had left behind. Never taking the horrible, glistening dark pits away from her, he lowered his head to the rapidly cooling vital fluid and began to drink. Shaking with shock, Meriel began to scream, and this time, her voice rang out loud and true.
*
She could still hear a faint ringing in her ears, but when she opened her eyes there was darkness and the air was still. There was no storm raging, no creatures lumbering towards her, no specters from the past come to haunt her. All was still and well. She let out a deep sigh and started to sit up. The need to see and feel her legs was almost overpowering, but she was halted and her arms were held fast above her head. She couldn't sit up. Meriel was gratified to feel that she could indeed control her legs, but they were no more useful. What was going on?
Pulling harder only seemed to make something sharp cut into her flesh. She bit her lip and tried to suppress the urge to cry out. There could be someone nearby listening. She was sure she couldn't have done this to herself. The pain was too great and she could feel the circulation to her hands and feet being cut off. It was time to stop. During her struggles her eyes had been growing steadily more used to the light and she was using them to scan every available surface for some way out of this situation. What was the last thing she remembered? Dark red blood oozing away from her body and pooling on the sand.
Meriel shivered and pushed that memory aside for the time being. What else? She remembered the journals, and then going straight to bed. There was something she was forgetting, some detail that...Dylan. Her eyes darted around in the darkness, searching for some sign that she could be wrong. It was then that she spotted him. He was sitting in the corner, leaning back in a chair that wasn't meant to lean. He was close enough to the corner that it could catch the chair should it fall. The chair itself was suspended on two legs as Dylan perched on it in such a fashion that it remained in perfect balance. His eyes were open, and they were watching her.
When he realized that she was awake she caught the faintest glimmer of white teeth as his lips pulled back in a sneer. He returned the chair slowly to a resting position and stepped down from the seat of the chair as he approached her laying on the bed. She held her breath as he climbed onto the mattress next to her, fingering a stray lock of her hair while his eyes remained locked on her own. She tried to speak but he immediately covered her mouth with his hand and pressed her firmly into the pillow. She whimpered and he released her, looking quite pleased with himself as she bit off the words that were trying to surface.
"Fishing line," he offered. "Your uncle had plenty of it lying around."
At first she didn't understand his meaning, then he began to trace the ridges circling her wrists. She winced as he slid his hand down her arm, pausing just before running it over one of her breasts and along the curve of her hip. He stopped again and unwelcome sensations began to stir before he continued down her thigh, her calf and finally began tracing the deep gouges the fishing line had carved into her ankles. Meriel lay still, this had to be another dream, didn't it?
"Oh, you're bleeding," he purred. "Allow me."
He leaned towards her ankle and she could feel his wet, raspy tongue as it slid across some exposed skin. It was a strange sensation, rough like sand paper. The wound he'd licked burned as though he'd poured salt in it. She squirmed and bit her lip to keep from crying out. Tears prickled and stung, but she blinked them away as she struggled to gain an understanding of her situation.
She tried to work her wrists again, but the fishing line only seemed to get tighter. She thought about trying to pull hard enough to break the line, but remembered that all her...grandfather's gear would be made for big game fish. She'd be more likely to tear her hands off before the line broke. Meriel could almost imagine one of the huge beasts writhing in fury after having been caught on one of Alastar's vicious, barbed hooks. She didn't know she'd been smiling until she noticed the icy glare that Dylan was giving her.
The knowledge that she wasn't playing into his plan perfectly caused her smile to grow wider, but her newfound confidence quickly faded as he leaned in. A wicked grin spread across his face and his eyes flicked her face down to her sex and back again. She was still completely dressed from the night before, but she felt fully exposed.
He climbed on top of her. Straddling her, he planted his hands firmly on either side of her head and pressed his hips firmly against her own. Meriel shuddered as her body remembered the weight of him, the way he fit so well even though she hadn't wanted him there. She could feel the color drain from her face. His eyes took on a malicious twinkle as he began to grind his hips against her suggestively.
"You remember...don't you?" He continued without waiting for an answer. "It's been a long time since I've enjoyed anything as sweet as you."
"What are you talking about?" she hissed at him.
"I know you haven't forgotten. It was quite a night. Poor Lyle sure didn't enjoy himself as he'd hoped."
His mocking tone was so different from the man she'd had dinner with the evening before. He knew about Lyle.
"He's dead isn't he?" she asked.
"Oh don't worry, he won't be bothering you again," he soothed as he reached out to stroke her cheek.
Meriel turned her head away from him and refused to meet his eyes. She felt him lower his lips to the skin of her neck and place a tender, almost loving kiss there.
"Did you do it?" she pressed.
"What? Kill Lyle? Wouldn't have been worth my time," he sneered. "I just cleaned him up for you, what was left of him anyway."
She could feel acid rise into her throat, scalding it, as the meaning of his words sank in. Not a nightmare. He really had been here in the house, on the beach, he'd really been inside her. A thick wave of nausea caused the room to spin. He was watching her, but made no movements to touch her further. Meriel remained silent, trying to look anywhere but his face. Her eyes lit on her hairbrush sitting on the edge of the dresser. She held onto that focal point, hoping that if she ignored him, he'd go away.
When she didn't ask anything further he climbed off her and stood beside the bed. Slowly he moved around until she had to face him. When she tried to turn away again he pressed his hand against her cheek, holding her fast to the bed. Their eyes met. His expression had changed from one of contempt to a strange, sad longing.
"You look almost exactly like her." His thumb lightly stroked the curve of her cheek. "Not in the eyes..." As he spoke, he lightly brushed his fingertips over her eyelids, closing them. "...but your face. You definitely have her face."
Her lips trembled. She tried to convince herself that she didn't care what he was implying, but her curiosity was winning the battle. Before she could utter a syllable, however, he removed his hand from her face and she heard his footsteps moving across the room. When the creak of a chair assured her that he'd settled himself away from her again, she finally dared to open her eyes.
He was sitting in the same chair she'd spotted him in earlier. This time he was sitting in it properly as he drew a long thin blade with a slight curve to it across a whet stone. The steady shick, shick of metal against stone was almost the only sound in the room. The faint ringing in her ears had been with her since she'd regained consciousness. Her constant companion, or so it would seem. His eyes were glued to the work in his lap. When he finally spoke again his voice was barely above a whisper, and she almost missed it.
"We don't have much time."
"Time?" she asked, puzzled and a little frightened by his admission.
He looked up from his work and she could see that the knife in his hand looked nearly as menacing as the man who held it. The handle looked as though it had been hand carved and the steel was wrought with the same tenderness and care. He held it up for her inspection and she could see that there were dozens of black notches burned into it. Too many to count.
He was watching her, waiting for some sort of reaction. She was confused and her brow furrowed in frustration. At that his patience snapped and he leaped off the chair and, reaching her in a couple long strides, shoved the hilt milimeters from her retinas, causing her eyes to cross so hard that it sent a shooting pain deep into her brain.
"Do you see?" he demanded.
She shook her head and tried to draw herself away from him, but he grabbed her by the hair and yanked hard. He held her steady, keeping the knife in her field of vision. She stared at it. The notches were irregularly placed and looked as though they had been burned there. She tried counting, but stopped when she hit the twenties. There were so many. They wound around the handle, up one side, down the other, and around the back. She could feel him watching her, searching for some sort of understanding. Though she knew it may be crucial for her to give him what he wanted she couldn't for the life of her see what he was getting at.
"Do. You. See?" he enunciated as though she were a child.
"It's a knife, Dylan." She prayed it would be enough, but knew better.
His fist holding the knife slammed into the wall causing a chunk of plaster to break away.
"What does this mean to you? Bitch! I know your uncle told you something, what does it mean?!" He was screaming at her now. Rabid tendrils of saliva sprayed her in the face and clung to his lower lip, but he didn't even seem to notice.
"It means nothing to me. I never even knew him!" she spat back.
"You know something," he pushed.
Meriel knew plenty, but she couldn't see how any of it was his business, nor how it could get her out of her current situation. She remained silent and looked again at the knife. There was something familiar about the shape. It was more slender than a carving knife, or a cleaver. It looked more like something you would use for cleaning and carving fish, but it was longer and seemed to be heavier than your usual kitchen model. Something clicked in her mind.
"Where did you get that," she hissed.
"It was his." The end of his statement dripped with venom.
She wondered what her grandfather could have done to Dylan to cause such deep loathing. He'd never even been mentioned in the journals, so she had no reason to believe that they'd ever met, let alone been such bitter enemies.
"It's for cleaning fish," she stated cooly, noting that he shivered in revulsion at the simple truth.
"That's one way of looking at it." He released his grip on her hair abruptly and returned to the chair and his sharpening stone.
He was lost in is own head for a moment and when he looked up again he'd regained a slightly rougish expression that under different circumstances would have gone a long way towards winning her over.
"I'm glad that you're such a beauty. It really wouldn't have mattered considering your lineage, but it makes things," he grinned, "much more enjoyable."
The bindings were so tight that she was losing all circulation to her hands and feet. She tried to flex her fingers but was unsure if they were actually still obeying her.
"I followed him for weeks you know," he blurted out.
The change in subject caught her off guard. It did confirm one thing though. Her grandfather wasn't just a paranoid old man.
"I knew his habits, his few pleasures. Lyle helped me gain access when necessary. I didn't really see the use in him until your uncle remodeled his bedroom." He chuckled as though he were telling a friend an amusing story rather than admitting to being a stalker.
“Why should that have bothered you?“ she asked.
His expression turned cold and dark. She squirmed a bit, already regretting the question, but he wasn't even looking at her when he answered. He was looking out in the direction of the ocean.
“Those damn stones...“ he trailed off and refused to say more.
The journals. Alastar had mentioned that he used the colorful trinkets as bait when he went hunting. They kept his prey so enthralled that hooking them wasn't even very sporting. If Dylan was the one following her grandfather, then did that mean...where was his other skin? She thought of all the jars of agates around the house and wished she'd had a few handy. There was at least one in the bedroom, but looking around she couldn't spot it.
There was still a question nagging at her. Although she didn't want to bring his attention back to her, she couldn't help asking, "Lyle said that I was promised to him. He was fighting with someone before he was attacked. If you didn't kill him, then who did?"
Instead of answering, Dylan smirked and resumed his sharpening, though she suspected it was only for show. That knife could probably split a hair right down the middle by now. Her grandfather's knife.
"What did you do to my-- uncle?" she asked.
He stopped.
"He was a problem for me. I took care of it."
He didn't elaborate, but watched her carefully. He wasn't smiling anymore. She turned away from him in frustration. It felt as though anything she said might push him over the edge of crazy and there was no telling what he was capable of. He was likely at the root of Alastar's disappearance and was now planning hers as well. What did he want with her? Dare she ask? At this point she was sure that she had suffered permanent nerve damage to her extremities. If he'd already made his mind up to kill her, or worse, then perhaps it would be better if he just got on with it.
She turned back to look at him and was about to goad him into action when a bright flash came from outside. A huge crack of thunder was right on its heels and fell upon the house with an explosive force. The mirror across the room shook. He rose from the chair and went to look out the window. It was still fairly dark outside and she couldn't see much from where she lay, but she could hear the wind whistling outside and feel the air pressure increase in the room. A storm was building. Thinking of the journals, she was afraid of what this could mean. As though someone had been listening in on her thoughts, the ringing in her ears grew louder.
Dylan turned away from the window. If he could hear it too, it didn't seem to bother him as much. The pain was starting to make her head hurt and she knew that before too long it would be enough to cause bleeding and, more than likely, serious internal damage. At this point she wasn't sure she could take any more. He didn't seem worried at the prospect, however, he seemed...pleased.
"It's almost time." As he spoke, he released the curtain.
Pausing for a moment to grab something off the chair he'd been sitting on, he crossed the room to the bed and kneeled beside it. She tried to scoot as far from him as she could, but he leaned towards her and using the roll of duct tape he'd picked up, covered her mouth firmly. She shuddered in revulsion as he held her still while he pressed a kiss over her mouth before taking a step back to admire his work.
The sound was growing stronger and she fought her restraints despite the fact she knew it was useless. He was obviously amused by her struggles and, though the pain at this point was nearing unbearable, she forced herself to settle down. She stared back at him with as much hatred as she could muster and tried to ignore the fact that every fiber of her being was demanding that she take flight. Every muscle was trembling now. He cocked his head as he watched the spectacle play out before him.
"You know, I didn't realize till now just how appropriate it would be using the fishing line to tie you up," he mused. "At the time it was just conveniently available, but now...now it's the perfect touch."
He climbed towards her as the ringing surged in volume once more, causing her to arch her back and cry out against the tape, despite her reservations at showing him her weakness. He stroked the hair that had become matted to her skin by sweat. Then he leaned forward and very tenderly took her earlobe between his lips. His tongue ran along the curve of it, then began to explore the inner whorls. A wave of nausea rolled over her as she realized what he was doing. It was the blood. He was tasting it, licking her ear clean. A muffled scream mixed with the high-pitched ringing, but she could barely distinguish the two. He pulled his tongue away from her ear, but his lips brushed the sensitive ridges as he whispered into it.
"The thing about fishing line is that it's really only good for one thing." Pausing for dramatic effect, he took a moment to lap up a fresh drop that had begun to slide out. "Dangling bait."
With that, he rose from the bed and taking up Alastar's blade, rushed from the room. His retreating shape was soon swallowed up by the darkness of the hallway, but she was beyond caring. He was gone, and that was a good thing in her opinion, but her head began to feel as though it would melt or come apart at the seams. There was something more important for her to worry about. The thing from the sea was coming, and there was nothing she could do about it.