Chapter Text
one.
He felt impossibly silent, like velvet was being fed down his throat and wrapped around it entirely, comfortably suffocating any sound from escaping. Strange things came to mind, idly floating past his consciousness, thoughts that occurred without any semblance or relation. The boat’s taking on water. Mosquito next to your ear. Cloudy? Muggy. Maybe thinking in metaphors was doing him more harm than good. It almost felt like he was being choked to death, complete with scattered thoughts and numb hands. Descending deeper into roiling, tightening, blanketing velvet.
It was a warm, heady night. He felt like he was inside someone’s mouth, breathing in someone else’s exhale. It was difficult to catch his breath in the summers. The swamps were still, almost too still, only rustling and rippling when something disturbed them. It was good for business–-in the warmer months, fishermen would cluster near docks and trees, places where vegetation was thick since that was where the fish preferred to shelter at dawn and dusk. It meant lots of plants getting wrapped up in boat motors, shorting them out, burning up parts, forcing them to tow the vessels over to Will’s rickety dock for repairs. A veritable shack in a lonely neck of forested swamp, trees looming impossibly high overhead, marked by the two to three boats always moored nearby, one or two on dry land and turned over for repairs and patchups.
That’s what he had been doing.
Will looked down, recognizing his own hands resting on a motor. Yes. Testing the motor, testing the boat. It was an older one, from an even older codger. The leaking was normal, codger had said. Just fix the motor.
He looked back up, gazing out at the empty bayou. Small pinpricks of light flashed here and there as lightning bugs circled, dipped, and swam through the air, flickering weakly in the inky darkness. He'd been working on the boat, and then. . . He’d heard something. Not a gator. They slipped in and out of the water with hardly a splash. This was louder, too heavy for a snake or bobcat, too clumsy for anything else. Someone splashing through the water, distantly.
His fingers twitched on the motor as he drew his tongue over his bottom lip, his throat dry. In a place like this, there was no shortage of superstitions. He’d been told stories of translucent ghosts walking on the water, of witches buried deep in the ground that clawed their way up at night. . . Stories that were woven into history and culture, a beautiful tapestry to be told while fishing, or dozing in front of the general store in town.
The fireflies continued to flicker and flash. Will-o-wisps, he mused to himself. Do I follow? He couldn’t remember what was supposed to be at the end of their path. A fae kingdom?
“No,” he murmured to himself, startled by how low and raspy his voice was, breaking the silence while still being overwhelmingly muffled by insect song and quiet. You’re thinking of fairy rings.
Faintly, he heard it again. A deliberate splash, but this was louder. Not closer, just louder. He adjusted his glasses, thick plastic frames fogged up near his nose, slowly exhaling through his nose. His shirt was sticking to his back with sweat, but he found himself almost shivering.
Bird wings, beating quickly, erupting into the sky some distance away. He couldn’t see them, just heard them leave, flushed out by something.
He started the motor with a rough yank of the cord, and it stuttered to life, bubbling and frothing in the water as the blades spun. With deft hands he untied the boat from its mooring and guided it out onto the water, slowly winding through the bayou, inching closer to where the sounds had come from.
A bead of sweat rolled down his neck slowly, gathering in the hollow of his chest and cooling there. He swallowed once, his lips set in a firm line.
Three bodies in as many weeks would rock any town, but one the size of this?
There was something rotten here. A fetid odor rising up from the ground, something evil sinking its teeth into the swamp and muck, dragging good people down with it. This kind of town wasn’t supposed to have serial killers. It shouldn’t have strangers turning up in its waters, killed the same way each time. That was for New York, for Washington, for big cities where people were like ants compared to the crushing weight of civilization. Not here.
So people deserve to die in big cities because their deaths will be easily missed and forgotten? His lips twitched at the cruelty of that voice, its cutting tone. His mind spun, reworking his thoughts, rephrasing - people didn't deserve to die anywhere, no - it was just felt more in a town this size. It chilled people more, frightened them, made them clutch their children and lock doors that normally swung open at night. He'd seen people buying brand new locks in town. The shopkeepers had to dust them off; locks weren't big sellers around here. But if all your locks have rusted from disuse, eroded by the hot salty air, and if bodies are turning up in your backyard, well. That's what I meant. That's all.
He puttered closer to the disturbances, insects dancing along beside him, flickering excitedly, encouraging him onward. It really did feel like he was in a creature’s mouth. The mud stank like scraps of flesh trapped between teeth. Trees, smooth and long, rose up like cruel teeth, the swamp opening its great maw to swallow him whole.
Then, from the shoreline–something bright. It flickered brighter than it should have, not any lightning bug. It flashed, then winked out into darkness.
The undergrowth whispered softly.
Kh-splnkk.
Something heavy, dropping into the water up ahead. The beast’s tongue rippled uneasily in its wake, the rings slowly reaching Will’s boat, lapping dully against its hull.
He stood, his legs numb, moving without thinking, swinging overboard, sinking down into the muck up to his mid-thigh as he waded to the firmer shore. As the ground grew solid, his stride lengthened. He was crashing through the undergrowth, splashing frantically, and he could no longer hear any of the subtle ripples over his own cacophony, and he did not care.
Then his steps faltered, and he slid against a tree, gripping its trunk tightly, digging in his fingernails, swallowing back the bile that rose in his throat. The force of his impact with the tree sent his glasses flying, skittering and sliding into the mud underfoot, blissfully unaware of the corpse sinking into the mud just a few yards away. In the moonlight, there was no difference between the mud and blood seeping everywhere. It was all black, coating the ground, painting the grass, the trees, his hands, the sky–
Headless.
His eyes fluttered shut for a moment, then opened again. He didn’t move from where he stood by the tree. He knew, vaguely, that he had barely missed the killer. Probably ten minutes from the splash to him struggling his way through the bog, coming upon the scene. Had he heard a boat motor? Maybe. But then, he hadn’t turned his own off. He really couldn’t hear anything, over his own running and his own heartbeat.
He gazed at the corpse, his stomach clawing its way to his throat. A man, well built, clean cut. The neck, too. Clothing looked simple, but well dressed for this area. City type. His hands and legs were bound behind his back with rope, and his chest was black with blood.
Moonlight filtered perfectly down through the trees. This place was well lit for the swamp. Neatly arranged. Grass flattened all around, purposefully, not from a struggle. A ritual, then. “Brought here for a viewing,” he said to himself, in a voice that did not feel like his own. “With no one around. I needed to get a good look at you to do what had to be done.”
Will turned towards the water. It was still now, like nothing had happened.
His neck felt cold, like fangs were bared against it, hot breath stirring the cold clammy skin. He shouldn’t be here.
Panic rushed up in his chest, welling up and overflowing. He staggered away from the tree, his feet sinking into the ground, dragging him away, back to his boat, fleeing the moonlight, fleeing the faceless corpse, fleeing the odd voice that had spoken with his tongue.
Fireflies danced in the distance, winking and blinking, like the eyes of many faces watching.