Ghostlight, The Magazine of Terror, August 2015

Ghostlight

The Magazine of Terror

Your Journey into the Realms

of Dark Fiction

Fall 2015

Published by GLAHW at Smashwords

There is mature content all up in here. You could be offended, made to feel nauseous, or experience sudden waves of terror. This is natural and expected; we however cannot take responsibility for potential bedwetting, night terrors or inappropriate bursts of hysterical giggles in church (though we would love to hear about them!).

Ghostlight, The Magazine of Terror © 2015 Great Lakes Association of Horror Writers

Cover Photograph © 2015 Peggy Christie

Great Lakes Association of Horror Writers logo by Dave Harvey © 2007 Great LakesAssociation of Horror Writers

All short stories and articles © 2015 by their respective authors

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Created in ether and distributed throughout the galaxy.

Across the Reach

The Sea Is In My Blood

Cadaver Dog

The Burn Pile

The Mark of Gratitude

forever fields

The Patch

Talk Monster

Fertile Ground

Appetites

Soul Text

Let’s Play Souls

Number One, Regarding Visibility

Crapgod

Gretel

In His Image

Automatic Writing

Connect with GLAHW

The Sea Is In My Blood

Deborah Walker

Julia studied the body of the dead fish lying on the marble slab of the work surface. How should she transform this piece of cold flesh? Even before her ministrations, the underside of the ray bore a striking resemblance to a grotesque human face. The fish's nostrils might be large, blank, empty eyes, and the wide-toothed mouth grinned in a silent leer. The image came to her. This fish would become a bishop. She took out her steel boning knife and began to carve. There was artistry involved here. As she made her swift cuts, Julia saw the future. She visualised the effect that would occur once the fish dried, the changing and warping that would occur as the moisture dried into the air. Julia fashioned the fish with those changes in mind. She understood the final decorations that time would add to her work.

She cut the pectoral fins away from the head and molded them into a headdress that would resemble a mitre. She cut at the ventral fins and pulled them into a shape that might resemble legs. She cut away the ray's tail; a bishop had no need of a tail. And, finally, she inserted black beads into the nostrils to resemble pupils and pulled at the flesh of the fish, carefully shaping the emerging expression.

The newly created bishop stared at her with its bead eyes, but she had no time to study it. She slid it on to the drying tray. Julia had many more monsters to create.

The old fashioned bell of the door rang. Julia wiped her hands on her canvas apron and walked through the workshop to the front of the shop.

Two women, dressed in their protective tourists suits, entered.

How wonderful, said the tall woman, twirling around to look at monsters arranged on the wall.

How wonderfully old-fashioned, agreed the small woman, breathing in the scent of varnish in the air.

Julia smiled at the women. Please take your time to browse. I can answer any questions you might have.

They're Jenny Hanivers, aren't they?

Yes, Ma'am.

How wonderful. The small woman fingered the hard, dried flesh of the Jenny Hanivers displayed on the counter. Did you make them yourself?

I made some of them. My mother also crafts them, and my father ... some of the works are my father's.

Your father, yes, I see. The tall tourist looked at Julia with a look of understanding.

Carved and dried, the Jenny Hanivers looked down upon the tourists--mermaids, dragons, basilisks, bishops--the once living creature, harvested from the sea, then mutilated into a new shape to spend an afterlife as a glazed dream. These were souvenirs for tourists with a taste for the macabre.

Will the men be at the dock? asked the tall women.

This was the reason tourists came to Shipsdown. They came in bus loads, to see the infected men of the docks, to buy their strange shells and to listen to their stories. If it wasn't for the men of the docks, there would be no tourist industry

The men are always at the docks, said Julia, smiling. They'll be glad of your support.

I can't wait to see them, said the tall woman. What's this one? She pointed to a Jenny Haniver that had caught her eye.

It's a mermaid, said Julia. In the old days, the Hanivers were seen as proof of the existence of all sorts of strange creatures. Sailors would buy them and take them home, spreading the tales of the sea to the land.

It's very finely made. Perhaps we'll call back, after we've seen the men.

You'll be welcome, said Julia. Goodbye.

Goodbye, my dear.

Julia sighed. She had felt sure that woman was going to buy a Haniver. The tall woman had looked at the mermaid with an intensity that often preceded a sale. She would have bought it if she'd been here on her own. Perhaps she would come back, without her friend. But the tourists seldom came back.

Julia went back to the workshop. The dead fish were slowly transformed into what the tourists called folk art. After a time, rows and rows of Jenny Hanivers were laid out on the drying boards.

Mum, I'm finished. I'm going out, Julia shouted upstairs. No doubt her mother was staring into her silver edged mirror, a wedding gift from Father.

Hold on, shouted her mother. Mother came down the stairs slowly and entered the workshop. She was a hard faced woman, her mouth pressed into a lipstick grimace, a slash of vermillion in stone tinged skin. Mother's face had been drying and changing, these past two years. Somehow, it always managed to surprise Julia, these changes in her mother. She had seen her mother staring at her image for hours, trying to see something different in the mirror. What was she looking for? Was it something she could ever find?

Let me see anything, but not this face destroyed by the harsh salt air--desiccated and unloved.

Did I hear the shop bell ring? asked Mother, breaking into Julia's speculations.

Two tourists came in, but they didn't buy anything.

Hmmmm.

They said that they'd be back.

Hmmmm.

Her mother inspected Julia's work. She had only just allowed Julia to work on the fish these past six months. There had been a small ceremony, of sorts, when Julia had turned sixteen. Now you're old enough, her mother had said, as Julia had unwrapped the boning knife that had served as her birthday present. You're old enough to understand what needs to be done, to create the Hanivers.

It's good work, said her mother, casting her practiced eyes over the rows of dead fish. How many have you done?

Ten mermaids, five angels, thirty devils, and five bishops.

That's about the right ratio, said her mother. No dragons?

We've still got two dozen dragons in the shop.

Good work. I'll set them to dry and you can have the rest of the day off. This rain will keep off most of the tourists. I can manage on my own this afternoon.

Thanks, Mum, said Julia, wiping her hands clean.

Don't go down to the docks though.

Mum, of course not, said Julia, striving for authenticity in her lies. She ran upstairs to change out of her work clothes.

When she came down she saw that her mother was examining her face in a small make-up mirror.

Don't do that, Mum, said Julia.

Do what? Mother put the mirror into her handbag. I'm sorry we have to stay here, Julia.

Mum, it's all right--really.

We make a good living here, don't we? I just don't know if we'll be able to live anywhere else. I'm not ready to move on, yet.

It had been two years since Julia's father had been lost to them.

Mum, I like it here. Don't worry. I understand, you know.

But, I do worry. Sometimes I think that we should get away. I worry, Julia, all the time, Julia saw that her mother was reaching into her handbag again, seeking out her mirror. Julia needed to get out of the shop, out of the smell of dead fish and varnish, the smell of transformation. She just didn't want to have this conversation again.

Mum, it's okay. I'll see you later. I won't be long. Julia opened the shop door quickly, almost knocking the spring bound bell off its wire.

Don't go to the docks, said her mother as she began to set out the dead fish to dry in front of the clay oven.

Julia walked along the edge of the old stone dock. She wasn't supposed to be here and that's what made it so exciting.

Her mother had been right; the rain had kept most of the tourists away. But there were a few, walking along the dock, taking in the sights.

Hello, Julia. It was one of the men.

Hello, Mr. Crackle. How's business?

Passing slow.

Julia stepped aside as a couple of tourists paused in front of Mr. Crackle.

Julia looked at their foolish tourist suits. Nobody knew how the disease was passed. Some people believed you had to touch one of the infected fish, but that was unlikely. Fishing had been banned for eighteen months now. The boats stood rotting in the harbour; each day brought another layer of decay, and the lichens rose up covering them with a cloth of green and blue and mustard yellow, and still new cases of infection were found.

But the tourists were careful, wearing their plastic suits against the threat of sickness. Still, it was one more source of income for this dying town. Now that the fish industry had died, tourism was the only way to make a living.

Julia was wearing a dress with a bright red flower print. She wasn't a tourist. She lived here.

Will I sing for you? Mr. Crackle asked the tourists. They nodded. Within their plastic suits Julia made out the form of a man. Julia was surprised. The tourists were usually women; women couldn't catch the disease--or so the Government said.

"Sails of silk, and ropes of sandal,

Such as gleam in ancient lore;

And the singing of the sailors,

And the answer from the shore."

The threaded reed of Mr. Crackle's voice came to a halt. The tourists waited for a moment, as if unsure if that was all they would get, but it was.

Thank you, said the tourist man. He put a five pound note into Mr. Crackle's tin cup, and they moved away.

That was beautiful, Mr. Crackle. Did you make it up?

No, love. A fellow called Longfellow wrote it a long time ago. I added it to one of the old shanties, it seemed to fit.

You were never at sea, were you, Mr. Crackle?

No, Julia.

He reached out his strange hands to remove the note from the tin. His hands were corrupted by the new infection which merged with the code of a man's body to produce something new. Or perhaps, the disease resurrected the old data, the messages of the sea that swims in us all, and had been only been forgotten--but