Hours had passed since the last bite and the sun plunged halfway into the darkening sea. The Fortuitous rocked, its small form of rusting metal and splintering wood a dot on the endless waves, captive to the tidal push and pull. Thom slumped in a faded wooden chair and played with a worn metal lighter. No cigarette stuck out of his mouth nor did he reach for a pack from his jacket - his lungs hadn't felt the flames of tobacco in some time. The fishing nets were on the deck, the endless knotted ropes piled up, useless. Thom instead cradled a single rod in his left arm. The greying man's right hand flicked his lighter, over and over again. His eyes focused on something in the distance, or perhaps nothing at all.
A high-pitched whistle carved through the wind rushing past his ears. His chair scraped the floor as he stood and walked towards the interior cabin of the boat. His skin was dry and wrinkled, his thick green jacket and threadbare brown trousers hung off his body like rags, and his hair was long and matted. What little fight was left in him seemed confined to his eyes - piercing blue orbs that stared out at the world with reddened whites. The air in the cabin was fetid and stale, the shutters were closed which soaked the interior in a thick darkness. A dull, golden radiance flooded the room at the pull of a drawstring near the door. A small cot covered in fraying rags sat in the far back corner. A small metal table stood next to it and a sink and stove lined the wall with the blocked out window; all illuminated now in amber light. In the middle of the room was a sturdy wheel behind an anchor chain that dipped into the sea below. Various maps and photographs littered the walls, with faded words and pencilled drawings. A small frame sat upon the table, faced towards the wall. Thom walked towards the stove, the whistling still fierce, and picked up a small kettle. The metal contraption had rusted and was barely operable, but it opened enough. Tea poured into a tin cup that had been battered by a thousand spoons and rusted at the bottom. Thom took a seat at the table and stared at the back of the frame. The back of it was a dark wood, and a golden trim covered the edges.
Deep within him, behind his eyes and in his throat, something stirred. A tiny speck of something, that grew gradually and threatened to well up to the surface. Thom took a quick sip of tea and felt the boiling liquid burn his tongue and through his stomach. The feeling bubbled, but he forced it down, closed his eyes and rubbed the back of his neck. The wind howled, the waves crashed and The Fortuitous rocked, but Thom sat still and stared.
Outside the cabin the wind dropped. The small breeze coming through the door slowed and soon stopped all together. Thom's eyes managed to break their gaze with the back of the frame, and he moved up from the table with a grunt. The ship was steady, the waves had calmed and Thom found his footing precarious as his body tried to adjust to a motionless floor. He hobbled towards the cabinets, leaned over the stove, pulled the shutters up and divined the secrets from his window.
He blinked hard but the darkness was still there. A black veil covered the world. Thom's eyes darted around, and found nothing but more of the void, not a single sliver of light able to pierce the dark. The soft lapping of waves were gone as was the howling wind. Floorboards creaked as Thom rushed outside to the deck and looked over the edge of the boat. The Fortuitous was surrounded by a sea black like ink and the sky was gone. Every last drop of light had been snuffed out, darker than the blackest nights. It was hard to tell which way was up or down, without light Thom’s vision was eroded away at. In a panic he dropped to his knees and plunged a hand into the freezing water. To his horror, the water rushed past his hand at great speed. He felt his stomach lurch and he scrambled to his feet and stumbled towards the cabin. His hands reached desperately for the anchor mechanism, turned it violently and felt it drop into the sea. The chain unravelled rapidly, filling the room with a grinding cacophony. It reached the end of the chain with a loud clunk and Thom barged back through the door. He dropped to the deck and almost slipped into the depths but caught himself. His hand was once again dunked into the ocean, and the rushing water slammed against his palm and caused a great terror to form in his chest. The Fortuitous moved across the sea expeditiously and carried its sole occupant further into the dark. Thom moved again to the cabin, his heart thumped hard as he gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white. He tugged powerfully at the wheel and the boat swung around, almost tipping over. The cot scraped against the floorboards, cups and cans of food clattered to the floor and the kettle fell and spilled the rest of its contents. He swung the wheel to the other extreme, and the boat moaned and buckled. His fingers fell from the wheel, slippery from the sweat that now pooled below him. The table beside his bed skated over, and he watched the framed photograph tumble down and out the door. With a tremendous crack, The Fortuitous split in half, and Thom was enveloped by the salty ink.
There was an eye. An unfathomably huge, porcelain white orb that gleamed in the light, and a black circle that nestled within. Around the glistening mass were waves of crimson flesh, swirling like a kaleidoscope. A ring of bile and pus oozed from the edges, dripping in a disgusting dribble down the hulking rolls of meat. The stench of rotting fish and salty brine filled Thom's nostrils and threatened to expel the contents of his stomach up and out of his throat.
His ears then were full of a horrible slurping noise. Like a great leviathan drinking the ocean, the mammoth eye gulped at the surrounding air. Thom felt a strong tug about his face and the extremities of his body. His legs and arms were pulled in front of him, his bones snapped and pushed further towards the centre of the eye. The blood in his face began to leak, dripping through the edges of his eye sockets. His face was suckered clean off and flesh was ripped from bone, all swirling in a vortex towards the giant black pupil. Pieces of sinew and a torrent of blood danced in a spiral as his detached eyeballs twirled around each other. Thom’s viscera was sucked inexorably into the pupil and devoured in the darkness.
The first thing he saw was the sand, black as obsidian. It was as if a large amount of oil had been spilled on the beach, or perhaps the dark waters creeping up to his pruney fingers had dyed it. Thom dug his fingers into the sand and clutched at the wet, oily substance. It clung to his palms and stuck under his fingernails. His fingertips were crusted in the stuff and it felt like cold, stiff jelly. The cold water receded past him, out to sea.
The second thing he saw was the slender figure standing about a meter from his hands. He blinked some of the grit from his eyes, and his vision cleared marginally.
'Ah, at last. You're awake.'
The voice was deep and pleasant. Thom strained his eyes to the sky; a tall man was leaning on an ornate walking stick. He was dressed in a dark emerald suit and his face was hidden in the shadow of his wide-brimmed hat. Thom moved to speak, and instead coughed up a load of black sand. His throat felt like it had been ripped out. All he could do was gurgle and clutch at the ground. In a surge of effort that took all of his energy, he managed to stutter out a syllable through crusted lips: 'Who?'
'A friendly face. Do you know where you are?' The tall man's voice came from the shadows. Thom's sight had almost recovered, although a few floaters remained in the corners of his vision. He spotted a few droplets fall from the figure and splatter on the sand.. Once again, he emptied his reserves of energy to speak.
'No,' his voice was choked by dryness and quiet as a whisper. He then asked a question he already knew the answer to, 'Am I dead?'
'No, you're not dead. Are you injured?' The man squatted down beside him. 'Tell me your name. I'll check for broken bones.'
Thom had depleted himself and was unable to talk. Now that they were closer, Thom could spy a few features of the man's face. The shadow of his hat had inched upwards, revealing his mouth: his skin was pale and smooth with a sharp jaw. A few loose curls of auburn hair spilled down the back of his neck. His eyes and nose were still cloaked in darkness. From what Thom could see however, the man was on the younger side.
'I'll tell you mine, if you'd like. Halloway.' The man's deep voice rumbled again.
Thom's voice croaked out in reply, 'Thom.'
'Hello, Thomas.' The man stood, brushing some sand from his clothes. 'Good, I don't think you've broken anything. Shall we try walking?'
Thom pondered for a moment how the man named Halloway had been able to ascertain his level of injury without laying a hand on him, but didn't linger on the thought for long. He grasped the sand and lifted his feeble form upwards. With a pained grunt, he forced himself to his feet. His head spun, and the world swam before his eyes. It was at this point Thom was able to fully appreciate the size of Halloway. Thom was a relatively tall person - last he measured he was a little over six feet - but the man must have been nearly seven feet tall. His body was broad across the shoulders, but otherwise lean as a greyhound.
From where the pair stood, the charcoal beach stretched endlessly to the left. To the right, a line of vegetation intercepted the sand and ran up the coast. Halloway led Thom towards a small dirt path that carved through the grove. The soil here, uncovered by frequent foot traffic to and from the shore, was similarly discoloured. It was dark red, brown almost, like the clay often seen at the bottom of rivers. It squelched underneath their feet, and unlike Halloway who deftly avoided particularly soft patches, Thom found his boots deep in the mud more than a few times. When he wasn’t pulling himself out of the ground, Thom searched the surrounding plants in an attempt to place where he had been shipwrecked. The overall miasma of colour present in the leaves and stems was a sort of sickly green. Not the greens of regular, healthy flora, but instead they carried a blue tinge, almost aquamarine. Tones that made Thom feel queasy painted otherwise healthy looking shrubs, and trees with dark yellow leaves grew towards the sky. He had launched The Fortuitous off the shores of Wales, so he guessed somewhere on the mainland. However, wide leaves with narrow tips - bright red leaves, it should be noted - told him it was a more tropical climate, closer to the equator. Thom questioned himself. He had sailed further than before, in truth, but this was unheard of. He was equally relieved and bewildered to see flora of a more northern inclination, and the purple colouration to their roots seen through the dirt uneased him further.
'Just a little further,' said Halloway from ahead, interrupting Thom's process. 'I imagine you'll like Filmouth, as a sea-faring man.'
Filmouth was a curious town. The view from the path was that of an old fishing village. The architecture told Thom that it had been built decades ago, with minimal upgrades ever since. Buildings made of brick or that raised higher than one storey were scarce; most of the dwellings Thom could see were wooden huts. If this was on the mainland, it was a very isolated town indeed. What Thom found most strange however, was located on the docks. Despite being built on the coast and possessing a large marina, only a single small fishing vessel was berthed at the docks of Filmouth. The sun was shrouded completely by a canopy of grey clouds which looked ready to throw their waters down, from which Thom could only deduce that it was day, and had no idea the time. Perhaps most of the ships were out at this hour.
As the pair grew closer to the town, Thom saw the full extent of the filth. The streets were pure mud, and houses and stores alike looked to be falling apart at the seams. Rudimentary repairs were present on the more dire pieces of architecture, but it seemed that the village had been in a state of disrepair for years. An eerie silence pervaded the town, and glancing around Thom was unsettled. Villagers of all kinds stood on doorsteps, verandahs, and store fronts, staring intently at the pair. More specifically, Thom noted, they were glaring at him.
The townsfolk were as strange as their home. Their clothes consisted of last century’s fashion, and something about their features was bizarre to observe. They all kept a similar look about their face, an anticipation of something to come; a hunger. An infant cradled against a woman’s chest was crying. The mother did little to comfort, rather she continued to stare at Thom uneasily.
They trudged through the bemired street towards a larger building near the end of the town. The two storey building which rose high above the rest had a tidier appearance, albeit not by much. Tall, slim windows littered the walls and wooden pillars held up the second floor. As they stepped onto the wooden landing, Thom was relieved to be on solid ground. He looked down at his boots which were caked in a layer of red mud leading up to his knees. He lifted one foot up slightly, and watched some of the mud slump to the floor.
'If you'd please,' said Halloway from beside him, nodding towards his boots. Noticing Thom's apprehension, he added, 'They'll be there when you leave, I promise.' Halloway drove a key into the lock.
Unlike the rest of the town, the interior was spotless. A long, verdant carpet with golden linings led up to a grand staircase which forked off to the left and right. The walls were bare mahogany, and paintings of all shapes and sizes adorned them. Candles and lanterns were spread around the room, providing a warm light.
A small, elderly woman entered from one of the rooms on the left and made Thom jump. The woman was permanently bent over at forty-five degrees, and wore a dark shawl over layers of various shades of brown. Her skin was pock-marked and greyed, and her white hair was ratty and unclean. Compared to the man in the green suit, she barely reached his waistline. She pointed a wizened, shaky finger at Thom.
'This the… the castaway, Mr Halloway?' She said, her voice deep and croaky.
'Yes,' replied Halloway. 'This is Thomas, and he is in need of bedding and food. Set up the old - you know the one.'
She nodded and said 'Right away, Mr Halloway,' in a manner that felt rehearsed. The woman then hobbled out the front doors, and Halloway closed them behind her. He stared at the doors for a while, his mind mulling over something. Right as Thom was about to clear his throat, Halloway turned on his heels and moved towards the staircase.
'I need to have a word with you in my study,' he said without looking back.
Thom found himself walking up the grand staircase behind Halloway as they entered a room on the left. Halloway moved to a corner of the room and struck a match, and brought it to a lantern. He repeated this routine thrice more, lighting the room fully. Once complete, Thom watched the man settle himself down neatly behind a large, dark wooden desk. He pulled out a handkerchief from his breast pocket and cleared his forehead of sweat, replaced it in his pocket and placed his hat gently on the desk.
It was musty, and Thom fought the impulse to rub his eyes. He looked around and saw that the room was crammed full of all sorts of items. Stacks of paper filled high shelves that lined the walls; a grandfather clock stood in one corner; a large painting showing a group of men and women crowded around a table hung behind the desk. They were raising glasses in a celebration, Thom discerned. Halloway’s desk itself was clean, holding only a neat stack of papers, a quill and ink pot, and now the man’s hat.
The shadows had cleared after removing his hat, allowing Thom a good look at Halloway's face. His features were long and angular. His hair was a mop of orange curls, and his forehead was slick with sweat. He was certainly young, more so than most of the townsfolk Thom had walked past. His eyes however betrayed him as a certified Filmouth resident: the colour, while vaguely green, had almost completely faded away. The sockets were deep and the skin around them was far darker than the rest of his face. His eyebrows, while present, were thin and almost non-existent. He looked at Thom with a scrutinising gaze.
'Sit, please.'
Thom moved to sit in the chair in front of Halloway's desk. The chair had an intricate pattern of dark wood and brass, and felt both comfortable and expensive.
'I imagine you have questions. I am prepared to answer them to the best of my ability,' Halloway spoke. 'Granted, I have a proposal for you to consider, when you are satisfied your queries are answered.'
Thom realised he hadn't said a word since he'd given his name on the beach. He thought carefully about his first question.
'Where are we?'
'You are in my home. In Filmouth.' replied Halloway.
'Where is Filmouth?'
'On an island. We are a private people, so I hope you can excuse that I cannot give specifics.'
Thom paused. He looked into Halloway’s eyes, who stared back with a blank face. He continued:
'Why am I here?'
'I assumed you were aware. Your ship sank, and you washed up on our beach.'
'Yes, but, I've never heard of this island before, I don't understand how I could end up-'
'Again, I apologise, but I cannot tell you where our town is. If we became known, it would... spoil things.'
Halloway's voice had remained steady, but wavered slightly at the end. He quickly recovered and if Thom wasn't paying close attention, he wouldn't have noticed.
'Can I leave?'
'Of course.'
'When?'
'In due time, that will be discussed with the proposition. Unless you intend on swimming.' Halloway smiled with his mouth, but not his eyes.
'How long will it be?'
'I would estimate a week or two.'
Thom had unconsciously sunk down in his chair. His well of questions had been emptied, but he felt no less confused than when he woke up on the sand. In fact, his line of inquiry had cast further shadow on the mysteries of this island.
After a few moments of silence between them, Halloway placed his palms flat on the desk.
'I trust that you have no more questions?'
Thom nodded weakly. Halloway looked less tense about the shoulders and his jaw muscles relaxed.
'Before I get to my proposition, I have to apologise. I have made an assumption of you. Your ship, were you its sole crew?'
Thom nodded again, having given up words.
Halloway shifted slightly - a most miniscule way that would be imperceptible in most circumstances - however in a man such as Halloway, it almost looked as if he was excited.
'Are you a fisherman, Thomas?'
Another nod. Thom sat up marginally and paid closer attention to Halloway’s mannerisms. The man across the desk was doing the stoic equivalent of bouncing in his chair.
'That is marvellous to hear.' Halloway said. 'In turn, I have some good news for you. Your ship was not completely destroyed.'
At this point, Thom shot up like a bolt and moved closer. Words had even returned to him.
'My ship?'
'Indeed, we recovered the remains. Furthermore, we are prepared to repair it for you.'
Thom leaned back again and his chair creaked.
'This is my proposition: we will repair your boat and guide you home when it is complete. In return, I would ask you to fish for us.'
'You want me to fish?'
'Every day, for the people of Filmouth. We are without fishermen of our own and in need of a steady supply. It would be a great deal of help.' Halloway paused for a moment, then continued, 'There is a small vessel on our dock. Inferior to yours, no doubt, but I am sure it will suffice.'
Thom’s mind wandered over to the tiny boat he had seen walking through the town earlier. It was certainly small. He contemplated the deal. To fish enough every day to feed a whole town would not be an easy task. He relented that he hadn’t much of a choice; if he were to cross the open waters to leave this island he needed his own ship back. Staying in this mysterious town for - what did Halloway say, a week? Two? - however was a concerning prospect. His mind wandered again, this time to the villagers he had seen earlier; sunken eyes and all bones, visages like walking dead. He shuddered.
Sensing Thom’s hesitation, Halloway spoke up:
'There is no expectation of you, if that eases your nerves. Do not feel obliged to return every day with full nets. Anything you can bring in at all is a benefit. All I ask is that you help.'
Whether it was out of a moral inclination to help out the destitute town or a surrender to an admittedly coercive proposal, Thom put his hand across the table to shake with Halloway. An invasive thought wriggled from his brain and out of his mouth.
'Why can none of you fish?'
Halloway had been moving to stand up from his chair, but stopped when the words left Thom’s lips. The traces of a smile had left his face.
'All the fishermen left long ago. They fled Filmouth for greener pastures and we have been farming ever since. But it isn’t enough.'
He finally stood up and walked them both out.
By the time Thom left Halloway’s home the sun was beginning to set over the black sea. Outside, a few paces to the left of the larger building sat a squalid old fishing hut. The walls were rusted corrugated iron, as was the roof, and dark, twisting plant roots of unknown origin snaked their way up and encompassed the building. Thom’s fears were validated when he was lead by the ancient woman he had been introduced to earlier into the cramped interior, and - having to bend over slightly to fit under the doorway - he was met with a dreary facade. A small cot of bare iron frame was shoved into the corner, a dirty, chipped porcelain sink sat under a murky mirror on the far wall and a single stool wobbled precariously beneath an equally unsteady wooden table.
Fernie, which Thom learned was the old woman’s name, was a slow walker. She shuffled her heavy feet as if time would wait for her: as if it would patiently stand by for Fernie of Filmouth, as if she commanded it herself. Or perhaps it was deliberate, an attempt to bore others to death waiting. Either way, her dawdling nature allowed Thom to study her closer than when they first met. While they had trudged towards the fishing cabin, Thom searched her intently, and found her even more ghoulish than he had originally thought. Her skin was so pale it seemed almost see-through, and was stretched thin over her bony form; a grey sheen in eerie similarity to a corpse. The whites of her eyes were visible all around her dull green pupils, giving her a look of constant shock. Fernie’s eyes were the feature that upset Thom the most. They were a consistent characteristic among the dwellers of Filmouth: ghastly, sunken eyes that darkened the skin around them, wide open and unblinking. Hair colours were varied, body and face shapes - although most were just as gaunt as Fernie - but the eyes were a constant similarity.
Fernie pointed her bony finger once again, this time towards the small table in the room. A thin metal plate holding a sickly looking piece of bread and what Thom observed to be a pile of pinkish horrifying flesh.
'Eat up. More t’morrow. Rest now.'
Thom watched the elderly woman shuffle leisurely out of the hut and turned to face the items on the table he was expected to put in his mouth. The rotting floorboards were soft under his feet, and when he had reached the table he’d already managed to punch a hole through the ground with his foot.
While the gruesome looking meal was far from inviting, Thom pulled out the wobbly stool and sat at the table all the same. His stomach was burning a hole inside him, it was a hunger more intense than he’d ever felt. Despite the more logical side of his brain, Thom looked at the bread and the inscrutable vile lump of meat with the face of a starving lion glaring at its prey.
It was upon closer inspection that the full weirdness of Thom’s dinner became apparent. The bread had, from a distance, looked dark and vaguely edible; but now under the small light the loaf was unmistakably crimson in colour. A nasty liquid emanated from the bottom and pooled around it. Thom poked at the bread and his finger sank into the soft, wet flesh, leaving a dent where his fingertip had been. Turning his attention to the sorry mass of meat, the bottomless pit in Thom’s stomach grew shallower. Entirely different to the bread, and unlike any animal meat Thom had ever seen, the squishy mound was a deep, sickening green. It pulsated slightly, and still bled a thick, viscous substance. Ravenous hunger was quickly replaced with a profound disgust at the repulsive abomination that sat before him, which increased two-fold when the meat squirmed under his touch.
Thom was unsure the exact amount of the nauseating bread-stuff he digested. Having disregarded the meat thing entirely, he wolfed down piece after piece of the soggy red loaf. Between dry heaves spitting a substantial amount on the floor, the strange taste of the claggy bread lingered on his tongue. It was salty, extremely salty, like it had been soaked in the sea, with a similar texture. The taste reminded him, quite horribly, of the smell of a week old boot. When he was finished, the plate laid bare save for the pale blob of meat, Thom hobbled toward the murky glass mirror on the opposite wall. A thick coating of dust covered his reflection and took a number of swipes to clean off. A dishevelled man with hair of metal looked back at him. He hadn’t given thought to how long he had lain unconscious on that obsidian beach, in truth Thom hadn’t given himself much time to reflect at all since he woke. The red marks over his face that crept down his neck towards his shirt indicated his rest had been more than a few hours. His beard was dirty and matted, his skin burnt and pock-marked and his clothes were in tatters. For the first time since the sun filled his eyes on that beach, Thom was able to think. His ship was in pieces, but repairable, if he was to believe Halloway. Whether his impression of the people of this isle were accurate or a side effect of his violent shipwrecking was still unclear; their deep, hollow eyes and ghastly features however clung firmly onto Thom’s brain like a parasite. If he hadn’t known better, or indeed if he believed in such supernatural things, Thom would have the full impression of having walked through a town of the deceased. Even Halloway, the most charismatic and vocal of them, shared their physiognomy. Thom was not a learned man; he had read at most five books in his entire life. He prided himself however on his geographical knowledge, a simple consequence of spending most of his time at sea. He had never heard of Filmouth: not on a map, not once even in passing at any of the many taverns frequented by seamen he used to patronise. The town was clearly forgotten, their buildings were in ruins and they hadn’t even electric light. He was convinced in the slightest by Halloway’s answer about the fishermen. How had they survived this long without a solid source of food? Dread bubbled up in his throat at the thought of eating that horrid meal every day, it didn’t seem feasible. Everything about this town, its people, the island itself, left Thom feeling uneasy.
Rough and stiff as the cold metal cot was, it was admittedly favourable to the black sand he had woken up on. It was as much a mental struggle as a physical one to fall asleep on this accursed isle. The meat Thom had ignored was twitching and taunting him from the table, it was as if it could sense the gnawing hunger inside of him and begging to fill the hole in his stomach. He turned over and forced his eyes shut. Eventually, after hours of restless squirming, he had grown tired enough that his body fell asleep. His mind stayed alive, however.
He was again greeted by the great white orb he had seen the night before. It was further away this time, and instead of swimming in a thick inky liquid, Thom stood on dark wooden floorboards. It dropped off into a black abyss about two metres in front of him; he was standing on a floating raft of planks. He could see more of the thing the eye belonged to, although not enough to discern what exactly. The pale red waves of flesh continued out in all directions; it was an awful tapestry of bile, meat and sinew, quailing in the little light there was. The wall of gore began to move backwards, out of the light. The last thing Thom saw before it was enveloped completely by darkness was the horrifying eye, darting up and down at speed. At once, a burning sensation was felt in his fingers. Thom’s fingertips gave way to the bones inside them, the flesh skin and blood burned away in waves. His skin turned grey rapidly, and his nails grew yellow and long before it was all stripped away. It went up his arm until his entire hands were skeleton, his mouth opened up to cry out but at that moment it started at his neck. He could feel the air invade his throat as the invisible flame did away with his flesh, and soon his entire body was rendered ash.
Thom awoke violently and almost fell out of his bed. There were sunbeams entering his cabin through the door that was wide open. Groggy and with the dregs of nightmare still swirling around his mind, it took a great deal of strength for Thom to put foot to floor. From across the room, he was again haunted by the neglected mystery meat on the table. With the daylight flooding the room Thom was able to further scrutinise the gruesome chunk of muscle, more than hours prior under candlelight. Lamentably, the improved glimpse provided only further disgust; glistening in the sun, the colour was all the more bizarre, and the veiny, irregular surface made Thom question whether it was some sort of organ. Fortunately, it had stopped squirming.
After trudging through the feculent mire of the Filmouth streets, Thom stood on the doorstep of Halloway. He stood with his back to the rest of the town, but the peculiar feeling of the townspeople glaring at him prickled his skin. He didn’t turn around. What he found perplexing was the lack of noise. There was no sound of early morning bustle; people yelling across streets, talking loudly to friends and neighbours, salesmen selling their snake oil. The people were awake, undoubtedly, Thom had seen them just moments before, with their piercing gaze that lingered on him for far too long. The one sound that was loud and clear, something that was perhaps the only ordinary thing in Filmouth, was the screams of the baby Thom had seen the day before. Time seemed to slow as Thom stood there, breathing heavily and staring intently at Halloway’s doors, listening to the incessant wailing behind him. The screams echoed in his head, and he felt a sudden urge - more out of anger than of compassion - to help the child out. What in the hell was its mother doing, how could she - or anyone else - stand the noise? It cried unceasingly, and Thom got the impression that it must continue into the night. Babies cry, but this was absurd.
Halloway interrupted Thom’s thoughts when he burst through the doors in his immaculate suit.
'Let’s go.'
The walk to the docks of Filmouth was similar to Thom’s first arrival. Scowls from the onlookers, and Thom could feel further eyes on him from inside shadowed windows, places he couldn’t see - but sensed all the same.
'As I said, it’s not exceptional, but it will do.'
Halloway was standing in a proper, upright posture with his hands behind his back. The two of them looked on to the dark waters below the docks. Tied with a single rope to one of the wooden poles was a pitiful looking row boat. It was large enough for the mess of tangled netting on board, but other than a bench on one side, there was sparse else. Thom sniffed the air loudly.
In the silence that followed, the two men continued to stand motionless, watching the water gently rise and fall and lap against the wooden pikes. Thom could only ruminate silently over his present situation. He sighed internally, he didn’t wish to give off the wrong impression - he was genuinely grateful. The people of this island had no responsibility to help him, and to repair his ship was a generous act, but he couldn’t shake the suspicious feeling that took root around his heart. The people are all together off putting and may as well be alien to him, and whatever corruption grasped them clearly extended to the flora and fauna of the island. His stomach did barrel rolls at the memory of the god forsaken meal he was given. Their hospitality was not without fault. Additionally, the tale Halloway spun about why they were without any fishermen at all was difficult to swallow. It was entirely unbelievable that every person even remotely capable of casting a net had left the island, and even further so that no one had even tried since. The silence was eventually broken by Halloway’s voice.
'I will leave you to it. Whatever you catch, bring it to the fishery down the street on the right. You’ll know it when you see it.'
With that, Halloway walked down the rickety wooden stairs and disappeared behind a decrepit house. Thom moved, finally, towards the small boat.
He had settled in the wooden hull, with its rotting boards and pile of slimy netting touching his feet. The sea was somewhat more intimidating from his present position, it was a vast ocean of darkness from which light seemed to escape from. The sun, burning bright as it was on the horizon, seemed to falter here. The waves however were calm, and there was no wind about at all. It was an easy task to move out to open waters.
His first fishing expedition at Filmouth was, like everything else in the town, bizarre. While it was no challenge to paddle around, the difficulty presented itself with obtaining fish. Thom had no bearings whatsoever, and no signs where schools may swim. No one had told him either, of course, since everyone was apparently totally devoid of fishing experience. The few he had managed to catch were not regular fish. Upon seeing their soft, fleshy bodies in the nets he was perplexed. A wide, deep blue creature had a mouth that ran up its entire body, and no other outward features on its slimy exterior. A shiny blue oval with a disgusting maw. On closer inspection, he was horrified to see two bright white orbs within its mouth, darting back and forth, unable to perceive anything but the inside of its own throat. Another was a sickly pale grey that intermittently turned itself inside out. The rest were all kinds of contradictory biology, creatures that belied the natural order, things that no heavenly hand nor survival of the fittest evolution could possibly create. One of them, a thick, scaly green sphere of a fish, had a deep wound in its belly, out of which gushed dark blood. At first he attributed it to a bash from reefs or perhaps a wound from a predator, but it was proven a normal part of their sick anatomy when the next five he caught had the exact same slice, all bleeding heavily.
Thom eventually grew tired of piddling around the shores of the island. If he had any thought of leaving for home, it would have been impossible. Even if he were to have any earthly idea where he and Filmouth were on a map, which he did not, the junk of a boat he had been given was barely adequate for the calmer waters, let alone to travel seas. The way back to the dock was considerably more difficult. The pile of anomalous sea creatures now weighing the front half of his boat down meant he had to row fiercer than before, and in short time his arms were fatigued. The streets swallowed his boots even more than before, with the net of fish slung over his shoulder. Dozens of gaunt villagers stared daggers at him as he lumbered, some were standing on porches, balconies, street corners, and others glared from the shadows. Slime and mud covered his left side, dripping from the fish that stank of death. A building painted in faded blue loomed from a few doors ahead. There was a sign hanging from rusting metal chains, and in large, weathered block letters, it read simply 'FISH.'
A slither of light creeped into the old ramshackle building as Thom nudged it open with his one free hand. Thick clouds of dust hung in the air, and he coughed. He heaved the door open fully which flooded the room with light, revealing an aged man hunched over a counter, slowly knotting a series of ropes. Thom noted the blankets over the windows behind him. The man had been working in the dark.
The man had an incredible hunch - his back was curved so greatly that his head was almost lower than his shoulders. Thom held up his dripping haul.
'Over’ere,' the man said quietly and nodded to the empty space next to him on the counter. Thom moved closer with staggered steps, the energy in his legs were waning. He studied the older man’s features: his eyes, while consistent with the Filmouth ghoulishness, were much smaller than most. His mouth however was giant. Despite this, his voice was raspy and he spoke in a barely audible whisper. He tied another knot in the rope in his hands. Thom pulled the burdened netting high and dropped it on the counter, the fish inside still squirmed and now soaked the bench top, the mess of oily discharge and slime streaked along the graining in the wood. Thom could feel a cough attempting to escape his throat. The air was choked by dust, the same dust that lined thick every surface of the interior, and combined with the horrid stench of the fish writhing about led him to back up slowly to the door. Moving only his hands, the man behind the corner held out the rope he had been working on. His large mouth quivered at the corners, then opened slightly:
'Dun forget this.'
Thom walked back towards him, covering his mouth with his sleeve. He took the knotted ropes from the hunchback. It was another net.
'‘Nless ye plan to catch’m with yer ‘ands.' He whispered, his voice devoid of humour. He then turned ninety degrees to the right and picked up the pile of fish, and walked through a shadowy doorway behind him. Thom took his cue to leave.
Having dropped the new net off at the boat, an overwhelming urge to explore had nestled deep within Thom’s heart. He walked outside the bounds of the dilapidated town and headed towards the peak of a small hill on the left side of the buildings that littered the coast. There were no locals here, halfway up the mound, which calmed Thom’s nerves ever so slightly. He wasn’t wandering aimlessly - from the streets he had spotted an odd shaped piece of architecture atop the hill. The higher he went, the sturdier the path grew; with the higher altitude the soil was able to be liberated from the wet sludge that invaded the roads of the town below.
He had reached the crest of the hill as the sky darkened. About twenty meters in front of him sat a building with a high reaching triangular roof with brick shingles. It was the only building on the island he had seen that wasn’t made haphazardly or of wood. From his new perspective he could discern clearly what it was: a church. The large barn doors were shut, but had a gap of a few inches above and below. From where he was he couldn’t see into the darkened interior. On his approach, a scent made him stagger and his knees buckle. A smell of rot, decay and spoiled meat; a stench worse than death; it enveloped his senses. He could taste hell. His eyes watered and he fell in the dirt. His knees were scraped to shreds as he scrambled backwards, and he ran back down the path in a state of delirium. The night was black when he returned to his shack.
It had been three days.
Thom had not slept soundly for a while. Each night in Filmouth he had been captured by nightmares - visions of perverse sea life, horrific dreams that found him in the dark. It ate at him, sleep was not an escape from the dire and unaccountable situation he found himself in - it was a further descent into madness. Thom refused to eat anything given to him. The meal quality hadn’t improved since the first night and he fought off his growling stomach until he felt nothing. He was heavily dehydrated - unsurprisingly the liquids he had been offered were of the same nature as everything else on the island. His isolation was total. Halloway, who Thom could only assume was the mayor or someone of importance to the town, had rarely been seen since his introduction. His only social interaction was with the contorted man he turned his nets of fish to. He was not as much shunned, or even ignored by the villagers, but rather silently observed. They refused to speak to or near him, and yet every one of them stopped to stare.
The initial fear was replaced with a deep disgust and yearning for home. He had investigated the shiphouse twice, and both times was unable to see the state of his boat. There was a woman who stationed herself outside the building, and he often saw her cutting various shapes of timber, or sharpening a blade. The person in charge of repairing his ship, he assumed. He asked her directly the second time about his ship and was cut short by a curt 'I’m workin’ on it.' Both days after the first, Thom spent far longer out at sea. It was not out of love for the black ocean he rowed through or an effort to catch greater numbers - it was an escape from the repugnant swamp of Filmouth and its filth.
Thom had asked Halloway about the church on the hill. On his walk to the docks one morning he stopped by the old manor and waited for him. He had forgotten about the stench, like his brain was trying to protect him. Halloway looked surprised to see Thom, but his face quickly shifted to its placid mask. He had little to say about the church. It was antiquated and had been out of use for some time - the people of Filmouth hadn’t much use for religion nowadays. He was evasive on the topic of the smell - in truth, he seemed hesitant in giving much detail at all. Thom was strongly advised to stay away from the building. Halloway didn’t have an explanation for the stench of death that emanated from it, but posited that perhaps an animal had inhabited it and died. 'Whatever the case may be, there is nothing of interest for you in there.' Thom wasn’t convinced.
'I don’t want to keep you from your work. Best be on your way.'
Evidently finished with this line of inquiry, Halloway stepped off the porch and disappeared down the muddy street.
On the night of the third day Thom was again possessed by terror. He was onboard The Fortuitous, during a lightless night. He heard the sound of wood being ripped apart behind him. Standing on the deck was Halloway, standing at almost ten feet tall; he tore a plank from the wall of the cabin and tossed it into the sea. Thom moved toward him, and Halloway used both hands to punch two holes in the deck. Thom looked up at him and tried to restrain his arms. Halloway spoke without looking at him.
'I wonder where a man like you came from, Thomas.'
He ripped more holes into the ship, water started spilling in and the boat creaked. Halloway was immovable - Thom fruitlessly banged his arms against his body which deflected the blows like a wall.
'You sailed quite far, didn’t you? Further than before.'
More and more of The Fortuitous was effortlessly torn away and thrown into the abyss. Thom could only stand and watch the water slowly take over the floor and wet his boots, his attacks on the man in the green suit faltering in his exhaustion.
'We can’t have you leave now, can we? There’s so much more that must be done - and you have been such a boon…'
Thom struggled under the weight of his fatigued limbs to try and cover some of the holes with his hands while water continued to pour through. Halloway was a towering monolith rending The Fortuitous apart - a giant of destruction. Thom ran into the cabin, where the dangling light bulb smacked his head. An ocean's worth of dark sea flowed through the damaged hull and swirled around his legs, reaching his knees. He could hear Halloway outside over the thrashing water, wordlessly tearing his ship apart. The light bulb flickered, then turned off. In total darkness the water rose quickly and was soon at his waist. A giant hole appeared in the wall, and a sudden gush of salty brine knocked him out.
Reluctance grew swiftly in Thom’s heart that morning. He had been wary; hesitant and cautious in his dealings with Filmouth so far - in almost all metrics, every aspect of the mysterious island signalled a dire corruption. Something was severely wrong with Filmouth and its residents. Despite this, Thom had given a level of charity and trust to Halloway, and to a lesser extent the rest of the rabble. His nightmarish visions however, the illusions in the dark had slowly planted a tiny seed of doubt. Taken alone they would be nothing more than delusions of a sleeping mind scrambling to fill a blank space, but they had been consistent - every night without fail he was met with hallucinations that were more real than any regular dream; and unlike regular dreams, they stuck with him through the next day.
It was decided after short rumination that conflict would best be avoided. To inquire directly, to show any sort of dissent in his current state of seclusion would surely end poorly. He thought instead to observe quietly. Answers were needed.
After Thom had dropped off his net of loathsome marine creatures, he walked back to the docks and looked toward the shiphouse. The sturdy looking woman out front was heavily muscled. Her skin was as sickly and marked as the rest of Filmouth, but several shades darker than their normal pale grey. She too was tall, not as tall as Halloway but enough to clear Thom by about half a head. Her large head turned to Thom as he approached.
'Told you, I’m workin’ on it. What do you want?'
Thom remained calm and spoke plainly:
'I know. How long do you expect it should take?'
The boat warden sighed heavily and looked away. 'I dunno. It’s a big job. You wrecked it well.'
'I understand. Is it okay if I see it?'
'No. I’m busy and can’t babysit you. It’s a mess in there, don’t want you hurting yourself.'
'It’s my ship, I’m sure I’ll be okay.'
‘’Said no.'
She turned again and continued cutting away at a piece of wood. Thom watched her for a moment. She lopped a huge chunk off the right side; it was far from clean and decidedly not straight. She repositioned it and cut it in half with an air of carelessness. With one last chop, she broke a small splinter of material off of it, then threw what remained on a pile. She picked another one up from her left and started haphazardly cutting once more.
‘Do you mind if I ask a bit more about it?’
‘Fine.’
‘Have you found the rear grater? It’s fairly important for balance-’
‘Yes, we recovered everything.’
‘Great, and is the main shear board in place?’
‘Yes. Do you think I’m an idiot?’
‘No, no, that’s good, I’m just checking. And the mercury heading? Did you remember that?’
‘Of course.’
‘Good, good. Just one more thing, is the burdner intact? It might be difficult to repair…’
She stopped chopping and stared at him impatiently. She growled ‘No, it was broken. I fixed it,’ and went back to cutting.
Thom held up his hands and departed. In his display of good-enough sounding gibberish, he had discovered two things: Filmouth’s ship warden knew nothing about boats, and he was being lied to.
The gravity of the situation didn’t fully settle in until Thom got back to his hut. He was stuck; stuck on an island that didn’t show up on maps, surrounded by what amounted to walking corpses and illogical wildlife. In addition, he was essentially forced to work every day for the residents for a promise they didn’t hold. His ship was not being repaired. He questioned if any of it was even recovered. Whatever plan they had in keeping him here, there would be no need to collect the remains of his boat only to do nothing with it. His perception of Halloway shone in a new light. The man was either enormously foolish to not notice the incompetence in his ship builder, or there was a sinister motivation to lie to Thom and keep him hopeful. Either way, Thom wanted to be done with this cursed isle.
Despite having consumed nothing in the four days on the island, Thom had a strange amount of strength in him. He was deadly thirsty, undoubtedly, and ravenously hungry, but it seemingly made little difference on his body. In that same strain, he noticed a curious phenomenon in the cracked mirror above his sink. He stared at the old, greying man in tattered rags, and into his pale eyes that felt dull and lifeless. Thom was a man of hair; that is to say, most times, he had to shave twice a day. While he glared at the sad man looking back at him, he widened his eyes. It had gone unnoticed until now, but in front of him, reflected clearly in the small light from the ceiling bulb was a chin with barely a morning’s worth of stubble. He ran his fingers over his mottled skin to confirm it. It had been four days since he had shaved, and yet his stubble remained thin.
He decided to go for a walk.
The cloak of night had settled and the moon scattered dull light over the streets of Filmouth outside his hut. It would be easier to lurk in the dark, to look around undetected. The mud squelched under his boots and he adopted a lighter gait, minimising the sound his feet made. He had decided to go to the docks, to possibly sneak into the boat house while no one was there. It was cold, and the tattered, mud covered jacket that hung over his shoulders did little to fend it off. His clothes had ruined over the last few days; his boots were always soaked and the leather had stripped off completely, his pants were stiff with mud and fish slime and his shirt was stuck to his torso like another layer of skin. He trudged through the decrepit, dark town as a creature of filth.
The docks were deserted. Unsurprising, but still relieving. The boat house had two main entrances - the large barn doors at the front for the delivery of materials, and around the back on the water, where the ships could disembark from. He had tried to spy glances from the ocean on his fishing trips, but a giant covering made of numerous black cloth tarps stitched together was placed over the waterfront opening. He looked around the front, at the wooden planks making up the barn doors. He pushed slowly on the wooden doors, which didn’t budge. There was nothing on the outside that could be locking it, so it must have been something from inside. He turned and walked along the side of the building, towards the water. Moonlight glinted off the motionless sea, and he looked down off the peer. There was no other way.
He took a deep breath and walked off. Thom expected it to be even icier than the night air - but the water was warm. It was almost too warm, and his waterlogged clothes quickly started pulling him further down. It was like the ocean had been boiled above a blazing fire. Thom barely even registered the oddity. He struggled to tread the hot liquid as he moved towards the makeshift tarp over the opening of the boat house. Through gasped breaths, he swam under it and managed to pull himself up inside. His clothes were thoroughly soaked through and weighed him down like bricks. They were hot, and he ripped his jacket off and dropped it on the ground. The boat house interior was pitch black. Thom waved his hands aimlessly, until he touched a wall. He followed it along until he hit something solid with his legs. He ran his fingers over the table - he touched various strangely shaped objects, and heard some of it clatter to the floor. Eventually he found a small rectangular box made of cardboard; in the dark he found the opening, pushed, and took a small stick from the box. He ran one end of it across the long side of the box, and a small flame ignited. Using the match he surveyed the table again, and found a half-burned candle.
He waved the candle out in front of him, illuminating the room. The building was empty. Thom’s heart dropped. A small part of him had held onto a small semblance of hope; a far flung possibility that there was a reason the boat warden had lied to him, had pretended to understand his questions. It fizzled away as quickly as the candle lit the room. He gazed around the poorly lit boat house, as if to try and force his ship to materialise itself. He stood up straight and grunted, then walked back over to where he left his jacket, and snuffed out the candle.
He was again dripping head to toe in the hot sea water. He slogged across the docks and down the streets, leaving a trail of wet mud in his wake. A small light in the corner of his vision caught his eye. A glow from atop the hill he had visited the other day, where the church had sat - the church he was told was unused, the church which was occupied by a most bloodcurdling fetor.
Thom crouched inside a dense bush halfway up the path to the church. The leaves were fuzzy, and tickled his neck. A crowd was gathered in a circle in front of the church. One torch was held high by a figure taller than the rest. There was something in the middle of the band of figures, but it was shrouded by the dark and wall of people. The tall one was talking, too quiet to hear from where Thom was. Abruptly, the circle seemed to disband, and the villagers streamed down the church path. Halloway lead from the front, his face lit by the torch, but his eyes remained shadowed under his hat. They approached Thom’s hiding place and he held his breath. An unrelenting crying filled his ears as they walked closer, and he remembered the child. As the tens of footsteps thundered by him, he heard something different underneath the wailing - a barely audible, faint sobbing. He didn’t dare move his head to look, but he heard it.
When the crowd had passed him by about forty meters, he emerged from his bush and crept slowly behind them. The five dozen or so residents blended into a black mass in the night, shuffling their feet toward the docks. He perched himself behind a nearby building to get a clear view while remaining out of sight. Halloway stood in front of the gathering once again, and a few more torches were suddenly lit in the crowd. The ghastly faces of the townsfolk were visible once more, but through their gaunt features and dead eyes, Thom noticed a familiar sense - he saw sorrow in them. It was barely visible from this distance, but their faces had been so unchanging up to this point that it was obvious something had definitely shifted. Two of them bent over the row boat Thom had been using for fishing. One held it steady while the other tied a knot around a hole in the rear, and piled up the coil on the dock. Halloway nodded, and a third member of the town gingerly put one foot in the boat, followed by the other. They sat on the thin wooden board that Thom had sat on every morning, and began paddling out to sea. The one with the rope held it out as it slowly unwound, but kept a foot on the very end of it. As the boat moved further out, it was swallowed by the dark and Thom could see nothing of it except for the rope trailing back to the dock. A few moments passed, and the residents were still. The baby still cried, and the flames of the torches flickered. Halloway nodded again, and the one with the rope began pulling. Little by little, the rope was pulled back, and soon the boat was visible again. The person that occupied it had vanished.
Thom lost his footing a few times as he scrambled back towards his hut. He would later find it difficult to recall much of his journey back through the sodden lanes of Filmouth, his mind was a swirling vortex of unanswerable questions and fearsome suspicions. It was almost dawn by the time he reached his home, and his head had begun to throb as he dragged himself through the door. He collapsed onto his cot.
Nightmares mercifully evaded him that night, for sleep never came.
It was some time before he finally left the bed. He did not know what to do with himself, nor did he know what to think. It was the entrance of the old woman named Fernie that forced him to feel.
'Get up.'
The voice had come from far away, deep in his mind. He felt as if he were rising from his own grave, and the sensation was strangely pleasing. He obeyed, and stood with a renewed energy.
'You're late-'
Thom had walked out of the doorway before the old woman's lethargic delivery of the words could be completed. He left her slouched in the dark of the hut and did not look back. He was single minded in his goals - he was going to investigate that church.
The villagers all stopped and stared - like always - as their simple nature prescribed of them, Thom concluded. At the base of the hill he heard a familiar deep, calm voice speak loudly from a few yards behind:
'Where are you going, Thomas?'
Thom almost smiled. Fernie had seemingly found her light-footedness and alerted Halloway of his rebellious streak. He picked up the pace and rounded a bend in the path.
'There is nothing up there for you, Thomas.'
It sounded like he was a few steps behind him. Thom simply walked quicker. He rounded another bend and the top of the church came into view.
'Take a day off, Thomas. You're not yourself. You needn't fish today. Thomas?'
Thom was almost jogging up the hill, and Halloway sounded no further away than before. In all his interactions with the man, he had never heard Halloway sound so agitated. Even so, the distress in his voice was nearly unnoticeable. He was almost at the crest of the hill when the stench hit him again. He had almost forgotten the intensity. The horrid concoction of decay, rot and death filled his nostrils and staggered him. In his moment of hesitation he turned to Halloway. The towering figure was maybe a meter away, and showed no sign of exhaustion or, more significantly, disgust at the malodor invading the air.
'I recommend you step no further.'
Thom spoke no words, but stood still for a moment. Halloway reached toward his hat with one hand and took it off. As he held it by his side Thom looked into his unshadowed face. Halloway's mouth twitched slightly at the corner, and his eyes were uneasy.
'What is it you want?'
Thom had little left to care about. His ship was gone, most likely totally destroyed. This place that he found himself was not of this realm, it couldn't be. Nothing about it made sense. Ghostly villagers who never spoke to him, alien plants and sea creatures from the world of nightmares. Why was he here? He had crashed; but the circumstances of his wreck were dubious as well. The sky had gone pitch black seemingly out of nowhere. His ship was uncontrollable, and the anchor dropped endlessly. Then, with a horrifying screech, it had hit, and he woke up in cosmic hell. It was all getting a little hard to believe. Everything was awry; the rules of the universe had been collected, shuffled, and torn to pieces. He must be dead. He was in some level of hell, or a sick form of purgatory. Or perhaps a rip had opened in the fabric of existence, of which he had fallen head first through. Maybe he was in heaven - not as anyone he knew would recognize it, but for all anyone knew this was it, a place that defied everything.
'I want to go home.' He said it out loud, not sure if he had imagined the words. There was no response, so he repeated them. 'I want to go home.'
Halloway finally spoke quietly. 'That's not possible, Thomas.'
He knew that, of course. It still felt as if he had been punched in the chest. He could barely catch his breath as his eyes watered. The world was reeling, and a terrible emptiness had taken its place. Halloway almost looked mournful. Empathy was not something the man could be capable of, Thom mused. Nevertheless, Halloway's stature weakened and his voice softened. 'I'm sorry. I wish there was another way.'
Thom felt himself swaying, and gestured backwards with his head.
'What is in there?'
'It doesn't matter. Come back to town, have some rest. You'll feel better about this tomorrow.'
Thom shook his head sadly. Nothing mattered anymore. All there was left was to behold. He turned to the church doors and pushed. It didn't budge.
Halloway returned to his natural mannerisms.
'Thomas? Do not go in-'
Thom kicked in the door. The smell almost swept him off his feet as it pervaded every inch of him.There were no pews inside, nor an altar. It was a large, blank room save for the decorated windows covered in grime. A chandelier hung from the ceiling high up, and only three of its candles were lit. His boots made a squelching sound. The ground and walls were covered with a congealed, writhing mass, tendrils of deep crimson and purple plentifully bestrewn along every surface. He was sickened. He had seen plenty of decay and death in his life, but none of it had ever come close to the visceral horror of this. Yet he couldn't turn away. In the center on the floor was an unspeakable writhing lump of gore. He stared at it mesmerised. The thing was made of a blood red, flesh like substance, the surface shifted and changed like a prismatic sea of boiling meat. It was a mess of organs and limbs, each more fantastical than the last. A large, twitching eyeball darted back and forth. A gaping hole in the side of the thing revealed a torrent of crimson liquid that welled up and down like a raging river. There was another aperture, a deep void just below the eye that sucked desperately at the air, and towards Thom. He could almost feel its ravenous hunger. The thing from his dreams. It was a thing of putrefaction.
'I warned you Thomas. You didn't listen to me.' Halloway was now beside him.
Thom didn't even hear the words. He stared intently at what was in front of him. Sheer disgust grew on his face. Halloway was despairing, and started pacing the room nervously. 'You don't understand, Thomas, you have no earthly idea!'
Thom spoke without moving, and his voice was little more than a hoarse whisper. 'What is that?'
'It's our heart. It breathes life into Filmouth. You don't understand...' He trailed off. His pacing was getting more agitated, like control was slipping out of his grasp.
'It should die.' Thom whispered.
Halloway stopped pacing abruptly. He moved to Thom's side, his face full of rage.
'You're more than naive! It's beyond you, Thomas. You can't possibly comprehend!' He yelled at Thom, any sense of decorum thrown out. 'You're an intruder! you don't belong here; and yet you think yourself so mighty? Leave it, Thomas. You have no concept of this, how any of this works. Begone!'
Thom stared at the writhing horror. 'It's wrong. It doesn't belong here.'
'You fool! Do you know what you're saying?'
'It doesn't belong...' Thom was absolutely spellbound by the monstrosity. He took a step forward.
'YOU WOULD HAVE AN OCEAN OF BLOOD ON YOUR HANDS!' Halloway bellowed.
The thing on the floor's eye moved faster. Its vacuum maw made an awful screeching sound as Thom drove his boot into its flesh. He stomped indiscriminately. He felt the awful crunching sound of bone with every step, he was splattered with gore and disgusting substances of unknown origin, yet he continued. He felt no hand on him, and heard no resistance from Halloway. He stamped violently until he was fatigued.
He stopped, panting and wheezing. He couldn't do it anymore. He looked down at the mess in front of him, a revolting, putrid, dead swamp of blood and carnage. The smell remained, and it took every ounce of energy to move. He turned and Halloway was gone. In the puddle of red that covered the church floor bobbed a dozen teeth, and a destroyed green top hat. He left the church.
The grey sky outside was brighter now. As he slowly walked down the path of the hill he passed a number of piles of ash and nylon remains. His mind stayed empty. He knew what he had done.
He wandered aimlessly through the dead silent streets. More piles of ash and clothing were on street corners, some were on verandahs, and some mixed into the muddy paths themselves. There was nowhere to go, but he continued walking. After a time, he found himself at the docks. It was not intentional, perhaps he just gravitated towards it. He sat down on the wharf and dangled his legs off the edge. His trousers and boots were drenched in blood and coated in gore. He looked towards the row boat he had used; the same one the villagers had sent someone out into the night in. A pile of ash sat at the bottom. He scratched at his chin and was surprised to feel a full beard on his face. It was rugged and unkempt. It was at this point the hunger finally hit him. It was rapacious, his stomach was in pain and he tried to get to his feet, but fell back down again. He steadily rose, and shambled into the town again in search of food. When he reached the road he heard a sound amongst the houses. A sound he thought would have been wiped from this earth - a faint sobbing from inside a nearby home. He was too tired, too hungry to be scared; and walked into the house. The room was lit from an open window, and there sat an old man in a pile of ash. He was crying softly, and hunched in the corner. He looked up at Thom as he entered, and the two locked eyes.
Thomas stood just past the doorway and studied the huddled figure. He had such a familiar face. His eyes were sunken and grey around the edges, his features were gaunt...
'You did it...' The old man spoke suddenly through his sobs, his voice was almost silent and incredibly hoarse.
Thom didn't move. 'How are you...' He said breathlessly.
'You ended it... It all happened so quickly. Everyone, the whole town, reduced to dust...' The old man whispered. 'Thank you, Thomas...'
Thom moved forward hesitantly and crouched down. 'You know my name? Are you one of them? But how...'
'That thing... It came to us. To Filmouth. It was disgusting.' The old man dry heaved. 'It came from the stars. No one knew what it was, the red meat in the crater...'
His tears didn't relent, they streamed down his bony face and soaked the wooden boards below. 'We let it be in its hole, but the mayor... He stayed with it. Night after night he'd sit by it silently. We thought he was crazy...' He coughed raggedly.
'Who was the mayor?' Thom asked gently.
The old man raised a hand to indicate height. 'He wore green...' Thom nodded.
He continued, 'He told us he made a deal. With the thing in the crater. It would help us. We didn't believe him, he said just wait... He took a bunch of meat and threw it down the hole. A week later, he rounded everyone up, and asked all the men if they'd shaved at all...'
'Shaved?'
The old man nodded. 'All the men said no, and the mayor said it was proof... He said it was the thing, that it would let us live forever. We just needed to feed it.'
Thom sat down on the floor next to the old man.
'We gave it all our meat, it wouldn't touch the crops. People complained, the mayor said he would start throwing complainers in the pit... After a while, the plants and animals near the crater were... different. They moved the thing into the old church, to stop the spread...' The old man shuddered. 'We thought it would bring us peace, but it didn't...'
'It spread to the wildlife? Is that why everything is so abnormal?' Thom questioned.
The old man nodded. 'Yes. It was a corruption... Everything was infected eventually. The fish, the crops, the animals, the grass... Every living thing. Even the sand, it changed it all. The animals all died off, except for the fish. People got used to the new food, if it meant eternity. After a few years though, we found the limitations...' He doubled over, his body failing him.
Thom helped him sit back up again. 'What were the limits?'
'The fishermen... when they'd return they would have a full beard. Some of the younger ones looked older too, their skin and their voice... We figured whatever was keeping us halted in time only affected the island. We had to stop fishing. There was barely enough food for us, and now there would be none for the thing in the church. The mayor went to extreme measures... As a punishment for any crime, people were fed to it. He said it was the only way, and we couldn’t deny it.'
Thom had a realisation. 'That's why I had to fish. To keep it fed.' The old man nodded.
'You must have been incredibly lucky that I wrecked here.'
The old man shook his head. 'No. Not luck. You did not crash accidentally. And you are not the first...'
Thom gave him a quizzical look. Then a terrible thought crossed his mind...
'The mayor sat in the church again, night after night. He made another deal, he said. The thing would give us... means. Means to collect more food. Your shipwreck was designed...'
'How long has this been going on? How many were before me?' Thom was white hot with rage.
'Ninety seven years...' The old man said wearily.
Thom had a brand new level of anger directed at Halloway. He wished he had done something more to him. 'So you are...'
'Ninety seven years old.' The old man smiled through the tears. He mimicked cradling a baby. 'Ninety seven years I was stuck in that body. My mind grew old but physically...' He started weeping.
Thom understood. He understood why the baby never stopped crying. He was living in a prison of flesh. He looked down at his hands. They were wrinkled and weak. He felt hatred building in his chest. He could feel the anger and the disgust. He got up and stood over the old man.
The old man cried. 'I don't deserve to be alive, none of us did. We should have passed so long ago...'
Thom was utterly defeated. He was starving, dehydrated and completely stranded. There was no way off the island - he would be stuck here until he died of hunger or thirst. He clenched his fists until his nails drew blood. The hatred he felt towards Halloway was immense. He was the reason he would die here, in the middle of nowhere. He was the reason all these people were slowly turned into shells of their former selves. He kept this island suspended in time for almost a hundred years. Thom looked down to the old man lying in ash. They were both going to die here. He could only do his best.
Thom bent down to the huddled man and put his arms around him. He slowly picked him up - he weighed almost nothing - and walked toward the bedroom of the house. He placed him gently down in the bed, and pulled the covers over him. The old man's tears eventually dried up and his smile widened. Thom pulled up a chair and sat by him until the old man drifted off to sleep.
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