Estimated reading time — 18 minutes

It’s amazing what lives within our oceans. Ecosystems of life entirely separated from our comfortable surface existences. It’s a momentous event when the worlds interact: people cheer when they see dolphins breach above the waves, there are organizations devoted to helping the sea turtle population make their way back to the water, and so on. Sometimes, though, it ain’t so pretty. Sometimes, things will rise from the depths that are so horrible, we quickly realize why some creatures evolved to live on land. There was a town I lived in once that learned this lesson. I won’t bother giving you the name of it. It doesn’t exist on any map anymore.

It was a healthy town, once. Built right into a beautiful bay. I couldn’t have asked for better neighbors. The street markets were filled with fresh, cheap seafood, caught right in our own little cradle of ocean. The people didn’t want for much, and the land provided plenty. We should’ve known it was too good.

But we didn’t.

We barely even reacted to the first warning that the sea had offered us.

________

Ol’ Roger Scraggins was the perfect picture of a man who didn’t know the times had passed him by. While most folk went out to fish using the latest and greatest technology, Roger would take his modest boat out armed with little more than a wide fishing net and a cooler full of beer.

Sometimes, a few of the townsfolk would like to see him off, watching a true legend at work. He’d nod to us, his eyes permanently squinted from years of being on an open deck. We’d watch him use his heavily scarred hands to do the work of several men, effortlessly gliding his boat through the lapping waves. The man had a sixth sense about him, knowing where the fishing was good, even if it didn’t make a lick of sense.

On rare occasion, before he’d get on his boat, he’d ask a few of us observers if we’d like to “Help Ol’ Scraggins.” We’d gladly take him up on this offer, as it usually meant he’d be catching a heap of fish that day, and he was kind enough to let us take some home for our ice boxes. The day of the first sign started off like one of these moments. I remember Roger staring off at the opening of the bay, as the arms of the mountain range cradled our slice of ocean.

“Hrmph. Biggun today. Gonna need all hands on deck to help Ol’ Scraggins.” His voice grumbled, worn from years of breathing in brine and cigars. He glanced over at me and two other young men and gave a quick nod. We knew that was our cue to hop on board, and within a matter of moments, we were cruising out to the middle of the bay, past the Esca.

The Esca was an old, worn out lighthouse directly in the middle of the bay. At some point long ago, it probably served its purpose. But years of rising water levels left it on a small island, the red and white lighthouse slightly leaning to one side, as if it were tired of its vigil. Good sailors knew the best spots were past the Esca, but still within the comfort of the bay.

Roger slowed the engine once we got far enough away from the weary beacon, and we quickly followed every order he managed to growl out.
“Untangle them nets! Cast it out, fasten it tight!”

Within moments, the ship carried its own fishnet cloak trailing behind it, lost in the deep blues beneath us. The four of us sat in silence, letting the rolling waves and gull call overhead do all the talking for us. Roger interrupted their conversation with a shout.

“Git ‘em on up outta there!”

With that, we set to work pulling in the net and setting up the winch to get it out of the water. Each of us heaved, the thick cords of rope rough on our hands, new callouses forming over the old. The amount of effort I had to exert to heave the net closer to the boat told me one thing: Roger’s sense was right, as always. Sweat poured from my brow as the rising mass of fins, tails, and beady eyes came into view by the back of the boat. We hooked the net up to the winch, and with a rusty whine, the crane began to lift our haul out of the water.

The shimmering mix of soft azure scales wriggling just above us confirmed we had a fine haul of bluefish. The crane sighed as it placed the net between us all on the deck. Roger squinted further, analyzing the writhing clump in front of us. “S’pose that’ll do.” He grumbled approvingly, working to undo the net.

Then we heard the voice. It was a small voice, like that of a little girl.

“Help me. Please.”

It was coming from inside the net.

We worked at a quickened pace to undo the net, thinking we might’ve accidentally scooped up a diver as we were trailing the net behind us. As we sifted through the mass of wriggling fish, however, there wasn’t anyone inside. Just fish.

“Help. I can’t breathe.”

The voice was just a little louder, but was still faint, almost like it came from the wind itself.

“Where are ya?!” Roger called out, his hands deep in bluefin as he searched for the elusive victim.

We continued to search through the piles of fish until I heard the whisper come from the collection right in front of me.

“Right here.” Something compelled me to grab from the pile, and I pulled a single fish out. There, a bluefin rested in my palms, just like any of the other fish we caught. It turned its face to look at me. As the fish’s mouth gasped for air, it spoke.

“Can’t breathe. Can’t go back. It hurts.”

“GYAH!” Roger’s cry caused me to drop the fish back into the pile and stumble back. He immediately looked at me and the other two volunteers. “Did’n you just hear-”

We all nodded, too terrified to speak. The four of us just stared down at the speaking fish. It was clear that we were all just trying to process what happened. We didn’t get a lot of time: Another fish in the pile piped up.

“The air. Painful to breathe.”

Then another.

“Can’t go back. Can’t move. Dying. Help.”

Three small cries became ten desperate wails, became a choir of screaming pleas. Their volume rattled my brain, forcing me to put my hands over my ears to try to drown out the nautical lament. Even with my hands blocking the noise, they were still loud enough to be heard as plain as day. Some were just sobbing at that point. Some were still struggling to explain the pain.

“Scraggins! We have to throw them back in!” One of the other crew called out.

Immediately, all of the fish stopped their various cries, screams, and pained pleas. Then, in unison, they spoke.

“No. Can’t go back. Can’t go back. Can’t go back…” They continued the chant through pained voices. We stood dumbstruck as the chorus repeated their mantra, getting weaker with each verse, as more and more fish stopped moving. Eventually, it was down to one voice- the same voice that spoke in the beginning.

“Can’t go back. Neither should…you.”

We waited for clarification that never came. It was Roger who snapped us out of the mortified daze. “We bring ‘em back. Double the usual haul for each’n yer to not tell a soul ‘bout this.”

“But-” I tried to protest. I thought it was insane: Not only the fact that we were going to just pretend that this didn’t just happen, but that we’d bring these fish back to the townsfolk for them to eat.

“But nuthin’! You listen good: Look at ‘em. Ain’t nuthin’ but fish now. Tellin’ Tall Tales ain’t gonna do you no good but put you in a loony bin. We take this to the grave, lads.”

Looking at the other two, it was clear I was the odd man out. So I relented, and we silently cut through the waves back to the dock, in tow with our cursed bounty from the sea. Once the side of the boat met the crooked wooden planks, I left without taking any of the share. There was no way I was going to take a single one of those fish home. I also made an effort to avoid any fish dishes from that point on.

Looking back, that might’ve been the only thing to save me. Folks started to act a little weirder around town. There was a spike in deaths by drowning. The beaches always looked more crowded, yet the energy was a bit muted, almost like people were waiting for something important.

I also recount that it was around this time that the Esca began its operations again. At night, the sweeping, lopsided light would cut through the night air, beckoning the beachgoers to its lonely island.

Ol’ Roger Scraggins wasn’t the same after that day out at sea either. He’d never let anyone on his boat, spending full days out at sea alone, unloading massive amounts of fish in the dark of night. He was old, but it was as if he finally realized it, too. The man’s sleepless scowl as he’d stare off into the bay told me so.

Then one day, he vanished. He took his boat out like normal, only to never return. We had a search party for his boat, but there was no sign of any wreckage. Despite knowing the reality, I like to tell myself that he packed up what little he had and sailed off for bluer oceans.

That he knew what was coming, and got out of there before it got worse.

________

It was a misty morning when the flyers first showed up all over town. They were gaudy and loud, with vibrant colors that cut through the hazy grey. In the middle of the poster was a mermaid, sitting in a giant clam shell. They were an advertisement for a new establishment that read:
“Come to Anthemusa: The pearl of nightlife entertainment! Live entertainment daily. Bachelors get one free drink per night.”

The advertisement didn’t need to list the address, as by the time the morning sun banished away the fog, most of the town was talking about the brand new building sitting near the beach. Some folk said that there was always a building there, but it was dilapidated. Some swore they’d never seen it before.

Whatever the case was, there was no denying what we saw that day: the building was a mix of a big city nightclub blended with a classic Grecian temple. Flashing lights clashing with marble-white columns. Red carpet in front of a full wall mosaic.

The piece that drew the eyes, however, was the neon sign of a mermaid, once again in a clam shell, with the words “Anthemusa” written below, in a font intentionally meant to look ‘Greek’.

Needless to say, it was the talk of the town square that day. We didn’t have anything like that before- the most interesting thing to do was to go to the local dive bar for a while, hang out on the beach, or go fishing. So as the day gave way to night, the line to get in wrapped around the building. I was able to snag a spot in line pretty early and was really able to take in the place before it became packed.

To no surprise, the inside was just as weird and elegant as the outside. The lighting rigs screamed ‘cheap dance club’, but the well sculpted statues of trident wielding Adonises spoke softly of elegance. I shuffled over to a corner booth, having no intention to make a fool of myself on the dance floor.

From there, I watched the stream of people enter through the front doors. Soon enough, the place was packed with eager faces, ready for a night that’d mix up the monotony most found themselves in. Scanning the room, I made two observations about the staff of the place that stuck out to me:

The first was that they were all young women, gorgeous in their own unique ways.

The second was that I’ve lived in that town all my life, and not once have I ever seen those people before. It was like they came with the building.

I didn’t dwell on it that much, as one of the women came up to offer a drink. I declined, not being much of a drinker myself, and she simply smiled and moved on to the next booth. By that time, the club was in full swing, music blaring from the speakers hung from rafters, each pulse of the heavy bass line rumbling my ribcage. Despite not really partaking in much of what the club had to offer, I was just happy to get out of the house for a change of pace.

Sometime into the night, there was a shift of energy. The club song overhead faded away, and a voice kicked in on the speakers, gentle and brimming with energy:

“Alright, ladies and gentlemen, we’ve got some really special live entertainment tonight. I present to you our unforgettable star: Pearl!”
I had scoffed at the woman’s stage name, expecting some elderly woman to get on stage and start us off to a lively game of bingo. However, my jaw nearly hit the table when I saw ‘Pearl’ take the microphone.

Easily around six feet tall or so, Pearl had long, flowing blonde hair that curled at the ends. Her seafoam green makeup made her deep blue eyes radiate, even from where I was sitting. She wore a dazzling aqua-colored dress that glimmered under the various stage lights. Her long gloves, akin to a flapper girl’s, shimmered as well when she grabbed the microphone.

Pearl simply smiled, and when she opened her mouth to sing, it was as if the room fell into a trance. I didn’t recognize the song, nor even the language of the lyrics, but I remember it being powerful and beautiful. The notes floated through the air, reverberating with the dancers, causing their movements to be in sync. I caught my own leg tapping to the rhythm as the room was serenaded by her seraphic song.

I couldn’t tell you if the song lasted minutes or hours. I could only tell you that by the end of the night, most of the clubgoers were dragging themselves out the door with aching, blistered, bloody feet. I remember leaving with a limp, my poor leg feeling literally tapped out.

Anthemusa became the talk of the town. You could usually tell who went the night before by their wince in every step, or the bags under their eyes. I was fully convinced the entire town would spend each night there, had there not been a limit to how many people they let in each night. I was never able to get in after that opening day, despite my many attempts afterwards. I had heard from others that more and more, the restless crowds would beg Pearl to take the stage sooner so they could dance the night away to her mesmerizing melody.

I tried not to let my inability to hear her again get the better of me, but when I started dreaming about her song, it only frustrated me more. I would wake up in a cold sweat, trying to recall the voice that moments before was calling to me in my dream. Each waking second, however, stole the memories away of her song, leaving me longing to hear her again.

It was a few weeks after the opening that more fliers were distributed around the city, advertising an ‘unforgettable’ night at the Anthemusa. I was determined to get there early enough to snag an entry, but was horrified to hear that people were planning to camp out a day in advance just to secure a spot. Unable to call out of work to join the campers, I resigned myself to missing the event and settling for the phantom singer in my dreams.

As the day rapidly approached, however, Pearl’s song began to permeate my waking life. People on the street would occasionally hum the same tune I had heard that night, the one I yearned to hear once more. The air itself seemed to carry the tune, leading me back to the elegant club by the waves. I admit, the night the event rolled around, I wasn’t in the best of mindsets. I was determined to get in, one way or another. My plan was to wait until the club was in full swing, and break in through the back, slip into the crowd, and lose myself in the music.

So I waited.

I hung around the beach, waiting for the night to wane on long enough to make my move. Once the crowd of unfortunate souls that didn’t make it in cleared out, I moved to the back door and tried my luck. To my surprise, the door was unlocked and swung open without a noise. The moment I stepped into the back of the club, I felt something was wrong. I couldn’t hear Pearl’s singing. It was worse than that. I really didn’t hear anything.

It was nearly silent.

The only noise I could make out sounded like a heavy rope being dragged across the ground, and the soft, wet noise of eating.

As quietly as I could, I snuck over to the doorway that led into the main dance floor, to see what was going on.

It was a feast. It was a massacre.

Dozens of exhausted clubgoers lay limp on the floor, chests heaving as they tried to gain their breath. The ‘women’ of the club laid them in piles, pulling them aside one by one. I couldn’t even call them women at this point, as it was clear they weren’t.

They were Sirens.

From their neck down, they retained their human-like proportions, even as they crawled unnaturally on all fours. Their necks, however, were long and winding; the muscles rippled as their heads snaked along the helpless victims. Long gone were their beautiful faces, and in place was a toothy snout, with beady, unblinking eyes, searching for the perfect morsel. The realization made me nauseous- they looked like Moray eels.

I watched as one of these creatures snapped its jaw open, revealing its rows of curved teeth, and began to devour someone, starting with their feet. I was expecting the person to scream as the teeth clamped down, but they merely whimpered, staring up at the ceiling, unblinking. It was as if they were entranced.

I knew in that moment that I had to leave. When I spun quickly to retrace my steps, I slammed into something sturdy, sending me backwards. Ignoring the pain, I looked up and confirmed my worst fear.
It was Pearl.

The Siren loomed over me, her elongated neck twisting and wriggling to get a better look at me. She breathed through her dripping maw, heaving as her unflinching eyes bore holes through me. Her sinewy throat muscles began to twitch. I made the quick realization that she was about to sing. I knew I had to act fast, even though a part of me still actually wanted to hear her sing one last time. My hands frantically searched the floor, looking for a quick solution, and found purchase on a metal rod of some sort. I gripped the microphone stand and swung with all my might, connecting right into her eel-like neck.

Pearl screeched, wriggling back just enough for me to make a dash for the back door. I didn’t stop running until I couldn’t anymore, nearly collapsing on the sidewalk deep into town. I was afraid to turn and see a horde of eel-women chasing me down, but I was met with silence when I looked.

It was just me, panting and out of breath, underneath a cloudless sky. I shambled back home, collapsing into my bed an exhausted mess. I had intended to go see the law first thing in the morning. That plan quickly unraveled.

By morning, no one had remembered Anthemusa.

The flyers all across town were gone. The club that was host to a gruesome banquet just the night before was gone, and in its place sat a broken-down building, weathered with years of ocean winds. There was no proof that Anthemusa had ever existed, besides my own experiences.

‘What of the victims?’, you may ask. That was the worst part of all. Just as the people forgot about the club, so too did they forget about the ones that were taken away. One parent insisted they always had one daughter, forgetting that she had a twin. The town thought it was strange that we had a Doctor’s office, but no Doctor that was currently practicing. Even if you were to try to show people proof of someone who went missing, eventually they’d just stare off into space, with that same mesmerized look as the people who were devoured whole.

The town began its fall into disarray from that point. How do you successfully run a business when you don’t realize some of your workers don’t exist anymore? Tasks handled by someone long forgotten had to be taken up by others. The town was stretched thin.

It’s chilling: From that time on, occasionally, people would hum fragmented pieces of the song Pearl once sang. They would shed a tear, and wipe it away, much to their confusion, like something inside them still remembered.

While our town decayed slowly, so too did the Esca. Bits of the painted cement began to crumble off the leaning lighthouse, splashing into the ocean below. I wasn’t sure what was holding it up at that point, let alone what kept it working.

But the lighthouse continued to shine, grazing the sky with its beams, calling weary travelers to what should have been their safety.
Even if we knew what was to happen to us, would we have been able to stop it?

________

After Anthemusa and the screaming fish, the town I once loved was a former shell of itself. The street markets were filled with twitching, foul smelling seafood, caught in the bay. The surrounding mountains felt more like a cage every day, trapping us in with the rot. Many once thriving businesses were now shuttered, and the bustling port felt like a graveyard, each unused boat a tombstone. It was during a heavy rainstorm that the third omen arrived.

The fisherman who first reported it couldn’t believe his eyes, but once those who could muster the energy joined him, they confirmed what he had found.

Hermit crabs.

According to him, the man was fishing off the beach early morning, at his usual time, when he came across the first Hermit crab. Its abnormally large size originally startled him. Easily about as big as a coconut crab, the hermit crab came scuttling out of the ocean and paused to stare at the man. It clacked its claws and twitched its mandibles, as if waiting for something. From the front, the fisherman noticed its shell shape was incredibly odd. It was when the crab turned itself, giving the man a better look, that he jumped back in alarm. Dozens more crabs began to shuffle out of the brine, and in a panic, the man scurried off to find someone, anyone, to share what he saw. By first light, a crowd of people gathered to stare at the cast of crabs. Myself included.

It was true, the crabs were enormous. But large crustaceans weren’t what brought the crowd to the shores. It was the shells. They were just as the man described.

They were human heads.

Each crab carried a human head on its back, connected where the neck would have been. As the crabs shuffled about on the shore, the human heads moved their eyes and stared. The sight felt like an aberration to all that was good. It was as if the ocean itself was mocking us at that point.
Someone in the crowd behind me gasped.

“Nate?” She cried out.

Pushing past us, she sprinted to the beach. Surprisingly, the crabs didn’t make any effort to move away.

People in the crowd tried to call out to her, to get her to stay away, but the woman was frantic.

“No! You don’t understand- it’s Nate! I recognize his face from anywhere!”

The woman hunched in front of one of the crabs. One by one, people from the crowd approached tentatively, seeing that she was okay. As I got closer, I noticed that each crab shell face was different.

The crab in front of the woman turned around to allow her to be face to face with its shell. She sobbed louder, reaching a hand out to touch it, only hesitating at the last moment.

The shelled face stared up at the woman, emotionless. Hair that was once probably curly was matted, tangled with seaweed. Its eyes were dull, carrying no light behind them.

“Nate, honey, it’s me, Veronica. Remember? I thought I lost you…” Her voice trembled, the fresh grief evident in her cadence.

Another voice from the crowd spoke out. “Maria?”

Another. “Wait, that’s Daryl!”

More people recognized more faces. By the conversations sprouting up around me, the shells were all faces of people lost at sea. Each sea-swollen face a person once thought to never return, now preserved on the back of a beady eyed, chitinous creature of the deep.

Without any warning, Veronica grabbed the crab and brought the shell to her eye level. With a dull groan, the shell face opened its mouth. Its lips began to move as if it were speaking, but no words came out. Maria brought it to her ear, as if it were whispering a secret to her. Her eyes widened, and though the lips continued to move on the shell, no sound was coming out.

Soon, most of the faces on the shells began their silent speeches. People huddled close, listening attentively to every unsaid word their decayed love one had to say. I did my best to try to hear them, but was only met with the lapping waves on the shore.

Veronica had broken the silence. “I understand. I’ll go with you.”

She turned, crab still in hand, and sprinted towards the ocean.

Those of us unable to hear the shells tried to get her to stop, but she easily barreled through anyone who stood in her way, charging with an unnatural determination straight for the icy waters.

Multiple people grabbed the crabs and began their frenzied rush into the briny arms of the bay.

The few of us remaining were left helpless as their bodies crashed uncoordinated into the water, sinking immediately beneath the surface. We were left in the strangling silence, staring out into the choppy water. The silence was short lived, when a loud rumbling came from the middle of the bay.

It came from Esca.

The ground beneath our feet quaked as the lighthouse shuddered, its constructed shell crumbling off to reveal what lay underneath. There, on the island, stood a crooked pillar. It was hard to make out details from a distance, but it looked to be made of flesh, the inky black column twitching slightly. The top of the shape carried a bulb at the end, which continued to give off light, just like the lighthouse did. This light, however, pulsed like a heartbeat. Each pulse rumbled the sand beneath me. It took only a split moment to recognize what Esca truly was.

It was an antenna.

A huge jolt beneath me threw me to the beach. The Esca continued to pulse, the rhythm of its heartbeat quickening. I got back on my feet, heading inland as fast as I could. Many of the other beachgoers just stared at the Esca, probably too stunned or afraid to know what to do next. I didn’t know exactly what was coming either, but I saw enough of the signs back then to know it wasn’t time to stand around and find out. I was in the middle of packing brief essentials back at my house when the noise began.

A low, loud rumble permeated the walls of the room. It was deep, and large, and mournful, like a pod of whales all sung at the same time. I looked out my window to the bay, and dropped my bag to the floor at the sight. Packing was no longer a priority. There was nowhere I could go.

From the bay rose dozens of huge, thin, pale-white mountains, in jagged rows. As they rose from the bay, they were all connected to an inky black mass, bigger than anything I’d ever seen. Two pale, film-covered moons came into view, staring down at our village. There was no emotion behind those eyes. It was too ancient for such frivolities. It came for a more primal purpose.

To feed.

The opening of its maw had blocked out the sunlight. The Esca pulsed, calling the city into its waiting fangs. Many probably went willingly. Some may have made some desperate, futile attempt to leave. Others probably joined my stunned indecision, letting the ocean take back all we’ve taken from it.

The darkness grew as the fangs overhead ripped through the sky, piercing the clouds above. I closed my eyes, resigned to what would come.

I spent a long time in the darkness. I wasn’t sure if I was dead or worse. I was too afraid to open my eyes, too afraid to even check if it was possible to open my eyes. I waited to be digested. To be crushed. To be atomized, and brought into the cycle of nature, as ancient and unrelenting as it is.

I couldn’t tell you how long I remained in that state.

Eventually, I mustered the courage to open my eyes. I had to squint from the blinding rays of the sun. I found myself on the beach, staring out into an empty bay. There were no signs of any buildings, no signs of any civilization whatsoever. There was also no shape in the middle of the bay. The Esca removed any trace of what was once there, besides me.

So I left. I traveled for a time, wandering from place to place, wondering why I was the only one spared from being erased. After some time, I finally settled in another bay side town. I soon realized why I am all that remains.

This town… It’s a beautiful place. I couldn’t ask for better neighbors. The street markets are filled with fresh, cheap seafood, caught right in our own little cradle of ocean. The people don’t want for much, and the land provides plenty.

They’ve also started construction on a lighthouse.

Right in the middle of the bay.

Credit: Derek Llovet

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