"Scuttle" by T.Craig

Scuttle

by T.Craig

Elsa was glad to get away from it all.

Life had become compounding. The pressures of the job caused her once enthusiastic sky-blue eyes to cloud over to murky silver. She had always wanted to be a nurse, to help people.

Only two years in, she already spent her working life counting every minute to be at home, and every minute at home worrying about work. It was eating away at her time for rest, sleep, rejuvenation.

So she decided she needed a real intervention. Something had to give. She booked a small boat she could stay in for a few days. Just her, in the middle of Lough Erinshaw.

The Stepford was a small, modest wooden vessel. A cabin cruiser, cheap to rent. Below deck was an old-fashioned space. The bed sat a couple of steps from a wooden table with blue cushioned seats. A small bathroom faced the bed, and a small sink and cooking area faced the table.

Elsa settled into the bed, closing her eyes as she felt the gentle rocking beneath her. She felt herself finally starting to unwind. Life had been tight, constricted, anticipatory. Hypervigilant. Always waiting for the next emergency while juggling an impossible workload.

Here she was, out on the water, where no one needed her. She let herself drift with the motion of the boat until sleep washed over her.

THUD.

The noise made her stomach lurch as her eyes shot open. She sat bolt upright, scanning the cabin. The cold light of day broke through the window—grey and icy blue before sunrise.

She let out a sigh. The moment she relaxed, something had to drag her back to that familiar anxiety.

She grabbed her coat and stepped onto the deck, pulling it tight around her neck. It was a still spring morning, with a nip in the air. The boat rocked gently.

The stony shore sat about two hundred feet away, pine trees rising behind it. She checked over the edge of the boat from every angle but saw nothing that could have caused the thump.

She went back inside, filled the kettle, lit the stove, and set it to boil. While waiting, she sank into the seat and hugged herself in her coat. She was torn between enjoying the solitude and feeling sheepish about running off to stay alone on a boat. Maybe she should cut the trip short, return the keys, and make the two-hour drive back.

A sound interrupted her—an incessant tapping above. She looked up, heart quickening as her mind searched for an explanation. It sounded like hard pellets hitting the surface. The noise grew louder, as if more of it was falling.

Suddenly, Elsa felt like she was in a lifeless vessel, a coffin drifting toward nothing. She groaned and forced herself up.

She held her breath and looked outside.

Nothing. The morning was still. Not even the birds were awake.

She thought she was losing it. Stress was taking hold of her sanity. She promised herself she’d see a doctor when she got home.

The kettle squealed, making her jump. She rushed to lift it off the stove.

She felt it then—the sense of being watched.

She turned slowly, scanning the cabin. Her eyes landed on the window by the bed.

Dozens of grey hands pressed against the glass, blacking out the light. In the centre, a pale face. Darkness enveloped the head like straight hair.

It was the absence of eyes that nearly dropped her to her knees. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

The thing opened its mouth. The skuttling noise returned, louder now, filling her head, making her want to claw at her brain.

She ran for the deck and slipped. Her body slammed into the wood, pain stabbing through her like tiny knives. Warm liquid spread from her head.

She touched it. Blood.

The deck was covered in shells. Some had broken her fall; shards were lodged in her skin, her hair, her hands.

Adrenaline blocked the pain. She had to get off the boat.

She ran to the edge and jumped. No thinking—just movement. She fought through the water, dragging herself toward the shore. Each stroke felt like pushing through cement.

Her foot hit the lakebed. Relief tore from her throat. She stumbled forward, collapsing onto the stones, not caring as they dug into her. She let herself sink into the ground, exhausted.

Then she heard it.

Stone grinding on stone.

She turned her head slowly.

A shape shifted among the rocks. Darkness crawling between them. Deep pits of shadow scuttling closer… and closer to her face.