Niko Battistini is an IT professional by day and a horror enthusiast by night. He lives in the North West of England, near to the town of Ormskirk where he earned his degree in Information Systems. Now he works for a 142 year old social care charity as the Communications and Systems manager. While the days are spent trying to help the vulnerable in society, in his spare time he enjoys tales of the macabre. An avid Live Action and Tabletop roleplayer, ameteur programmer and cat dad to Smokey and The Bandit (The Bandit pictured here), his favourite horror novels contain the supernatural, monsters, and crisis of the mind. He can be found down the pub with a pint clenched in fist. Meet his gaze if you dare. Or if you want to meet his cats. I don't know.
EYES IN THE MURK
by
Niko Battistini
I took my stupid walk, for my stupid mental health, up and down this path regularly. Not so regularly to have met all of the characters along the verdant banks, but enough to nod my head at some local colour. The dark waters of the canal eddied languidly, a scum tinged stink rising from the surface. No matter how much work the Maghull in bloom team did in and around the Leeds and Liverpool Canal it never entirely removed the scent. As with most narrow and deep passages of water visibility was almost nil beneath the surface.
I’d not long moved here from inner city Liverpool. My family and I were looking for more idyllic surroundings, and we couldn’t quite afford the affluent villages around where we landed. Still, the canal had charmed me since my first venture along it. So too did the brimmed glass of plum porter at the Scotch Piper establishment along the route I frequented. So I stay the course, completing my walks, ticking off the days, drinking my pints.
On this particular day the sun was at its zenith. Seasonal heat pressed down oppressively, and many squinting faces sported the tell tale redness of a sunburned evening. I’d passed a pair of young girls in a canoe, paddling up and down a patch of water which backed onto their home. I smiled at them. They ignored me and carried on upstream. Looking ahead and behind me, I appeared to be alone on the path for the first time today.
At times the road bridges over the canal push the path right to the water’s edge, and the water itself rises up to meet the edge in these cramped places. Two people cannot walk abreast in these transitional tunnels with an arched wall forcing a slight lean in over the murky waters. A host of pigeons roost in and around the bridge, despite the usual deterrents of spikes. They watch the people walk on by, contorting their frames to pass as close to the wall as possible. I enjoy watching wildlife on the waterway, even pigeons seen by so many as a verminous blight. These were no disease carrying city flying rats however. They lacked the gnawed off feet and the gaunt desperation. These animals were harvest plump and regal in demeanour.
I watch in awe as they swoop from their perches at the underside of the bridge, their trajectory taking them but inches from the surface of the canal before the wind catches their wings and they soar into the skies above. They never seem to falter or even struggle to attain this feat of daring acrobatics. I watch the same sight even as I’m cramming myself into that unnatural position, craned at the neck to avoid brushing my head on the stone canopy above. For the brief few moments under the bridge the sun relents in heat but also in light. Your eyes adjust for a few moments in the darkness, widening further than they can in the glory either side.
When I’m in this position I’m almost forced to look down into the canal as I pass. The water is just there at my feet, almost lapping for my boots. It’s no more possible to see further than a couple of inches under here than it is outside, but your reflection is crystal clear now. Your mind unconsciously slips into considering how many people have fallen into the canal at this very point. It’s almost impossible to think of anything else as you make your way along the path. Though there are residences down one side of the bank, you know that if you slipped in then it would almost certainly be up to yourself to get out of danger. Especially when alone.
Just like that the path opens up again immediately beyond the bridge. The sound of a car passing overhead brings us firmly back to the realities of modern living. Followed by the sound of a wet slap, and then immediately a splash. I turned to look at where I detected the sound, only to find one of the pigeons struggling in the water a short distance from where I was standing. I stand perplexed for a moment, the thoughts of the birds a few moments ago playing a contrarian tune to the sight I see before me.
The creature had panic stricken eyes and flailed frantically against the grasping waters. I endeavoured to help the beast in any way I could, so I knelt down by the edge and reached out one arm. Almost in synchrony with my movement the pigeon disappeared down below. Disbelief rose up within me and I was struck dumb staring into the darkness with one arm still outstretched.
It was at that moment that I saw movement.
I cannot tell you even now what it was that I thought I saw, but I do know that it looked large. Much more substantial than the pigeon. The surface barely registered the movement as the discoloration shifted in the dark water. I was transported to the mindset of some prey animal sighting the body of a crocodile pre-strike. My muscles seized for what seemed like an eternity, until I locked my gaze unmistakably on a pair of blood red orbs suspended less than six inches below the water. Almost parallel with where my hand hovered.
With a yelp of terror, I pushed away from the edge with both heels and plunged headlong into a bush on the canal bank. I rolled and set off in a sprint directly away from the bridge. It was a quarter of a mile down the road until I slowed to a stop, doubled over and panting in exertion. A jogger passed me going the other way, a look of bemusement at my state. I wanted to tell him to stop, but I was too winded.
Instead I watched as he passed by the bridge unaccosted.
Did I imagine the whole thing?