West Virginia author: no, it's not like Wrong Turn, until it's exactly like Wrong Turn.
William's works include the psychological horror novel "The Man Behind the Door" and the supernatural horror novel "The Devil Within Us All," William takes inspiration from his own experiences to craft novels that tackle the horrors and demons of real life.
His debut, The Man Behind the Door, tackles grief, trauma, and addiction through the lens of a ghost story and explores generational trauma. It was acclaimed for its compassionate tone, handling of the difficult subject matter, and multiple storylines that come together in the end.
He currently works full-time as a pharmacy technician at an independent pharmacy while raising his first son with his future wife. In his free time, he enjoys outings with his family, reading, and playing music.
You can read more from William right HERE.
SOMETHING IS WRONG WITH THE FISH
By
William Gray
The fish didn’t taste right, I think to myself.
I keep thinking about it as I take bite after bite. The hunger is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced in my life. It feels like trying to fill a void that spanns the entire universe and then some.
Bits of skin catch in my teeth as I dig into the task at hand and replay what brought me to this moment.
Why did you have to eat it, John? I ask myself. Why couldn’t you just throw it back?
Because it was what our dad would have done.
When he’d passed away three years ago, my brother Todd and I had decided to pick a weekend each year to go camping and fishing. It was an attempt to honor a man neither of us really had a relationship with, but it was also cathartic. The only good memories I have of my father was when we both had a fishing pole in our hands. We always ate what we caught and threw back what we knew we wouldn’t have an appetite for.
Now, as I chew hungrily, I wish I’d never agreed come.
Todd had caught his first. We’d been out on the bank for hours without so much as a bite when his line had grown taught. When he lifted it out of the water, it had appeared to be a simple lake trout. Looking at it, there was nothing special about the creature. The only thing that seemed to hint of what was to come was how easy it had been to reel in. The fish had no fight in it; it had simply allowed itself to be taken.
He’d placed it in his cooler, placed another wriggling worm on the hook, and cast again. It took another fifteen minutes before the next bite, this one on my line. I started to reel it in, and found myself planting my feet while leaning back as I dragged it to shore. The end of my fishing-rod bent at a nasty angle as the fish struggled to escape.
When I’d finally pulled it out of the water, it had convulsed and shook. If you asked me any other day of the year if I believed that fish were consciously aware of anything going on around them, I would say no. As I stood at the edge of the water, watching this fish fighting for its life, I thought differently.
“A lot more lively than mine, John,” Todd commented, his voice deep and slightly slurring from the beer we’d been drinking. “Hopefully the next one isn’t so bad.”
But there was no next one. We stood in the grass for the next two hours and didn’t get so much as a nibble.
As I take another bite, I remember watching Todd step away to call his wife while I cleaned my fish. If it hadn’t been for that call, I might never have ended up in the situation I now find myself.
The call lasted so long that I managed to cook my fish over the fire and start eating before Todd returned. I was on my third—or maybe my fourth—bite when I heard Todd gasp. Turning, I watched as he tossed his fish and knife on the ground and backed away. He wiped his hands on his shirt, trying to clean them off.
“Todd, what the…”
The words died in my throat as I saw the black, thin tendrils reaching out from the narrow cut Todd had made in the fish. They twitched and spasmed as they seemingly searched blindly for something.
“They fucking touched me, man,” Todd said, obsessively trying to clean the fish guts off his hands. “What the fuck is that?”
I wasn’t listening. My mind had frozen entirely, like someone had thrown a wrench in the cogs up there. I tried to remember if I’d seen anything like that in the insides of my own fish and couldn’t.
I take another bite and use one of my nails to get the skin out of my teeth. My face is wet and slick as I burp and taste something foul immediately after. I wipe my face and feel the heat coming off of me. My fever must be incredibly high, and I hang my head low as I hear Todd speak again from the recesses of my memory.
“We have to get you help, John.”
The pain in my stomach was horrendous. Sweat beaded on every inch of my body as I rolled back and forth on my sleeping bag. The night was warm, but my fever was so high that it felt like it was below freezing.
“Oh God… it… hurts…”
Bile rose in my throat as I felt Todd’s hands on my shoulders as he tried to lift me up. The agony I felt in that moment made me wish for death, and I rolled away from him as a wave of nausea fell over me. Hot, burning liquid exited my mouth, splashing on the ground beside me.
“Jesus…” Todd said. “John… I…”
It happened for what seemed like forever. The black, mucous-like secretions poured from me for an impossibly long time. When it finally stopped, I felt hungry.
Ravenously so.
“I’m sorry, Todd.”
We’d only brought a grocery bag full of supplies, working under the assumption that we’d be catching at least two meals worth of fish. As I ate through our limited rations, I felt something move in my stomach with each bite. It searched—with long, black tendrils, I imagined—for every ounce of food I ingested.
When the food was gone, the hunger was worse.
“I’m so, so sorry,” I say out loud, taking another bite from Todd’s calf. My memory of our fight is foggy at best, but I sincerely hope I made it quick for him.
Something is wrong with the fish, I think to myself. This isn’t my fault.
The lies we tell ourselves.