The Scrape

Marc could feel the presence behind him. Something peering out at him from the trees. He figured the invisible eyes belonged to a game warden, or other fisherman looking to horn in on his spot.

He was used to this sort of thing. Marc had been fishing most of his life, he was primarily a ‘city-slinger’, fishing in polluted waters that ran behind old factories, streams that were filled with shopping carts and rusting cans surrounded by the torn worn tents of the homeless. He had been accosted on more than one occasion by druggies looking to make a quick buck, but Marc wouldn’t back down - he was tall and fit, had a voice that boomed and often those vagabonds who approached him soon abandoned their hope of stealing anything from the man.

But this felt different.

Whatever entity was stalking him made no noise, but he could feel it getting closer. Marc had walked into a section of the river where an island cut at the water like a knife through butter. One side lopsidedly large, the other a silver sliver. The tiny cut of water held beautiful trout. He had tied a small bee pattern fly, flicked it just to the main bank where it would seem to the fish that the insect had fallen in the water and he would dead drift the lure until there was either a hit, or nothing, and try again.

Movement in the trees.

Marc looked up from the water. There was a shape. A dark, mottled shape that seemed to shimmer between the minuscule shooting spruces. He had been in those exact trees. Something of that size should not be able to make it through there without a sound. It must be a warden.

“I have my license! I’m out of state, but I have it! Happy to show it when you come out of there.”

No reply, just the sound of rushing water, and the breeze.

Then came a sound Marc had not heard in many years. His father’s voice emanated from the trees, “Maaaahhhhrrrrhhkkuussssss” the voice whispered in a bone chilling hiss, like steel scraping ceramic. Marc had never hated his name, but he did now. He had always been proud that he’d been named after the great stoic and emperor of Rome, but now he despised it. Wanted to stab a knife into his eardrum to keep that hiss out. Then he saw them. Two violet white pearls about the size of walnuts swirling in the trees. They bobbed like two tiny aligned alien wisps approximately eight feet in the air.

Marc leaned down, splashing the water in his face and the eyes were gone. And the sound was gone, just the rush of the river, a fish splashing at his lure, and the breeze cutting trees. Marc tried to shake the feeling off by preoccupying his mind with the task at hand, but he kept hearing that voice in his head.

It was time he decided, time to go. He trudged across the little slide of water, and as his right foot came down on one of the slimy, moss wrapped stones, his foot and ankle twisted, and there was a grotesque “SNAP”.

He fell against the other rocks, snapping his fly rod in two, his knees smashing against the stones, “ARGH!” he screamed. His voice echoing through the woods, and surrounding hills causing birds to flush from the trees and shrubs. A few tears of pain ran from his eyes, swallowing down the discomfort he stood up and hobbled to the shore with what remained of his rod and reel. He dragged his ankle up onto the grassy bank of the river. Marc pulled himself toward the secluded dirt parking lot. Between him and the car was a bowl in the earth, a depression of long grass.

Marc fell again, this time he saw what lay between him and the river’s shore. In the filter of twilight stood an ebony figure. He saw the two cloven hooves strong and hairy like a draft horse’s. They led into muscle wrapped legs which disappeared under a billowing black cloak that floated in the breeze. Long, gray, clawed fingers crawled from the sleeves of the shroud. Something black was dripping from the talons. Atop the mighty figure was a pale, bone face. Within the dark sockets floated those ivory pearls from before. Swirling, smoke antlers protruded from the top of the skull, moss slopping and sloughing off everyone of the fifty points.

“Maaaahhhhrrrrhhkkuussssss” the voice went again, the jaw not moving, the sound seemed to emanate from the quivering eyes. Drool spilling from the sharp teeth jutting from its mouth.

“What?!” Marc screamed at it, he scrambled into the grassy dip in the earth trying to crawl his way to his car waiting for him. “What do you want with me?”

There was a chuckled response, it sounded as a horse’s snicker if the lungs were infested with tuberculosis.

“Meeeeaaatttttttttttt.” the tongue ticking on each individual “t”.

The figure disappeared.

Marcus hobbled up the grass, it was wet with evening dew and he kept tripping into the razor-like edges of grass. His fingers and face began to bleed.

“You smell deliciousssssss.” The creature hissed in the dark. Marcus could hear from the flex in the voice that whatever this monster was, it was smiling with pleasure.

“What are you?” Marcus screamed.

“It matters notttt to you, forrrr you will not survive this nightttttt.”

Marcus dug into the grass and pulled a rock out from under the brush. He chucked it in a direction. That tutting laugh came again.

“Maaaahhhhrrrrhhkkuussssss”

Marc began to cry, none of his stature or pride could help him now, his voice crackling with fear. He wasn’t being hunted, he thought, that would require a chase. This was a haunt, the creature in full power, torturing him. He saw the two opals pop into existence in the dark, like two miniature lighthouses leading him to the port - they shone with desire and wanting. He crawled toward them, his ankle searing with burning pain. The blood from his cuts sweeping into the ground. He made it to the edge of the grass. Crawling forward, his hands touched water. “What?” he pulled his hand back, he’d been climbing up the hill he thought. His progress nonexistent, he turned once more toward his car. He was face to face with the creature. It was on all fours now, tired of the wait. The cloak had flown off and the creature’s light gray skin shining like a slug’s against the moonlight. Ghostly tendrils steamed off his knobby spine. Marc could smell the rotting odor of decay.

“Maaaahhhhrrrrhhkkuussssss”

Marc curled into the fetal position and gave up.