Water: Elements of Horror, #4

By P.J. Blakey-Novis

Elements of Horror Book Four: Water, is the fourth in a series of four horror anthologies based on the Elements. Within these pages you will find a variety of stories from some of the best independent horror writers on the scene today. Immerse yourself in tales of shipwrecks, evil spirits, terrifying aquatic creatures, and much more.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Red Cape Publishing
• Release date: May 24, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201829728

Book preview

ELEMENTS OF HORROR:

Book Four

WATER

DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2019 Red Cape Publishing

All rights reserved.

Cover Design by Red Cape Graphic Design

Www.redcapepublishing.com/red-cape-graphic-design

Foreword

Welcome to Book Four: Water, the final book in a series of four anthologies based on the Elements. Immerse yourself in tales of shipwrecks, evil spirits, terrifying aquatic creatures, and much more. We hope you enjoy the frighteningly wonderful tales, and that you will go on to read more by the authors involved in this book.

Also available

Book One: Earth

Book Two: Air

Book Three: Fire

Final Demand

Lee Smart

A cold wind blew off the North Atlantic as Mason rowed away from Krake Island. The chill bit deep and he nestled lower in his thick coat to escape it. White caps brushed softly against the hull of the rowboat in gentle whispers as creaking wood echoed with every stroke of the oars. The sea moved swiftly around the unique local rock formations of the bay, the unusual geology sending waves rushing through the water. It took all his strength to push the boat out against the strong currents, his shoulders burning with the effort.

A weight pulled at him that had nothing to do with the heavy oars in his hands. Mason wasn’t sure how he had come to this point, when this seemed like the only way to fix things. So many little events had built up, small misfortunes that ran together into something too big for him to deal with any other way. He’d tried, God knows he’d tried, but he had run out of time and the demands kept piling up. The cold air stung his eyes, its sharp edge making them water and threatening to bring forth the tears he had held back for so long.

Everything had come to a crashing stop, there were no more favours to call on or help to ask for. That was why he was rowing out into the bay at first light, hunched in the small boat. Mason had been running through frantic plans for weeks until the grim inevitability of his situation settled on him. This was it, there was no other way out; he had to do this.

He was drawn from his bleak reverie by the scrape of wood on stone. The boat had drifted off course and his oar had struck one of the rock formations that surrounded the bay. Mason gently rowed past it, angling the boat to carry him safely away as he looked up at the stone spike that loomed above the water. From the founding of the small town of Levitt Bay the formations had been called the Pikes. The bay was ringed by stalagmite-like pillars of rock, spearing up from the seabed into rough points above the waves. An irregular line of them followed the perimeter of the circular bay, positioned like the numbers on a clock face. Mason was careful not hit any of them, or the ones yet to break the surface. He didn’t want to punch a hole in the boat; he’d come too far now to just sink.

Looking over the stern at Levitt, he saw his home’s gable roof just visible behind the waterfront properties. The red tiles atop the three stories were instantly recognisable and were part of the charm that had drawn in so many visitors. Not anymore though, less and less guests arrived on the island each year. His great-grandfather had built the guesthouse not long after the town experienced its first population boom. Four generations of his family had run it, adding to the building and updating the interiors to suit their time. Mason’s contribution had been to install Wi-Fi and remove the chintzy décor his father had used in favour of a rustic look. He’d always hoped his son, Michael, would leave his own mark on the house when he came of age. Now he wasn’t so sure he wanted him to. But whatever happened, Laura would take care of him.

The thought of his wife and child, of what he would leave behind, sent a wash of sadness through him. Fighting back the tears, he pushed their faces from his mind. Now wasn’t the time. He needed to be strong and go through with his plan. It was the only way. Laura and Mikey would be well provided for; he’d seen to that. Like many of the island’s inhabitants, he had a life insurance policy that covered death at sea. Such a pay-out would help his wife if she took over the guesthouse and keep her financially sound. It would help pay the bills and clear old debts.

When you can’t make the payments, he thought, you have to find another way.

Mason thought he saw a pale face in the high windows of his home, sure for a moment Laura was watching him go. The windows were empty when he looked again, and he was glad she was gone; Laura shouldn’t have to see this. Mason rowed on; putting more distance between the island and himself, hoping it would be harder for anyone to see him. Did Laura know what he had planned? She had seen the same demands as he had on their doorstep and knew the dire situation they were in. Laura would never agree to what he was doing, that was why he’d snuck out early that morning. They’d tried everything and were at their wits end. Mason had left her a heartfelt letter explaining his decision, and the final things he needed to say. He’d written another for Mikey when he was old enough to be told the truth. He prayed they’d both understand.

Mason looked down into the boat, the sight of the guesthouse and the memories made there too much to bear. Piled in the bottom of the hull, quietly clanking in the rolling waves, sat a heavy chain. Each link was as wide as his palm, old and rusting now. He’d anchored one end of it to the large stone block with a tarnished iron rivet to hold it in place. The bay was deep here, and the stone would sink fast. The fish would return to the waters and if the townsfolk found anything of him then they would cover for their own. Every family had suffered in the recent economic trouble, and no one could blame him for trying to take care of his loved ones.

Mason lifted the oars from the water and into the boat. He let it drift on slowly, the current coming in from the open sea gently robbing the craft of forward motion. Mason had brought his fishing rod and gear, everyone in town knew he liked to fish early in the morning. When the empty rowboat was found people would call it a tragic accident and close the book on the whole thing. No need to ask questions or doubt, it was better that way.

He sat silently, listening to the gentle lapping of the waves and the cry of a distant gull. A sea mist was beginning to form and roll in towards the island. Mason looked over at his home in the distance. He had lived on Krake Island his entire life, and it was all he could ever want. Mason had always thought himself contented, and that feeling only grew when he met Laura, and then again with the birth of Mikey. The island provided his family and the other inhabitants with livelihoods and prosperity, mainly through the plentiful fishing and tourism with a small local craft industry. As the economy waned, businesses failed, and the fish disappeared along with the tourist trade. The guesthouse just wasn’t getting the right customers. There were too many families and not enough couples and individuals with money to spare.

The island council had tried various ways to fix things, but none had worked. Some people just weren’t willing to make sacrifices, only wanting the easy way out, he thought. Not Mason though; his family had helped found the town and had been of the opinion that sometimes a man had to make a hard choice to benefit others. It was the right thing to do, but that didn’t make any of it easier.

I never thought it would end so soon, he mused to himself. The rowboat had floated to a gentle halt, save for the subtle push of the tide. Mason took in the scene around him, trying to appreciate it all for the last time. The grey expanse of the Atlantic sat at his back, the two prongs of the coastline that surrounded the bay either side of him leading up to the steep, hilly island beyond. Dark green pines clustered the sloping land behind Levitt Bay, disappearing into the morning fog. The red roof of his house was still visible against the greenery, the windows dark and empty now. Again, he tore his gaze away, the pain of leaving too much for him. He looked up at the nearest of the Pikes; a stone spike twenty feet above the water that seemed to loom over him. His boat had floated away from the centre of the formations, so Mason rowed it back into the middle of the bay.

Mason settled the oars and rested, his shallow breathing loud in the quiet morning air. He thought of the previous day’s delivery, the final demand left on his front porch. The sheriff had arrived shortly after, speaking in hushed tones and gently insisting that Mason do his duty. He and Laura had tried to ignore the messages until then, hoping for more guests, the right ones to help pay the debt. But nothing had turned up. There was no other way. Mason shivered in his thick jacket as he glanced down at the final demand from the preceding morning. Like the others it was a dull stone, though larger and more ornately carved than the previous ones he’d received. A rough oblong of obsidian, it was threaded with veins of a blue mineral. The looping, curved markings resembled the waves around him and glinted in the early morning light.

The stone lay in the bottom of the rowboat, the attached chain draped over it. Mason could feel the weight of it, the strong pull towards the bottom of the bay it exerted that had nothing do with gravity. It wanted to be back down there, the carved designs calling to the depths. If he hadn’t ignored the other demands then the stone would have been smaller, enough to call but not pull. He wouldn’t have the dull ache at the back of his skull from its silent song. But a headache was the least of his worries now. He looked again at the stones that flanked the bay like fossilised incisors. They’d always seemed like warnings to him, bad omens no one listened to. If only his ancestors had seen them the same way.

Movement on the shale beach caught his eye. Figures were gathering there, dull and grey in the opaque fog. Members of all the old families had arrived, obliged to watch him pay the final demand. Shrouded in mist, they looked like a choir of ghosts as they lined up soundlessly on the dark pebbles of the beach. Mason had heard the gossip, that some of the townsfolk blamed him and Laura for their troubles. Their guesthouse hadn’t drawn the right people, not the younger customers they needed. Those more likely to go out into the bay for a night swim after one too many drinks, or to pilot a boat into the dangerous currents and riptides. It was easier to make their losses look like accidents; only once a year was an average no one on the mainland noticed.

That was the bill the island paid, and in the minds of most of the inhabitants it was only right and proper that Mason pay it. It was his responsibility as the owner of the guesthouse to supply the payment. But the economic crash had changed things; he just couldn’t get the kind of people the island needed. For three years they’d missed the payments. At first, the fish vanished from the local waters, crippling the island’s main industry. Then townsfolk began to disappear, both from boats and the water’s edge. Too many children had been taken, all passed off as terrible accidents. Storms came more frequently, primal forces battering the island. The town was dying, something had to be done and it fell to Mason to fix the problem.

Krake Island had paid its debt every year since the fourth anniversary of its founding. After several disappearances and natural disasters, the settlers had discovered what slept beneath the island. Buried in the silt and rock that Krake was rooted in, it demanded a tithe from those on the island—voluntarily or not. The decision for the settlers was whether to lose one of their number once a year to the bay or many to the storms and other misfortunes that would befall them if they refused to pay the tithe. Eventually they chose to send a single person into the waves to preserve the town. At first, they picked one of their own by drawing lots, but this soon moved on to non-locals. Crew from visiting ships, transient workers, and eventually tourists were all given to the sea. The payment had been taken out into the bay, bound, and left on a raft. As the townsfolk departed, they’d throw a singing stone into the water and hurry back to land. The sea would churn, rock would split, and an immense roar would be heard. No sign was found of either the payment or the raft, and in the following days more stones washed up on the beach. For the next year the fish would be plentiful, and the town would prosper, until payment was due again.

The people of Krake Island had done this ever since; until recently, when it had fallen to Mason to pay the bill. He had done what he could to protect Levitt Bay and he’d been party to several payments himself. Pleading eyes and desperate cries had haunted his dreams for years. At least now he wouldn’t have to condemn any more