A Watery Grave
NICHOLAS CHANG
At thirty-five years, he met the sea. Forever will he sink in those dark waters.
If only I can jump down into those depths to find his lost soul and stay in those lonely waters with him to hear his beautiful, dreamy melodies—
But his voice moans, losing traces of sweetness. His face has blackened, and his eyes are missing, with only empty sockets staring back. His skull caves in, releasing a crimson stream, and I scream out bubbles.
Except I am not underwater, nor do I rest on stable ground. I am aboard the Mondara that soars through the waters. Hopping out of bed and donning a velvet gown, I walk through the polished marble hallways to enter the deck where wordless servants bow to me, and my one guide, Jack, stands at the railing, squinting through his telescope.
‘Good morrow.’ I say.
He turns to my direction, nods wordlessly, and continues looking through the telescope.
‘Have you found the rock?’ I ask.
He shakes his head, still focused, and a silence persists between us.
‘Do you really believe them, Jim?’ Jack asks.
I hesitate to respond. ‘What do you mean?’
‘The stories those folks told about bringing the dead back to li—’
‘We’ve another day ahead of us.’ I say before heading back to the cabin.
*
After instructing Jack to fish for all, so woefully have I lost my determination and strength that I collapse into bed. Skimming aside countless scribbled and typewritten research papers on the small desk, I uncover George’s picture frame buried underneath. Cursing to myself, I grasp it to see George and his slicked hair, curled moustache, handsome suit and tie, where he sat at that majestic piano in the blues club where I met him.
He first slammed those piano keys with such conviction that it drew patrons’ attention, my business partners and I included. He then played gently, drawing us in on his softer melodies, and sang his first verse. His voice was of such an irresistibly alluring quality that it warmed the cold cynicism of my heart, and I felt swept away by the increasingly playful energy emanating from his piano. After finishing his piece to moderate applause, I sneaked backstage to find his dressing room, and there, we exchanged awkward yet warm greetings.
George. I’ll never forget that night. Nor will I forget your beautiful voice, your delicate face or the sweet taste of your lips. And I wish I could forget that anniversary when you became lost in the seas eternally. Damn the thirteenth of June 1952. Maybe you are still out there, given the stories from the folks back at Oxford. So passionate and crazy in how they spoke these tales that those lost in the North Atlantic Ocean could be brought back to life as mermaids by sacrificing a personal item associated with them. I could not bear telling my partners of my intents or of my love for George that they would deem sinful, disguising this voyage as a business trip, but what if those tales were false?
I let myself cry and cry into the pillow until all that remains are my shudders and some distant singing. Except it sounds so angelic. So innocent. So heavenly.
Like George.
Maybe Jack or one of the crew is playing tricks, except they never know how to sing or whistle. Never can I recreate that voice in my mind perfectly. But then it drifts like something takes it away. It cannot be taken away! Today may be the last time I hear that voice, and the last time I did was at that anniversary last year, but that pain has felt like decades, and I sprint out into the deck to follow that voice, asking Jack if he can hear it, but he asks if I lost my marbles, and I tell him I have not because he, George, is there! Something catches his eye, and I ask if he finally hears it, but he yanks me back to the cabin, yelling of an impending storm whilst crew members scamper around in panic, I scream George is out there, and then I see the black clouds, followed by furious lightning—!
And he is gone.
And the storm is coming.
And this ship is about to turn over.
Jack slaps me, hauling me inside the dining quarters and shoving me underneath the table, and we secure our heads between our knees, blocking off the screams of the crew as the waves strike us.
*
The storm prevails, striking and shaking our ship, and both of us remain hunched in that tight space, endlessly terrified over the uncertain possibilities of our fates.
Stillness takes hold of the Mondara, and the thunder dissipates. Crawling from the table, I elude Jack’s warnings to enter outside. The deck has become a mess; broken planks stick out, barrels roll to the barriers, partially torn sails dangle from the masts, and crew members wail in pain from their broken bones and bloodied wounds. Gloomy clouds linger above as if preparing to strike anytime, but something is familiar with these waters.
‘Bloody hell…’ Jack curses, entering the deck and tending to an injured crew member. Nodding absent-mindedly, I gaze at the waters for something identifiable is there.
There it is. The rock above the sea, its crusty formation covered by moss and faded, blood-red stains.
I shudder at its sight. ‘We’ve made it.’
‘Come again?’ Jack asks.
I turn to him, unable to rid my shock. ‘We’ve reached it.’
He leans over the railing, taking notice of the rock, and grunts, ‘Hope you’ve gotten what you wanted because we’re leavin’.’
‘What do you mean?’ I ask, alarmed.
‘Look at this mess; our structures are wrecked, we’re low on food, we’ve travelled two hundred kilometres from England too far, and we have injured men on deck. This ship must turn back!’
‘I am in charge,’ I say, ‘I came here for one thing, and you knew it. If you dare leave, you will not get your payment on shore.’
Glaring down at his filthy, ragged clothes, I approach Jack, towering over his small figure, and ask, ‘Your family does need the money… do they not?’
‘But… it is not worth these dangers.’ He mutters, swallowing his anger.
‘Damn your dangers,’ I say, ‘and get the picture ready.’
Jack shudders, shaking off his nervousness, and storms back into the cabin, and I gaze back at the rock. The very one George split his head on after he jumped off the deck.
*
Retrieving George’s picture from Jack, I trace his strong jawline and the lips that I kissed. I kiss them one last time and then hold the frame over the railing. I’ll see you soon, George.
But I can’t let go. What becomes so simple is achingly painful, and I squeeze that frame under pressure. The glass cracks underneath my fingers, slicing them, and I let go as the blood bursts from a thousand tiny cuts.
And I hear that slight splash. Maybe the frame floats above the surface. I stand there, waiting for minutes, and minutes feel like hours. A crew member tries touching my shoulder, but I budge from them, and Jack escorts them away, whispering what sounds like an instruction.
Nothing is there.
And now I wish I held on. Hiding my face in my hands and combing myself with blood as warm as sweat, I release tears of regret. George is gone, gone forever.
But something bubbles underneath. It sounds like something blowing into a straw. Near that rock, tiny bubbles emerge. Following that comes a luminescent, lavender glow and its warmth spreads to the ship. It is a peculiar yet alluring sight. It spreads across the waters, deepening them with a purplish colour, and the bubbles grow and blow with a powerful force, yet so luscious is the glowing that I keep gazing into it.
‘It’s true… the stories are true,’ Jack says, staring in disbelief, ‘Jim, it is not too late to turn back.’
It is then that I saw it. A thick, shadowed figure slithers and swims towards the surface, keeping its arms aside, but its legs resemble a scaly fin. Before swimming closer to reveal its face, it sings with an ethereal voice, evoking happiness, sadness and pain, and its hazel eyes reveal themselves, gazing directly into mine.
It is George. He looks like he did in the blues club, yet his body is scaly and his face spotless.
Leaning over the railing, I pull away from Jack trying to grab onto me, only to lose my grip and topple overboard, and my head smacks into the moss-covered rock—
*
As I come to, a sharp, throbbing pain fills my head and trickles of blood float from the wound. Blinking rapidly from the perilous saltwater, I struggle to swim upwards, only to see George’s figure approaching me. The sense of danger disappears as the tide guides me towards him. How pristine he looks with his bare chest and his gliding violet fin. He smiles slightly as his sharp stare meets my eyes. He really, truly is here. I embrace him, burying my head into his neck as he wraps his smooth fingers around me.
‘I thought you were dead…’ I cry out.
‘I’m here now.’ George responds, cradling my head and brushing through blood-streaked strands of hair. ‘We can be together again.’
‘I knew you were still here somehow.’ I say, embracing him further. ‘I’m so sorry for what happened to you.’
George pauses as if considering his response. ‘Are you, though?’
And those words strike me with shock. Where I expected a sympathetic response is instead of pure judgment, and George’s grip tightens. ‘What do you mean?’ I ask.
‘Are you sorry for killing me?’
I pull away to look at his face. A blank stare replaces his smile. ‘I didn’t… you jumped off that day.’
‘Because you made me do it.’
‘No, that’s not true. I adore…’ My words trail off as I witness faded yellow bruises forming on his cheeks and forehead, blood pouring upwards from his nose, scratches appearing on his eyebrows, and his eyes bleeding with tears—
‘Because you made me do it.’
‘How could you think that? You’re hurting me.’ I try to say, but bubbles burst out, and his skin turns green, chunks of his hair float away to reveal bits of his scalp, and his eyes melt into a runny goo that spreads across the darkening waters—
‘Because you made me do it.’
‘I only ever wanted the best from you…’ I want to say as his flesh rots, oozing a wretched smell, and he stretches his mouth open to unleash a bloodcurdling scream—
‘BECAUSE YOU MADE ME DO IT!’
Screaming out bubbles, I punch at the decomposed figure before me, and he scratches my back, releasing crimson streams from a horrible, unrelenting pain I cannot see, it hurts to see underwater, and I hit him like I did when he missed a particular note, raised his voice against me or tried leaving our mansion without my permission and I keep hitting him like I did when he told me that he no longer loved me on our anniversary, and I keep hitting until his grip releases, and I swim for the surface, now gasping for the breaths escaping from me.
Emerging from the ocean, an unwelcome rain pelts me, and the Mondara manoeuvres opposite my direction. At the wheel, Jack steers away, his back turned to me and his expression unreadable. Some servants stand at the railing, their eyes searching across the waters, while others run from the pitch-black storm looming above them. I scream for help, but lightning drowns my pleas, and something sharp underneath pulls me. Flailing, I claw onto the rock, digging through the seaweed, but the creature yanks me again, and my nails dislodge, ripping them off the rock, and the pain hurts so, so much until it no longer does, and the pure fear tearing within me transforms into some sick rage lurking underneath that not only consumes but drives me as if I cannot let the thing take over me.
The Mondara gets smaller and smaller until it disappears, the last thing I will ever see above the waters, and George drags me to his level, his face now a rotting, skeletal husk. He stretches his mouth open, but I seize his neck, and he freezes.
‘Let’s be together again.’ I say.
He screeches, his movements filling with panic, and I force his decomposing body into a tight embrace where he tries squirming out, but his pathetic bones are too frail.
‘Together again.’ I repeat.
George stabs his skeletal fingers into my back with enough force to plant them inside, but the pain he enacts is of no effect, and I spit blood into his face. ‘Together again.’
The further into our embrace, the more we sink into the dark waters, never to see the light of day again as our bodies become united by our pain, anger and love. But forever will we now be together.
Nicholas Chang is an undergraduate at Macquarie University, studying Creative Writing and Film to exercise his creative talents across mediums. Whenever he’s not the president of Macquarie Cinema Society or an editorial assistant for Grapeshot Magazine, he’s distracted by the silly Lovecraftian creatures roaming like unruly pigs in his mind.
