no bites

(Somewhere in the rural Midwest, 1964)

Miller held up the hook, squinting in the half-light at the worm wriggling between his thumb and forefinger. He paused for a moment, watching it squirm and lash its length around. Then he sighed, skewered it on the hook with ruthless efficiency, and cast it into a shadowy pool beneath the willow at the bend in the creek. He knew this spot well, and it had served him up sizable trout many a time. He’d caught nothing all morning, and with dawn creeping along the edges of the horizon in wisps of pink and orange, he figured his luck wouldn’t change before he had to get back. But he didn’t fish for the catch.

Duke might’ve done better, but as he was down about a hundred yards there was no way of knowing yet. That’s what made him a quality fishing buddy. He spoke little, and he knew the importance of silence before dawn. They met most Saturdays armed with genial grunts and thermoses of hot black coffee, drove to the creek accompanied by the grainy voices of the talking heads on the radio, and parted ways. After a few hours of fishing, they’d drive over to Millie’s for breakfast. Then there would be talk, of the comfortable sort designed to solve the problems of the wide world and not the ones close to home.

Miller tugged the line gently, pulling ripples into shore. He looked up past the willow at the rose-tinted clouds lining the eastern field. The late summer corn chuckled dryly in a slight breeze. The trees were just turning, the nights starting to lose some of their heat. Everything was darkening earlier. In fact, they’d had totally moonless nights for almost three weeks now. It was odd, but the fish liked it darker, so Miller didn’t complain.

Suddenly his line went taut with a violence, nearly yanking his pole from his hands. He white-knuckled it, but the line went limp just as suddenly. He swore quietly under his breath, and anchoring his left hand around the reel seat, reached for the handle to slowly pull it in. He had a suspicion that whatever was on the other end had been hooked and was waiting in the deepest part of the pool. If he could coax it out he had a better chance of wearing it down.

Then it struck again. A sharp crack echoed in the pre-dawn silence, like the crack of a rifle. Miller lost his balance and stumbled down the bank into the creek. He held up his pole in disbelief. Whatever was down there had snapped it clean in two and was now sizzling the line off his reel at an alarming rate. He barely had time to find purchase on the slippery rocks before it hit the end of the line. He pitched forward, letting the pole fly and landing on his hands and knees in two feet of murky water. The pole slithered along the surface of the water for a few feet, then disappeared below the willow.

Miller gasped at the sudden shock of the water, spluttering. He got to his feet quickly and splashed back to shore. Whatever was down there was not something he wanted chomping on his toes. The brief irrational thought of a giant alligator undulating toward him just under the dark surface of the water crossed his mind. Staggering out onto the damp bank, he looked back. The creek was still and black and silent, aside from the ripples he had made from his exit. He sighed and tried to steady his breathing. Had to have been a big old catfish, that was all. He wiped the water from his eyes and adjusted his cap, then jumped clean out of his skin. Where moments before had been only black water, Duke was now standing in the creek, his bulky brown fishing vest glowing pale against the dark voids around him.

“Duke! You scared me near to death.” Duke stared a little past Miller in silence. “Did you hear that? Whatever I had on the line just now broke my pole clean in half. Never seen anything like it.” Miller became aware of a low ticking sound, like a wristwatch, slow and steady. He shrugged and waved vaguely at the willow. “Guess I wouldn’t want to catch whatever that was, anyhow. No bites?”

Duke’s jaw dropped open like he was about to speak, but nothing came out. Then he spoke, drawing out his words. “Nnnno bitessss.”

Miller squeezed water out of his sleeves. “Shucks, best to pack it in then. Bad luck all around.” He turned to pack up his tackle.

“Alllll arounnnn.”

Miller looked curiously at Duke.

“You alright?”

Duke’s head turned like a tight screw until his eyes rested on Miller. He regarded Miller for a long time. His mouth worked slowly up and down, like he was chewing on an invisible stick of beef jerky, then gulped out the word “ulllrighhhh…” slowly, tasting it. He did not blink.

“Um, buddy? Did you put that stuff in your coffee again? I told you, no matter how medicinal they say it is…” Miller trailed off. Duke was sliding through the water toward him, making barely a ripple. He looked like he was floating, and his mouth kept shaping words without any sound. Miller took a step back.

“Hey, Duke. This isn’t funny. Look, I’m already a little spooked here.”

Duke’s mouth opened into a “ssspooo…” and stalled, the sound intoning and skipping like a scratched record. Then his jaw kept dropping. Miller swore he heard a pop as it unhinged. He wielded his tackle box pointlessly at the Not-Duke, stumbled backward over a tree root, and sat down hard in the damp weeds and gravel at the edge of the road.

The Not-Duke reached the edge of the creek and was lifted bodily out of the water onto the bank, dripping black water that spread around it across the green of the bank. The blackness seemed to engulf the ground, but Miller only dimly recognized this. His eyes were fixed in horror at the Not-Duke’s dangling jaw, extending and extending beyond all reason, containing only endless and infinite night. The sound it made had ceased to resemble any word and now rasped a long, low “hhhhhh” like wind being pulled through a hollow tunnel. Under it he could hear the clicking increasing in tempo and volume, drawing nearer.

Miller scrambled to his feet, unable to take his eyes off the thing in front of him, and took two steps back into the road.

Suddenly the blackness was pierced by a blinding flash of headlights. The dawn rang with a screeching of tires and a long horn honk. A cold grasp that cut like a blade yanked him back from the edge, and the horn warped around him as a pickup truck careened inches from his body. He smelled burning rubber and pond water and something sweet and pungent.

The pickup came to a stop thirty yards down the road, idling. The door opened and a burly man tumbled out, cussing at the top of his lungs. Miller turned his eyes wildly to the thing that held his arm, and saw only Duke’s wide smile emanating from his homely face.

“Buddy, what do you think you’re doing?” Duke’s eyebrows bunched in concern.

The driver had made it to them by this time, managing to splutter a series of “what the’s” and “could have killed you’s” as Duke turned his attention to him, easing his grip on Miller’s arm. Miller shook him off and backed up, dazed. He looked down the bank, but the blackness had disappeared, along with any signs of a struggle. In fact, he didn’t even see the log he had tripped over, or his tackle box. It was as if some cosmic vacuum cleaner had swept the riverside clean. In the increasing light he could see the water below, dark as ever, and a series of ripples swept from the nearest bank down around the bend. And mercifully, all he heard was the steady stream of water and the waking sounds of birds. The ticking had stopped.

All this while, Duke had been talking down the driver of the pickup. Miller could hear him saying things about medical conditions, losing time, fugue states. The driver looked warily at Miller, then said something under his breath to Duke and pointed at him. Duke had his back to Miller, but it looked like he was nodding assuringly. He patted the driver on the back and began to guide him toward his truck. Miller shook his head, swept a hand across his eyes, and squinted back at them. Duke’s head rotated around on its neck to face him, a broad smile plastered under glassy eyes like those of a doll, and Miller heard a low whisper echoing in his head.

“My apologies. It can take some time to assimilate fully.”

Inspired by #inktober2020 prompts #1-5 (fish, wisp, bulky, radio, blade)