Static in the Waves pt. 2
As he drew to the end of the script, the call button lit up again.
“Maybe this is Zooie.” Midge frowned. “About time.”
“Or someone new.” Biff pointed out. “Just answer it. Hello caller! You’re on the air!”
They were met with fuzzy, static-filled silence.
“Hello? Not a crank call I hope?” Biff nervously joked.
Finally, a tired sounded male voice responded. “Sorry… I hadn’t meant to call you but… well looking at what’s going on in town tonight I guess it doesn’t really matter anymore.”
“I see. Who am I speaking with?”
“Oh, right. Simon Schmidt, I run the dry clean and rental.”
“Oh! I rented my cap and gown from you for highschool graduation.” Midge piped up.
“Yes I remember. It must have taken me five days to get those mustard stains out of the sleeves. My wife and I joked that you must have bathed in it. Anyway… I’ve been responsible for the robes that the priests of Athilirh use, tailoring and dry cleaning, mending, whatever the Cowries need, I do it all.”
“I bet they give you a lot of good business.” Biff nodded. “You worried abolishing the religion will hurt your dry clean business any?”
“Well… about that-'' Weariness seeped throughout every word Simon spoke. “To be perfectly honest, my business has been doing poorly. It’s true a lot of the traffic I get is from the Cowries, but I never charge them for it. After all, it’s the least I can do for the faithful hands of our goddess of the deep.”
“Is that what Father Cowrie told you?”
“It was something like that.”
“How’d he actually put it to you then?”
“He assured me that my generosity and faith would be rewarded and blessed by Athilirh herself.”
“How’s that blessing working out for you?”
“I’m several thousand dollars in debt… but it’s alright really, I’ve been blessed in other ways.”
“Have you explained to the Cowries that if your business sinks then they won’t get their robes?”
“I used to bring it up every once in a while. The first time I mentioned it he said he’d commune with Athilirh and she would grant a solution with her divine judgment… And that year's Shore of Lights Festival, my son Kevin was chosen as tribute. It was quite an honor, really… a shock but… an honor.” Simon’s voice cracked.
Goosebumps crawled up Biff’s neck. The dreaded annual Shore of Lights Festival, full of food, games, and water lanterns… where, at the end of the night's festivities, Father Cowrie drew a symbol out of a small leather pouch which determined the nature of that year's tribute- harvest, live-stock, wealth, or flesh. In the unfortunate chance that he drew the flesh symbol, each person must submit their name to the lottery, and pray that it was not drawn.
“Certainly cut down on a few of our expenses at least…” Simon continued. “Not a whole lot but… just a little. I tried talking to Father Cowrie again. I suppose I shouldn’t have been greedy… It’s just… I still had a wife and a daughter to look after… And he said he’d pray for my family’s sake.”
“Did that do any good?”
“Well, my family was honored again the next year. My little Joanie was chosen as tribute. And her only just turned eleven.”
“Wow. What are the odds?” Midge grunted.
There was a heavy, somber silence before Mr. Schmidt spoke again. “My wife offered to go in her place. Begged to, really. But Athilirh’s will must be obeyed. Anyway…” Simon cleared his throat, followed by a wet sniff. '' To make a long story short, We haven’t asked anything of Athilirh or the Cowries since then. Mary and I are doing just fine… we don’t need anything else we’re… we’re happy.” Simon let out a shuddering breath. Biff could almost hear the man’s strained smile behind the phone.
Seconds of long, awkward silence ticked by, with nothing to ease it but the metallic groaning of the radio tower as it was bullied by the tide.
“Well, thank you for sharing with us tonight.” Biff finally offered when it seemed that Simon Schmidt had no more to say. “Though I’m curious- are you in support of holding onto the faith, or are you on the side of putting an end to it?”
More long, heavy silence. “Hello? Simon?”
Simon’s voice sounded far away behind a curtain of crackling static. “I think I've taken enough of your time this evening. Have a good night.”
With a click all that remained of Simon Schmidt was a dial tone.
Biff cleared his throat. “Well uh… We’re glad you reached out to us! We really hope you folks keep these calls coming, it’s been quite a colorful range of topics to unpack. We’ve got a few more minutes before the break, so if anyone else wants to call in we’ll be glad to hear from you. If not, you can look forward to a few top hits from the eighties while Midge and I enjoy a cup of coffee.”
“Just one?” Midge raised her brow. “I guess I don’t mind sharing if you’re into that.”
“What? No of course not! I just meant-” The call button turned red. “Hey there caller, this is The Static in the Waves! Who am I speaking with?”
“This is Thomas Kipson down at the Salty Sailcloth.”
“Hey!” Midge interjected. “We just talked with your buddy Frank Cartwright-”
“Yeah whatever, listen, I’ve been having one hell of a staff turnover here! This place is a madhouse every lunch and dinner rush because the staff keeps quitting on me!”
Biff had started to give up on anyone actually calling to talk about the current politics with city hall. “um… sounds rough for you, friend. Any reason you can pin down?”
“Tch!” through garbled static, they heard Tom spit an audibly fat loogie in distaste. “It’s this damn food! I’m running out of storage space and there aren’t too many folks who can stomach the ingredients we use- not when they’re only being paid tips.”
“Don’t follow you, Tom.” Midge frowned. “What ingredients?”
“Come on, get with the program!” Tom barked into the receiver. “It’s people! it’s always been people! Well… what used to be people.”
“Like the Browns?” Biff offered.
“No, not like the Browns! Everyone cooks them- the good parts anyway. Look, it’s my fault. I never should have gone to the temple… I knew what I was getting myself into, so I only have myself to blame- but Frank’s right about our goddess being useless as shit- stupid abundance totem! I’d like to take it and shove it up Father Cowrie’s pale, pinched-”
“I take it you got a little more abundance than you asked for?”
“I just wanted the restaurant to do well, that’s all! Nothing wrong with a man wanting a little success is there?! I built a proper shrine for it in the kitchen cabinets, I prayed to it properly- I did all the things I was supposed to, and I tell you I haven’t run out of customers, or inventory since! You should try our beer-battered fish finger basket- hey, I bet we could work out a little advertising deal with your show-”
“I’m having a little trouble with where ingredients factor in.” Biff quickly cut in before the topic derailed. “Care to explain to the listeners, Tom?”
“What? Oh, yeah… see the thing is, you always get people driving the roads late at night- truckers, drifters, sightseers… They get tired and hungry so they end up on our stretch to look for a bite and I’m the closest eatery by the road. Did that on purpose.”
“Great business move.”
“Isn’t it? Anyway, when I first got the totem, I wasn’t seeing results. Sure, business was alright, but it wasn’t booming enough to justify spending money on a driftwood carving at some rinky-dink tourist shop! I would have counted my losses and chucked it but… well…”
“Something changed your mind?”
“Yeah… I remember I was checking inventory thirty minutes ‘till closing… We were out of swordfish. I said it out loud too, I said “Looks like I’m going to have to put an order for swordfish in tomorrow” and I was real fed up about it ‘cause we never should’ve been out in the first place. I was about to send the last waitress home when this trucker walked in. Out-of-towner, nothing unusual. Gave him a table, Jessica took his order, I started the grill. Routine stuff. But then, as I’m cooking… I heard something… thought it was grease popping at first but when I shut off the gas it sounded like whispering. Then suddenly there’s a rattling and thumping coming from the shrine, so I pulled open the cabinet. The totem’s vibrating like something’s trapped inside and trying to get out. The whispering’s swimming in my head, and I can’t look away, I’m frozen, and my mouth and nose starts to fill up with salt water. Then bam!” Tom snapped his fingers. “It stops. No moving, no voices, it’s just a hunk of wood again and Jessica is asking if the order is ready.”
“Was it?”
“Was what?”
“Was the order ready?”
“Well, it was kinda burnt and the smoke alarm started going off… But I don’t waste food, so Jessica sends it out with our apologies, and I start to clean the kitchen to take my mind off what I saw. Kept telling myself I was tired and getting paranoid.”
“This town’ll do that to you.” Midge offered sympathetically.
“Yeah… Well, I’m scraping the burnt pan over the sink when Jess bursts through the kitchen door, screaming her head off that something’s wrong with the customer. I think ‘oh god, he’s choked on a fishbone, I’m getting sued’ so I rush out there just as he falls out of his booth onto the floor, gagging and clutching his throat. I do what any sensible person does and Heimlich him, all while Jess is panicking about calling an EMT. It’s only after I’ve got my arms around him that I start to feel like something’s not right… I mean yeah, obviously, he’s choking to death, but he reeked like fish and saltwater, and I could feel something rippling under his t-shirt. Didn’t get a lot of time to think about it cause his neck suddenly rips open and blood sprays my face. I let him drop. Good thing I did, cause as I’m wiping my eyes I see his back arch and something tears through the fabric as his spinal cord and ribs just pull out from under his skin, and grow into long spines with the flesh stretching after it like… like bubblegum… bloody, veiny bubblegum. He’s writhing and thrashing on the floor, cuts in his neck just flapping open and closed. He’s not screaming… he’s trying, but all he can do is gasp like a… yeah… It’s only when his face starts to stretch to a point that I realize I got what I asked for.”
“Which was-?”
“Swordfish- mostly… from the waist up. Top half is flopping, legs kicking like he’s in spin class… It’s like a reverse merman. I’m standing there, jaw on the floor… When, somehow, he gets to his feet. All I can think to say is ‘I’m sorry sir, we’ll be happy to refund your meal-’ before he charges at me, point first. Next thing I know, I’m pinned against the wall by my shoulder.”
“Did it hurt?”
“Hurt like hell! I’m fighting for my life when a cleaver swings out of nowhere and buries deep into fishmans skull. See, I’d forgot Jessica was still there.” Tom sighed wistfully. “What a woman. Shame she quit the next day. Anyway, I pulled the meat cleaver out and kept hacking until he stopped squirming. I had to have Jess help me get free. His head was lodged pretty deep in the wall… and my arm.”
“So what did you do with the body?”
“Like I said… I don’t waste food.”
“So your customer turns into a merman… and your solution was to grill him up and serve him with butter?”
“I’m not proud of it! It’s not like I asked for any of this, but I can’t get rid of the totem no matter if I bury, burn, or sink it! It always returns to the shrine like nothing happened… but it always delivers new customers, and I’m never out of stock. I just can’t keep my staff!”
“Well, you heard him folks, The Salty Sailcloth Bar and Grill is hiring, so if serving people is your dream job, hand over your resume to Thomas Kipson!”
“Hey, I appreciate it. So, about that ad deal-”
“Uh-oh! Sorry, it looks like it’s almost time for our break, but we thank you for sharing with us tonight! We’ll be back folks, right after a few classic hits- here’s the Beatles with Yellow Submarine!”
As the track played, Midge stood up and stretched, meandering towards the window. Biff leaned back in his chair, gazing nervously out at the surrounding water. The tide had risen even further since he’d last checked, there was no denying it. Inky black depths purled ominously at the legs of the adjoining towers and the longer he looked, the more Biff noticed something stirring beneath the surface. A massive but indiscernible pale shape brushed against one of the towers, which shook at the impact with a metallic screech of misery.
“What’s that?” Midge was leaning out the opposite window slat, pointing out at the water. “Biff- what the hell is that-?”
“It… it’s a whale.” Biff stared blankly out at the shape that had begun to circle the towers. He knew that it wasn’t- it was too big and too close to the shore.
Another tower violently trembled with an anguished wail.
“No! It’s-!” Midge suddenly recoiled, frantically waving him over. “Oh my god look! It’s Jack!”
Biff tore his gaze away and rushed to Midge’s window, expecting to see their co-host making his way in his boat. The wind whipped Biff’s hair, screaming into his ears, and he held onto his glasses to keep them steady.
Midge pointed at a chunk of driftwood. Biff was about to accuse her of pranking him, but as the shape floated closer, he realized she was right.
Jack Albright floated on his back, bobbing up and down as the tide mercilessly tossed him. Foam and debris clung to his clothes and beard, his mouth sagging open in a waterlogged gape. His body squirmed with tentacles, blank women’s faces staring back at Midge and Biff with eyes devoid of emotion as they feasted.
Biff pulled Midge away from the window, leaving the Browns to nibble and pick at Jack’s flesh as if he were nothing more than a charcuterie board.
“I don’t think we're going anywhere tonight.” Biff rasped. Behind him, another tower gave an eerie, metallic howl.
Midge nodded blankly, slipping back into her chair. “Let's just… keep the show going… give us something to do.”
As if in agreement, the red call button illuminated her face, blinking crimson.
Their eyes met across the board, reflecting each other's apprehension. Biff placed his headset back over his ears and gestured stiffly for Midge to accept the call. “Welcome back to The Static in the Waves! We’re your hosts, Biff Longcastle and Midge Mickelson. Looks like we’ve got another caller this evening! To whom do we owe the pleasure?” He boomed with faltering bravado.
The speakers crackled to life as a cold male voice replied. “I’m sure that you and the good citizens of this town will be delighted to hear that the mayor and city hall have chosen to reject and spurn the grace of our goddess.” The words dripped with undisguised venom. “You ungrateful swine have all sealed your fates. The very sea below broils with its finality.”
“Father Cowrie?” Biff didn’t have to ask. He knew. “Not happy with the verdict, I take it, Mike?”
The high priest of the temple of Athilirh did not acknowledge him, speaking instead as though to a congregation. “In your unfailing hubris, you saw worshiping our goddess as nothing more than a petty, worldly transaction. You failed to see it as an honor and a privilege that can be easily stripped. It seems you are all due for a reminder of who it is we serve. And if the only way I am to be heard is through this shitty radio show, then so be it.”
It was now their tower’s turn to shudder and scream as something large slammed against it. Biff gripped the tabletop and set his feet apart to keep from toppling out of his chair as the metal walls creaked and grated against each other.
Midge started to cough.
And still, Father Cowrie continued his sermon. “Athilirh has suffered your ceaseless complaints, has graciously spared some of her power for your insignificant desires- and in return for her grace she is given ingratitude. You ask for children, and you are blessed. You ask for abundance, and you prosper. Our goddess holds dominion over the sea itself, a sailors’ boon. She is not one who should be expected to lower herself to provide you with fertility and wealth, and yet you have flourished regardless. And in return for her generosity and mercy, you have denounced her. Her tolerance is at an end.”
Midge was doubled over, making a wet hacking sound that was becoming more desperate and painful as it went on. She looked up at Biff with confusion and terror, her eyes streaming.
“Yet all is not lost, my brothers and sisters. If there are those who still take pride in their devotion to Athilirh then make your voices heard. Perhaps you will be spared to rebuild this town anew. I for one have faith that I am still welcome in her sight. Can you say the same? Look out to the sea, Longcastle.” Father Cowrie purred. “And when you look upon her face, I dare you to mock her as you have done tonight. Look upon her and laugh. Your insolence will no doubt be rewarded in full.”
Biff clambered out of his chair to reach Midge but slipped as something heavy slammed against the tower again, causing his headset to fall from his head with a clatter when the wire went taut. Outside there was a banging and rattling as the tower shook with the weight of something massive slowly pulling itself up the rungs. The white faces staring at him over Jack’s corpse came to Biff’s mind as he grabbed his co-host’s shoulder.
“Midge? Midge, are you okay? What’s wrong?”
Father Cowrie’s voice crackled from the speakers, chanting a guttural, ethereal language like the zealot had earlier. Midge was clutching her throat, gagging, blood, tears, and snot dripping down her face. Her mouth was pierced from the inside by long black spines and when her lips parted they tore and welled up with fresh blood. The inside of her mouth and tongue was encrusted with barnacles and sea urchins, and each gasp for breath only succeeded in burying the black needles deeper into her flesh.
“Oh no- shit!” Biff reached to pull them out of her mouth but drew back as spines pierced through Midge’s cheeks and throat and poked through her t-shirt and gloves. Barnacles embedded themselves deep into her eyelids, scraping across her cornea when she blinked.
Midge stumbled to her feet and staggered towards the open window like a frightened animal, mad with pain and only able to make muffled moans and sobs. Biff was dragged after her, determined to keep a firm grip on her jacket sleeves, wincing in pain as the needles pierced his hands and scratched his face as Midge fought to throw him off.
The banging below got louder and closer, the tower shaking as the weight of the unknown thing outside climbed higher. Biff’s only instinct was to keep his friend away from the window and whatever was waiting outside, but some primal urge pulled Midge towards the sea. As soon as she thrust her head out the window, a tangled mass of bloated, barnacle-encrusted hands reached through and grabbed her, pulling her from the safety of the army fort.
Biff found himself in a brutal game of tug-of-war with a mass of ghastly waterlogged figures whose bodies were crawling with small crabs and tangled with seaweed as writhing many-legged marine worms waved from eye sockets and open sores. Some of the faces in the tangle of decomposing bodies he recognized, even though they were ghoulishly deformed and some had become more fish than human.
Midge kicked and struggled, blind with pain and terror. In her frenzy, her boot met Biff’s face, sending him sprawling onto the floor.
With no more resistance, the many generations of tributes to Athilirh easily dragged Midge through the opening, falling into the sea with their prize. Rushing to the window, Biff watched as they swam as one with his friend in their clutches, rolling and twisting in the water at times resembling a massive sea serpent or a school of giant, grisly fish until Midge was lost to sight amidst the bodies.
The tributes dove deep as one into the darkness below before breaking formation in a burst and scattering in the direction of town. The tides had risen high against the shore, and many more thralls of Athilirh had already arrived, their white bloated shapes crawling across the beach and up the bluffs, making their steady way forward with intent to unleash the Goddesses retribution upon the town of Softshell Bay.
Trembling, Biff stared open-mouthed, his face and hands bleeding. He backed away from the window and slammed the long broken, rotting pane shut, pacing and muttering to himself as he distractedly plucked sea urchin spines from his fingers.
Father Cowrie was still chanting, but his voice held that distorted, underwater feel that had been present earlier that evening.
He sounded bloopy.
Grabbing Midge’s empty chip bag, Biff crumpled it against the microphone. “S-sorry Father… you’re breaking up…” He hung up the phone with a hand that felt gelatinous and no longer a part of his body. He leaned his weight against the table, breathing hard as his legs no longer wanted to support him.
The army fort turned radio tower started to rock like a boat in a storm and he was nearly thrown off balance again. The waters were lapping against the walls now, having almost risen past the three supporting legs. Sprays of cold salty water splashed through the broken glass as the metal groaned and screeched in protest, the overhead light flickering as it swayed with a series of snaps and pops.
The evening had become green-hued around him, and increasingly darker as if a shadow had fallen over the building. Something was coming, and he could feel it vibrating through the walls and the floors like a massive pulse. Biff was compelled to approach the window that faced the sealine, planting his feet firmly apart as he gazed out at the expansive ocean, not having the courage to be in reaching distance of any more pale, slimy arms riddled with scales and sea life.
Like a mountain against the dark, stormy sky, a silhouette rose on the horizon. Slowly and deliberately she reared up from the sea on long spindly legs like those of a spider crab of inconceivable size and length, lifting the figure higher and higher until she blotted out the sky and imprisoned the bay in a cage of crooked, bent spines. The shape that rose was so far away and so large that she appeared as an immeasurable, featureless shadow that blanketed the ocean in dark and dread. Strange glowing orbs shone from where her eyes would be, pale and large as moons as they bathed him in her cold, cruel light.
She was looking directly at him.
Biff opened his mouth to scream, only for saltwater to gush from his throat and nostrils in an endless fountain. The radio host fell to his knees, vomiting up waves of briny ocean spray, feeling himself slowly drown from the inside out. From the speakers behind him, distorted as though underwater, Barbara Lewis’s tinny voice crooned through static, serving as Athilirh’s reminder of the one simple fact they had overlooked.
Softshell Bay and its people were hers.
Hers until eternity.