All of the monstrosities that had disembarked from the ship were finally slaughtered. It took several days to track down the last of them in the woods. Whether there were more aboard the ship, or back on the island, no one could tell…but the strange vessel was gone by the time anyone returned to the beach.
Sometimes Jane would stand at the spot where it had arrived, holding her husband’s hand. There they would both look out across the black lake, staring at where the island must lie, as if hoping the mist would part, sunlight would beam down upon it. But it remained cloaked in its winding sheet of fog. And while most of the villagers no doubt gazed out at those waters in dread, Jane and John Thistle did so with tears in their eyes, and sad smiles on their lips.
Thunderheads
The tentacle came through the ceiling and slithered down toward Warren’s face as he lay back on his bed fully dressed. Unshaven, unemployed and partly unconscious, he had been watching the TV at the foot of the bed in a half-doze of thoughtless ingestion. Game shows, glamour. His country’s hypnotic empty promises.
But the sight of the tentacle undulating toward him roused him to alertness. He spun sideways to the floor and scrambled to his feet, then bolted from the room…and the tentacle followed him. He slammed a door to block it, but it passed through the door as if it were an illusion, immaterial. Yet it was the tentacle that was immaterial, he realized. Though it looked solid, like a clear rubber hose filled with dark smoke, it was the searching limb of some apparition.
In the kitchen of his apartment, Warren slid open a drawer and clawed madly amongst his oddly matched cutlery until he lifted out a formidable bread knife. By now, the blind groping extremity had found him, and was swimming through the air in his direction. With a cry, Warren swung his blade and simultaneously ducked.
The tentacle withdrew sharply, shivering violently in the air. He could see that somehow he had hurt it, as ethereal as it might be. Maybe the sheer energy of his emotion, rather than the steel itself, had wounded it. Whatever the case, thus encouraged, Warren leapt toward it and slashed it again and again. A foot or so of the tentacle was severed and dropped to the linoleum, curling in on itself with a spasm. The rest of the limb, whipping angrily, withdrew. When Warren glanced down again for the severed portion, it had vanished.
Outside, a peal of bass heavy thunder rumbled, rattling his window in its frame.
* * *
Warren had always considered himself a “sensitive”, having seen ghosts on several occasions in his life: that soldier in the Civil War uniform staring in his bedroom window on the second floor, the cowled monk at the foot of his bed. But today was the first time he had ever seen the creatures that assail the minds of humans.
Afraid that the owner of the tentacle would seek him out again, Warren had gone down into the bustling city streets to immerse himself in the comfort of anonymity. But now the source of the tentacle that had sought him out became horribly apparent. Within moments, he saw that dozens of the people moving about on the sidewalks and even driving along in cars had already been successfully attacked by the creature. From the tops of their heads, tentacles like the one that had come for him ran up into a dark sky with a ceiling of thunderheads.
They must have been tremendously long to keep up with moving cars, and flexible beyond man-made elastic. And when victims crossed paths the tentacles neatly passed through each other instead of tangling up.
Warren staggered along the street, gaping, observing, trembling. He flinched back when a victim passed too close, afraid that the limb jammed into his crown would quit that person to attack him instead.
The type of victims the owner of these myriad limbs favored soon became apparent. An old man slumped in an alley, his head between his knees and a tentacle stuck into his pink and white pate. A thin young woman with huge hollow eyes. A hulking black boy with a face of tremendous fury. A middle-aged man, shambling crazily and talking to himself, shouting out abruptly—something religious—so that Warren really flinched. Disturbed people. Wounded people. Vulnerable, sick or deranged people.
But why had it come for him, then?
No. That wasn’t the kind of victim it sought, he intuited. It made people that way! Healthy people. It fed on their minds! It drained their souls! It…
Another ominous rumble of thunder. Warren stopped on the sidewalk to stare up at the thundercloud directly overhead, eclipsing what little sky showed through the canyon of tall buildings. So many tentacles ran up into that cloud…too many to count…as if the master of these insane marionettes, the evil god who kept these victims on leashes like so many rabid mad dogs, were hiding behind that cloud. Or inside it.
Warren turned in time to see the tentacle wavering toward him through the air. He screamed, bolted and wove madly through the crowds as if dodging an assassin’s bullets. He nearly sent several people sprawling, and they glared after him, muttering to themselves.
He had to get up high. He had to see if what he was beginning to believe were true.
Back in his tenement building, he raced upstairs and fell against his apartment door. Somewhere he had lost the pursuing tentacle. Only slightly relieved, he made quickly for the kitchen and retrieved the bread knife and a steak knife. He slipped these in his long raincoat, then returned to the street.
Warren rode the elevator of the office building as high as it would take him. The unemployment office was in this building but he left it far below. There was no safety, no comfort to be had there. None of the few passengers who rode with him, thank God, had tentacles secured to them like unholy umbilical cords. When he disembarked at last, he found a flight of stairs which he ducked into when no one was about. A moment later he stumbled out onto the roof, squinting against a cold wind that flapped and snapped at the tails of his raincoat. Warren drew close to the edge of the roof, and gazed out on the gray world. Oh God! It was worse than he’d thought. More awe-inspiring.
The thunderclouds didn’t hide creatures. They were creatures. And there were a half dozen of them scudding across the sky, like vast zeppelins moored to the minds of thousands. They were animals, perhaps, like the Portuguese Man-o’-War jellyfish, trailing their many poisonous limbs to sting and capture their prey, though they were still like thunderclouds, still growling hungrily in their depths, and showing brief strobe flashes of lightning inside them. But these flashes were green, and the green glow would briefly cast highlights on the billowing, churning, boiling surfaces of the mountainous things.
Perhaps if those below could see them at all, they innocently perceived them as just an incoming thunderstorm. What if all such storms were actually these airborne leviathans?
Warren heard a tiny shout float up to him from the street far below, and he leaned over the parapet to gaze down. After a moment, he realized its source. It was the shouting, staggering madman he’d seen earlier, a mere flea at this distance. But Warren recognized his erratic movements…and he saw that two tentacles were hooked into this one man’s skull. Two creatures were draining him, maybe warring over him inside his poor fragile mind.
One stationary creature, he saw, was hovering above a mental institution across the river. It was gorged fat.
Someone had to tell people about this! Someone had to fight them…to stop this abomination!
Warren glared out at the great beasts again…and now he saw more. His peculiar sensitive’s vision broadened his perception, brought into focus something which before had been too vast for his mind to grasp.
Floating above the Man-o’-Wars were similar but far larger monsters. These somewhat fainter, more ghostly creatures were like continents drifting in the ocean of sky, and they were anchored, he realized, to each and every person in the street below. To every person in every car. The tentacles swarmed in windows like so many millions of telephone wires. The clouds were like huge inverted clipper ships with all those lines. And then Warren audibly gasped, and jerked a knife out of his coat to flail crazily above his head.