by Michael Stroh
I wake, vomiting seawater. I’m shivering and clutching soggy driftwood that’s barely keeping me afloat. A piece of our ship, I realise. I see nothing but empty, uncharted ocean. And bits of debris bobbing indifferently.
What happened? A storm?
It returns in flashes. The Catalina rocking, splintering. Harpoons hurtling. Tentacles reaching. The crew dragged screaming beneath the waves.
It was no storm.
I yank my legs from the blue-black water, searching the depths for movement. Something bubbles to the surface. A torso—bloated and bloodless. Wearing the captain’s jacket.
Around me, the water darkens. A shadow rising from the deep.
Michael Stroh is a pastor and writer in the Dallas area. His stories have appeared or are forthcoming in publications including Shoreline of Infinity, Martian Magazine, SQ Mag, and anthologies by Black Hare Press and Shacklebound Books. He and his wife Libby have three kids. Find him on Twitter @pastor_writer.