Oysters

by Andrew Cheyne

The oysters must have been bad.

We had them on our wedding night. They seemed like such a good idea at the time. 

It was our Ten-year anniversary meal, and it felt appropriate. He didn’t want them, of course. Another fight over nothing. So many lately. Didn’t want to cause a scene, didn’t want to make things worse by picking at his plate after the first mouthful. I knew there was something wrong even then. The last hour since getting home, head over the toilet, proves it.

The oysters were definitely bad.

Grab the handle, flush away the latest mass of spew. I must be throwing up bile at this point, could have sworn some of the chunks were twitching in the water. No, don’t get up just yet. I’m waiting for the familiar clenching in the gut to start again. 

Moments pass, still nothing. 

The gentle hissing of the cistern stops, only sounds now the thump of my heart, and one side of an argument from beyond the door. Can barely hear it. Sick of answering him anyway.

Still no cramps. Good. 

Something wet and warm is clinging to my face. Nasty stuff crusted around the ends of my hair. Skin on fingers looks raw, nails dark, as I try to scratch at it. So much for the beauty of marriage. I sigh, stand, turn to the sink and the mirror, to clean myself up.

Something in here with me!

I recoil from the mirror, spin around in terror. Where is it? I saw it! I snatch up his razor, brandishing it at air. Nothing. Shadows and sickness? I turn back. No. No, no, no. Can’t be me. I look around again. 

Still nothing.

I force myself to look this time. Hold its gaze. Razor clatters away as I lean in, horror struck. Had food poisoning before, it definitely doesn’t do this. The creature stands there in mockery. Mimics my movements, a claw of bloody and cracked flesh waved between our faces. Wearing my face, beneath fast-peeling skin. My face, in scales the colour of ocean. Bright red eyes lock with mine from within dark and bloody orbs. 

I can’t… look… away.

Within the mirror the basin cracks. The faucet shatters and begins to gush. Water spills around my feet, wet and cold, to my ankles in seconds. The room can’t be flooding, this can’t be real! I try to pull back, just for a moment, long enough to break the spell.

The reflection copies the motion, convulses and thrashes in a ridicule of resistance. All but her face. Her mouth opens, a black tongue licking at its cage of a thousand fangs. Lips purse in hunger. Murky water swirls around my waist, dragging me down. The surface churns with oysters, each a single, hateful eye.

My head tilts back as the water climbs to my chest. Still can’t look away. A hand reaches for a claw, closer to the mirror. Need to pull away. Water rising above my neck, crushing my lungs, can’t breathe! Beneath the surface, fingers brush the mirror.

She grabs my wrist and pulls.

Beneath the water, darkness, cold. I can’t see anything. Which way is up? Trying to swim, trying to find a—

Light. No. A mirror. She is standing in my bathroom. I’m horrified. Around and beyond the window, nothing but darkness. 

She smiles in my bathroom as I swim for the mirror. It’s getting further. Darker. Lungs burning, can’t breathe. She turns, walks toward the door, raises a claw to the light switch. I reach forward, screaming.

When she speaks, my voice is clear, even through the water. 

“Coming, darling.”

I breathe in water, and the light goes out.