Yes, I am incredibly behind in my commitment for 31 flash stories for October. Unfortunately, physical challenges have the best ways of interfering with the plans of both mice and men. However, I am committed to this project. If you have volunteered to be tuckerized into one of these stories, your patience is much appreciated.
For Inktober, Monday 12, 2020. Prompt word: "slippery." Tuckerization: Curtis Palmer
A reminder that volunteering for tuckerization only means a character in the story shares the participant's name. Other than that, there are no other similar characteristics implied.
by Alan Loewen
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
As Curtis Palmer slowly gained awareness, he first became of the sharp pain in his head, the immobility of his limbs, and the feeling of being rocked in a giant cradle. Carefully opening his eyes, he stared up at the stars. Shifting his gaze, he caught a glimpse of the man working the small open wooden boat's outboard motor.
"Calum Arnot," Curtis managed to say above the noise of the motor. His voice sounded distant and harsh. "I've chased you from Stafford to Edinburgh to Kyleakin. I confess that my biggest failure was missing you with my rifle in Cannock Chase."
Arnot grinned through his bushy red beard. "Even if you had killed me, the Friends of Hecate have existed for centuries and would have continued. However, your journey ends here." He stopped the motor, and only gentle waves slapping against the boat broke the silence.
"How appropriate that Loch-na-Bèiste will be your final resting place. Do you know what that means?"
Curtis tried to move his body for a more comfortable position. "Lake of the Beast," he said. "I know more than you give me credit for."
Arnot leaned closer, his hands clasped together in anger. "Oh, yes. I will give you some credit. The Taigheirm, the Children of the Scarlet King, the Church of Starry Wisdom, and who knows how many secret societies you've ended or damaged beyond their ability to reorganize, but the Friends of Hecate are a little more resilient. Here at the bottom of the loch you will stay, and we will continue. Let that be your final despair."
Arnot grabbed Curtis's legs and swung them over the gunwale. Bound as he was, Curtis's struggles were weak, and already he could feel the waters of the loch soaking into his shoes.
A sudden eruption of water startled the two men in the boat. Curtis watched with horror as a massive tentacle grasped the occultist around the waist and squeezed. Arnot tried to scream, but the constriction cut off his breathing ability, much less make a noise.
With a splash, the leader of the Friends of Hecate disappeared over the side of the boat.
Curtis lay still, paralyzed with a mixture of surprise and horror. With a grunt, he was able to swing his legs back into the boat.
Once again, the night was silent except for the sound of small waves against the boat.
Suddenly, to Curtis' horror, the tentacle reappeared. Silently, it moved over the gunwale and fell against his chest.
Holding his breath and trying not to scream, the slippery tentacle moved over Curtis' face, down his chest, and over his legs. Curtis waited for the tentacle to rapidly curl itself around his body and pull him into the Loch-na-Bèiste to join the occultist.
After what felt like an eternity, the tentacle slithered back over the side of the boat, leaving Curtis to drift.
*
"And a boat of fishermen found me the next morning. I just told them I had been kidnapped, and my kidnapper fell over the side before he could throw me into the water."
Sir Reginald Davies refreshed Curtis' brandy glass and sat back in his overstuffed chair. "You're welcome to stay at Davies Hall until you make a full recovery from that sunburn. I'm glad the fishermen found you when they did. It must have been awful." The Englishman sighed. "Then I expect you'll continue your hunt for the Friends of Hecate."
Curtis raised his glass in a toast. "It's my mission," he said. But I have a question. What was that thing that grabbed Arnot and dragged him under?"
Davies shook his head. "Nobody can say with any authority, but you do know that Loch-na-Bèiste is Scottish Gaelic for Lake of the Beast."
Curtis nodded his head. "Yes, but I don't know how it got its name."
"That," Davies said, "is because the loch is the home of lake monster named the Muc-sheilche. It's not as famous as its cousin, Nessie, but sightings have been reported for centuries. What fascinates me is it killed Arnot, but ignored you? Why do you think that was?"
Curtis shrugged. "It could have been it sated its appetite on Arnot, or it didn't recognize me as food as I remained still and didn't make a sound. Maybe, just maybe, it recognized me as something different?"
"Different?"
"Yes. Evil calls to evil. It's something I have learned over many years. Where you find one evil, you will find many, many more. At the risk of sounding arrogant, it may have ignored me simply because it didn't recognize me. It just never knew I was there."
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