Chapter 6 Mrs. Smith #2
her children weaving back and forth above her like threads of yarn on a loom, the abuse of her domain enraged her.
Her fury seemed to summon the storm.
Birthed to the Bermuda Triangle, the system was inconsequential at first. But as it passed over the jet stream on its way
to the shores of Long Island, it collided with a mass of cold water. And just like that, it had teeth.
Mrs. Smith felt the storm long before the fishermen knew of its existence. The bigger boats with their larger crews saw the
future on their radar screens and fled, but many of the sports fishermen, ignorant of the incoming squall or too full of hubris
to run, stayed put.
By the time they realized their mistake, it was too late.
The wind struck the boats from the side, making them rock back and forth like bathtub toys. The rain pelted the decks and
men fought to keep their feet on the slippery surfaces. Some were pitched into the lifelines, which saved them from catapulting
overboard. Others reached for the same lifelines and missed.
The instant their bodies were flung into the roiling sea, Mrs. Smith felt their terror. It aroused her appetite. She salivated
as she imagined curling her tentacles around their legs and pulling them down, down into the dark.
Her first victim wore an orange life jacket and rubber boots. Mrs. Smith severed his left arm in one bite. Blood poured from
the wound, feathering around her face and flooding her nostrils with its sweet scent.
After devouring the other arm, she shredded the life jacket with a single swipe of her claws. Embracing the lifeless body
of her prey, she ate greedily.
It had been too long since she’d tasted tender flesh. Rich blood.
She felt a shark approaching from below, rocketing up at her with its jaw open in a lethal grin.
She smashed it with a tentacle while sinking her teeth into the dead man’s neck.
The loose ligaments in her jaw stretched and her mouth opened wide enough to take in his whole head.
Then she clamped her jaw shut, crushing the skull like a conch shell.
As the brain matter slid down her throat, she waited for the flood of euphoria that came from feasting on a man-child.
It did not come. The human had been too old.
When her second victim arrowed into the water, Mrs. Smith left the legs of her first victim to the sharks and darted to the
surface to collect a more valuable prize.
This human wore no life jacket. Unlike the man she’d just eaten, he was a strong swimmer. He’d barely stopped his downward
trajectory before he began to scissor-kick toward the surface.
Mrs. Smith could practically feel the air burning in his fragile lungs. She watched his pale, ineffective limbs for several
seconds, delighting in his weakness, but then her hunger surged, and she grabbed him by the feet, reeling him in like a yo-yo
on a string.
The man-child couldn’t see her in the darkness, but he was aware of her shape and the rubbery tentacle curling around his
ankles. She sank her teeth into his torso, puncturing his heart and lungs, and his world went black.
The blood pumping into his chest was nectar to Mrs. Smith, pure and bright and strong. It electrified her body like a lightning
strike, instantly healing and regenerating her tired cells.
As she crunched the man-child’s bones, her spine arched in ecstasy.
Humans were perfectly ripe only once in their short lives. This occurred during the two or three years when they were caught
between childhood and adulthood. During this time, their hormones surged, flavoring their blood with possibility and promise.
Long ago, when Mrs. Smith had been called by other names, humans had willingly sacrificed their Pure Ones to her.
In those glorious days, the man-children walked into the water, naked as seals, and she had feasted on them.
In return, she had allowed the rest of their tribe or band or village to live.
This had been part of the oath between her and their kind.
As the centuries passed, the humans continued to feed her. They gave her their weak or deformed children. They gave her slaves
and prisoners or those who’d broken their laws.
Back then, Mrs. Smith had her fill of man flesh. Back then, the Pure Ones were gifted to her—wrists and ankles bound like
a present wrapped in ribbons.
The sacrifices made Mrs. Smith lazy. Complacent. She watched the humans evolve. She bore witness to their advancements, never
imagining the day would come when she was no longer the most powerful of the two species. She couldn’t foresee a future in
which humans dominated the planet, forcing her to hide in the shadows.
When such a future arrived, she had to adapt.
She no longer received sacrifices. She had to skulk about, biding her time until she could strike. She had to avoid boat propellers,
commercial fishing nets, submarines, and sonar. She had to pick off humans when they were alone or in the middle of a storm.
Detection would lead to her death, so she became one with the shadows.
Truth be told, she relished the hunt. She was born to stalk. To tear. To devour. She would make the humans pay for diminishing
her. For forgetting that she should be worshipped as a god.
By the time her third victim entered the water, the sharks were waiting. They circled around Mrs. Smith, frenzied with hunger.
Mrs. Smith recognized their need, but she was the apex predator of every ocean. The sharks would have to make do with her
scraps.
This man-child was hers and hers alone.
She enfolded him in her serpentine arms and carried him all the way down to the bottom. She would make the pleasure of eating
him last as long as possible.
Every bite was dizzying. Orgasmic. The effect on her body was a miracle. She felt the years slough away like old snakeskin.
Her muscles were infused with strength. She’d be twice as fast now. With her renewed stamina, she could spend more time out
of the water. Her human shell would look younger. Its skin smooth with no trace of scales. Her bony body would fill out. Her
flesh would be as soft as a ripe pear. Her hair, fine as corn silk. Her teeth would gleam like pearls. Her uneven gait would
be gone. Instead, she’d move with the lithe grace of a dancer.
The summer had just begun, and she’d already consumed two Pure Ones. Seven more and she would live for another century.
With her belly stretched tight as a drum, she fell into a doze, her body hovering above the ocean floor. She woke only once
to vomit a pair of watches, a wedding ring, a belt buckle, three zippers, and a handful of undigested teeth. As she slipped
into sleep again, the eels cloaked her body.
They would stay with her until the moon rose and the tides shifted. They would stay until she slipped back under the gap in
the boathouse door. And when she was gone, walking on the hard, dry earth with her grotesque human legs, her children would
glide away to their clumps of seagrass to wait.
They would wait for the Mother of Eels to call to them. They would wait until it was time for the next hunt.