The thought of their sweet flesh made Mrs. Smith’s hunger swell. That hunger would grow and grow until the ninth man-child was in her belly. The closer she got to the harvest moon, the more her cravings would rule her.
This season was the most dangerous phase of her life cycle. It was the time when her hunger was in control. Her desires overpowered her logic. She became a desperate animal—an underwater cyclone of scales, teeth, and claws.
She had arrangements to make before the frenzy took hold. Preparations for her next life cycle must be completed. There were treasures to bury. Properties to purchase. She’d used this nest for too many years. She would not go unnoticed for much longer. This letter from Elaine K. Bernstein was a warning.
Mrs. Smith had been invisible until now. She’d been the one watchingthem. Now, their gazes were turning toward her.
The whispering had begun.
Realizing she would have to reply to Elaine K. Bernstein, Mrs. Smith dragged herself out of the hot tub and half crawled, half slithered to her writing desk. She loaded a fresh sheet of paper into her typewriter, dripping beads of water onto the keys.
She could remain out of the water for longer periods now, thanks to the two Pure Ones she’d eaten. It took several hours for her skin to dry out and itch for the sea’s salty caress, and herhuman form was less frail. She could walk to the boathouse without dragging one foot. More flesh stuck to her bones. The bald patches on her head were now covered with hair.
Power was returning to her age-worn cells, and she was greedy for more.
The Mother of Eels was ready to feed again. She was ready for the ecstasy of flesh, for that blaze of vitality.
Unfortunately, she could not hunt in the same place this time. The humans would be more careful there after the news of the three lost souls circulated.
News.
Mrs. Smith reached for the yacht club newsletter. She flipped through photos of seafood buffets and smiling men brandishing trophies until she came to a list of junior regattas. Cold Harbor’s regatta was always the last race of the season, but the shores of Long Island were peppered with yacht clubs. Hundreds of man-children would sail out of their protected coves into deeper waters.
On summer Saturdays, crews of man-children would zigzag their tiny vessels from buoy to buoy. There’d be dozens of fragile boats with shell-thin hulls and tantalizing cargo.
If one boat strayed off course or was swallowed by a patch of fog, she could capsize the flimsy vessel and drag its passengers down into the deep. It would help if rain hampered the visibility, but she couldn’t count on the elements to obey her whims.
There had been a time when she could hunt without caution, but those days were gone. If the humans caught her killing their offspring, she would become the hunted one. They’d use their gadgets and machines to track her. Their guns and bombs to destroy her. They could bring their fire to the water now, so she had to move with caution.
Studying the race locations, she pictured the terrain below the surface of each bay. The junior regattas would beginnext weekend with a race west of Cold Harbor, in the waters near Port Jefferson. It was a place of ferries, barges, and sports cruiser boats. Men would be racing larger sailboats there, too.
With all that activity, a capsized boat could go unnoticed for a few minutes.
A few minutes was all Mrs. Smith would need to devour a Pure One.
Mrs. Smith knew these boats were manned by two children. The skipper would be older, between fourteen and eighteen. Too old for her needs. It was the first mates she wanted. These children could be as young as ten and as old as thirteen. She could draw a single craft away from the fleet of young sailors. Make it look like the wind’s work. A daylight hunt was risky. She would need the camouflage of many eels.
Some of her children would die—their bodies mauled by propellers and tangled in anchor chains—but they would not turn away from their deaths. They knew her survival was paramount. Without her, they would all perish. They’d be netted by the thousands. Their bodies would be used for food or for medicine. The humans would consume them until they were only a memory. A creature existing only in books.
Despite her warnings, too many of her children were caught by human traps. The humans’ underwater cages and mesh tunnels littered the seabed. The poison from their engines and factories stole oxygen from the water. Their litter slid into her children’s bellies or wrapped itself around their necks.
Long ago, she’d hunted with eels the size of school buses. A swarm of these magnificent animals could kill a whale in seconds.
But when the oceans changed, her first children could not adapt quickly enough. They never learned to breathe the air above the water, and so they perished. The humans grew more cunning. They made weapons and built ships. They took tothe seas with harpoons and nets, and the largest descendants of the giant eels vanished, too.
Still, the Mother of Eels endured. She would endure for another hundred years as long as the old ways were honored. The old ways bound her, but they also gave her power.
Setting the newsletter aside, Mrs. Smith recalled what Elaine K. Bernstein had written in her letter.
I respect your privacy, but this event is very important to my family. I hope you understand and are willing to make exceptions for such an important occasion. If there’s anything I can do for you in return, like run errands or prepare meals, I’d be happy to return the favor. After all, that’s what neighbors are for. We’re here to help one another.
The letter had filled Mrs. Smith with rage. The woman wanted to set off fireworks from the end of the yacht club dock. The woman wanted to cut Mrs. Smith’s precious vines. To erect a party tent. To play loud music. This soft, weak, useless human was making demands.
Despite her fury, Mrs. Smith knew she had to appease the woman in white.
Elaine K. Bernstein was not a solitary entity. Humans were social animals. They were group hunters. Once they selected a common enemy, they would focus all their energy on that creature’s destruction. As of this moment, they had no idea she was their enemy, and she needed to keep it that way.
It had been many years since Mrs. Smith walked the length and breadth of her property, because her human legs were too weak. She cared little about community standards but understood that she would have to pay attention to them now. The neighbors’ eyes were upon her.
