MonstrousMay 10. The Mermaid

Clark sighed in defeat. He pushed his glasses onto the top of his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. He didn’t know what was gazing back at him through the glass box. It certainly wasn’t the taxidermied corpse of a “gen-you-wine” sea creature, as the owner Mr. Hobart claimed. Something, somethings, had died in order to create this monstrosity, but what happened after was the work of humans. It’s horrible, piranha-fanged mouth seemed to cry out in agony. Clark caught his reflection on the glass amid the sugar-sticky fingerprints. He was making the same expression.

“What’d you think?” Hobart asked with a grin as Clark stepped out of the dark back room.

“It sure is something,” Clark said. Normally, he would leave it at that. But this latest failure felt like the hundreth. He had long since lost count. 

“You don’t think it’s real?” Hobart asked, his grin becoming a glower. Grifters rarely enjoyed being called out, but Clark had had enough.

“Honestly, no, Mr. Hobart. The Fiji Mermaid looked better than that thing,” Clark said. He spun a rack of postcards a little too hard. He had bought into the bit and that embarrassed him.

Mr. Hobart’s roadside attraction was partially constructed from an old ship hull. The interior was decorated with seafaring equipment. Clark felt like he wanted it to be so real so bad, he would've made any excuse. But now he thought all this junk probably came from a department store. Or maybe there was a special catalogue for people who made a living out of duping tired travelers. “Don’t worry, I don’t want a refund," he said bitterly.

“Well you weren't gettin’ one anyway,” Hobart said, waddling out from behind the counter. “That thing took most my leg!” he shouted. He lifted his pant leg and revealed the prosthetic beneath. Clark put his glasses back on, looked at it and then back to him. "Alright, fine, not that exact one, but something like it."

“You expect me to believe that?” Clark asked. "Is this where you offer a glimpse at the actual real one you've got stashed away somewhere? For a low, low price, of course. All you roadside types are the same." Clark immediately regretted saying it.

"Now, listen here," Hobart said and puffed up defensively.

“I’m sorry for whatever did happen to your leg," Clark said and shrugged apologetically. "And with that I think I should be hitting the road. Thank you for the cool place to rest, at least.” Clark walked toward the door.

He dreaded going back out into the desert heat. He’d travel down the melting asphalt until he reached the next mummified monkey with a fish tail tacked on. 

“Why you think I live way the hell out here, nowhere near the water?” Hobart asked, walking behind Clark. "Why I swore I'd never so much as set eyes on the ocean again?" He was starting to get a crazed look in his eye.

“Who knows,” Clark said. “Should I assume everyone in this town’s had a run-in with ‘mermaids’?”

“No, but I have,” Hobart said. "Fell overboard and there it was, swimming straight at me. Looked like a man. Til he got close. Then there was nothing human about him."

"Why do you care so much if I believe you? You'll never see me again," Clark said. He was getting a bad feeling, like a murky mist coming in off the water.

"I'll be damned," Hobart said. His bluster died away almost instantly. Clark squinted at Hobart. Something had certainly changed. Hobart tilted his head ever so slightly. He grabbed Clark’s arm and drug it into a beam of light from the window. Something in his skin caught the light. Clark wrenched his arm free from the old man's gnarled fingers.

“If you touch me again, we’re going to have a problem,” Clark said. Hobart lunged past him and locked the door. “What the hell is wrong with you?” Clark shouted.

Hobart took a harpoon off the wall and jabbed it at Clark. Clark fell backward into a set of mannequin heads holding captain hats. He scrambled for the door and Hobart stuck him in the side. They both breathed heavily, but Clark didn't cry out.

Instead, he grabbed the harpoon and pulled it from his side. Something viscous poured from the wound and the shop filled with the stench of the sea, rotting fish floating blank-eyed on the tide. Clark saw fear in the old man's eyes. He could taste it swimming up through the scent of his sweat.

With a swift jerk, Clark snapped the harpoon's handle nto splinters. His shirt ripped as a ridged fin tore free of the fabric. His arms grew longer, his fingers conjoining with a thin skein of skin. He opened his mouth wide to reveal the rows of teeth within. His glasses fell from his face, no longer having ears or a nose to cling to. They crunched as Clark stepped forward, feet tearing through his fabric sneakers.

Clark caught his reflection, black eyes staring back at him. How long had he been searching for another, only having himself for reference? He had avoided ever showing his true self, but the fear flowing from Hobart now made him think he should do it more often. He could only imagine how delicious the old man himself would be.

"It was you that day!" Hobart screamed, pushing himself back along the floor. He was crying, kicking out, reaching for something behind the counter.

"No," Clark said with a jagged grin, his throat fanning red gills on either side. "But I'll finish the job."