The rocks were jagged beneath my trembling fingers, the edges biting into my flesh as I hauled myself further up the shore. My limbs shook violently, every muscle screaming, but the cold numbed the pain, dulling my body into something less than human. Billy's coughing echoed beside me, wet and ragged, like he was trying to hack up something lodged deep in his chest. I couldn't look at him—not yet. My eyes were fixed on the figures ahead.
Tall. Silent. Still.
They stood like statues, their shapes blurred by mist and shadow. At first, I thought they were trees—some twisted, unnatural growth on this godforsaken shore—but then I saw their eyes. Faint pinpricks of red, smoldering like dying embers, staring unblinking through the fog. They weren't human, but they watched us like predators.
"Billy," I whispered, the word barely escaping my frozen lips. "Do you see them?"
Billy groaned in response, his hands fumbling uselessly at the rocks as he tried to drag himself upright. His face was worse now—paler, the veins in his neck and arm swollen and dark, branching like tendrils of some spreading rot. The wound on his arm pulsed beneath torn fabric, the skin blackened and cracked.
"They're watching," he murmured. "They're waiting."
I forced myself to stand, my knees wobbling, the cold biting deep into my soaked clothes. I staggered toward him, pulling at his good arm. "Come on. We can't stay here."
Billy resisted at first, his body limp, his head lolling like his neck couldn't hold it up. Then, with a slow groan, he shifted and stumbled alongside me. We moved deeper onto the shore, away from the sea, away from the things we'd seen beneath the waves. Behind us, the surf roared, as if the water itself was trying to pull us back.
"We have to get away from them," I thought, over and over, as if repeating it could make it true.
The shapes in the mist didn't move. They just loomed, tall and silent, like guardians of something I didn't want to know. My mind screamed at me to look away, but the glowing eyes held me—those faint red lights that seemed to throb with a life of their own.
"What is this place?" Billy rasped beside me.
I didn't answer. I couldn't. The ground beneath my feet was uneven, the rocks giving way to thick, dark sand that clung to my boots like it didn't want to let me go. Every step forward felt like walking into something alive. The air was heavy with rot and salt, a sickening smell that made me gag.
"Don't stop," I said, my voice trembling. "We have to keep moving."
Billy stumbled again, falling hard onto his knees. I turned back to him, my breath misting in short, frantic bursts. His head was bowed low, his shoulders shivering violently.
"Billy—"
He looked up at me suddenly, and my heart stopped. His eyes were red. Not the faint, glowing red of the figures in the mist, but a raw, bloodshot crimson that seemed to seep into the whites. His lips moved, forming words I couldn't understand, his voice low and slurred, like he was speaking from underwater.
"It's calling me."
"What?" My own voice came out as a whisper.
Billy's hands clawed at the wound on his arm, and he groaned—a long, guttural sound that twisted my stomach. The veins there pulsed, spreading up into his neck, his chest, until it looked like something inside him was trying to grow. A black ichor oozed from between his fingers, thick and clotted, dripping onto the sand.
"Billy, stop!" I reached for him, but he wrenched away with a sudden, unnatural strength. His breath came in short gasps, his chest heaving as though the very air hurt him.
"It's calling me," he said again, louder this time, his gaze unfocused. "They're waiting. They've been waiting for so long."
I didn't know what to do. I didn't know how to help him. But then the sound returned.
That low hum.
It vibrated through the ground beneath me, through my bones, rising up like a living thing. It wasn't just a sound—it was a feeling. A deep, resonant pulse that set my teeth on edge and twisted my insides. I could hear it in my skull, pressing against the back of my eyes.
Billy's face went slack, his mouth hanging open. He fell still for a moment, listening, as though the hum was speaking directly to him.
No.
"Billy!" I grabbed him by the shoulders, shaking him hard. "Don't listen to it! We need to keep moving!"
He blinked slowly, and for a moment, I thought I saw something shift in his expression—some fragment of the Billy I knew—but then his gaze lifted past me, his eyes widening in something between awe and terror.
I turned.
The figures in the mist were moving.
It was slow at first—almost imperceptible. But then their heads began to tilt, unnatural angles that sent bile rising to my throat. Their long limbs stretched and bent as they stepped forward, the mist swirling around their forms like smoke. The red glow in their eyes brightened, and I realized—too late—that the hum was coming from them.
"Run!" I screamed, grabbing Billy and hauling him up.
We stumbled across the sand, the sound of my ragged breaths drowned out by the rising hum. It grew louder, deeper, like something vibrating inside the earth itself. I could feel it in my teeth, my skull, my chest. It felt hungry.
The ground trembled beneath us. I glanced back once, and my blood ran cold. The figures were closer now, moving faster than they should have been able to, their limbs jerking and twitching with inhuman grace. The red light in their eyes pulsed in rhythm with the hum—like the beating of some monstrous, unseen heart.
Billy staggered beside me, his legs barely cooperating. He was mumbling again, words I couldn't understand, his head drooping as if the hum was pulling him downward. I dragged him with all the strength I had left, my feet slipping in the slick sand.
Ahead of us, the ground began to slope upward. A rocky outcrop loomed, rising like the jagged spine of some long-dead beast. I ran toward it, my muscles burning, my body screaming for rest, but I didn't stop. I couldn't.
Behind us, the hum reached a deafening pitch, vibrating through the very air.
Then I heard it—the sound of something splitting open. A wet, sickening crack.
I turned just as Billy screamed. His body convulsed, his back arching unnaturally, his arms clawing at his chest. I reached for him, but he fell backward onto the sand, his mouth opening in a silent, gaping howl.
And then I saw it.
From the wound on his arm, something was moving. A slick, black tendril, thin and writhing, pushed its way free, stretching toward the sky. It twisted and jerked like a living thing, more of them branching outward, splitting his skin open further.
Billy's scream was cut short as his body went limp, the tendrils dragging him deeper into the sand, swallowing him.
I staggered back, my mind blank with horror. The figures were nearly upon me now, the hum louder than ever.
I turned and ran.
The outcrop rose before me, steep and jagged, but I climbed anyway, my hands raw as they clawed at the stone. I pulled myself upward, one breath at a time, the hum chasing me. Finally, I reached the top, collapsing onto solid rock.
Below, the beach was empty—no figures, no Billy. Just the dark sand, the rising mist, and the black sea beyond.
But the hum persisted. It was in my chest, my head, my very blood.
And in the distance, from beneath the water, I saw it rising. A vast shape, too big to comprehend, its limbs writhing against the night sky. It was awake now.
It had always been awake. And it was coming.