Liminality

Silvered by the thin sliver of moon, the silhouette dragged the body along the wooden pier, loose limbs bumping over the old planks. The lake sparkled as a light breeze tickled the surface. A dense tangle of mangroves crowded the shore on all sides, thickly knotted darkness against darkness.

With the final tugs to reach the jetty’s end, the figure stepped over the body and rolled it toward the end of the line. A mess of long black hair tangled around the face, an arm flopped over the edge, hanging in the nothingness where planks ended and water began.

One last push.

Splash.

The figure stood for a moment and watched as the last of the bubbles rose to the surface, then turned and walked back the length of the pier until it cut through the mangroves to a dirt trail where a rusted ’82 Buick Skylark waited, its trunk still open. Once upon a time the metallic blue paintwork would have glistened, now covered with a dull stipple of red. The dull grey primer of the hood and one side panel hinted at a long-abandoned restoration.

The trunk slammed shut, the only way to make the latch stick, and the figure climbed into the front seat. With a puff of smoke from the tailpipe, the engine spluttered into life as the twisted mangroves lit up red from the glow of taillights. The car lurched forward with a spin of the rear wheels and wended its way along the unsealed road into the night.

Long after it had disappeared from view, a solitary crab emerged from the undergrowth and sidled across the track, claws swaying aloft in a drunken dance, before plopping unceremoniously into the mud on the other side.

Back below the end of the pier, the black mirror of the still lake reflected a long cloud ghosting the moon, before a bubble broke the surface. A hand thrust up and grasped the worn planks of the jetty,

Slowly, the body emerged, water pouring from the long black hair to leave it draped stickily over the shoulders of a white nightgown. Dirty fingernails of both hands found purchase on the timber boards and heaved, dragging the body from the lake onto the pier.

As the cloud slid from the moon, the head lifted revealing a woman’s face with eyes of furious revenge glinting from beneath the slick mat of hair. Plump lips and a dapple of freckles either side of her petite nose hinted at a natural beauty, had she not just dragged herself from the depths of the lake. A thin line of dark red trickled from a gash on her forehead to bloom on her wet cheek.

As if moving for the first time, she unfolded herself and stood on bare feet, the wet nightie sticking to her slim figure and thighs. One step forward, followed by another, she walked the length of the pier, dripping a wet trail behind her.

She passed through the mangroves and reached the dirt track where she paused a moment, looking in one direction then the other. Both ends of the road melted into darkness. At her feet, a tire track caught her attention, barely visible in the faint moonlight. She crouched down to feel the tread’s impression, her fingers gently stroking the ridges left in the moist surface.

Her eyes following the line, she stood and stumbled into the darkness where the Buick had vanished a half hour earlier.

Three miles later, the dirt track emerged from the mangroves onto a sealed road. Two streaks of swamp mud pointed her South and she pressed on, her encrusted feet trudging along the middle of the road.

Another two miles and the yellow light of a cabin pierced the night ahead. As she approached, the shape of a rusted Skylark emerged from the darkness. Her hand tenderly traced along the side of the car as she passed, headed for the porch of the rundown shack.

As she expected, the screen door was unlocked. She stepped inside.

A noise came from the kitchen, someone huffing. Rounding the corner, she spotted the occupant crouched behind the bench, sponging streaks of blood from the linoleum. On the counter sat a decades-old toaster, one side caved in from a heavy blow and bearing tinges of blood around the edges.

She crept forward, an outstretched hand picking up the toaster.

On the floor, the figure’s long black hair draped down the back of her white nightie.

She raised the toaster.

One step closer.

And the figure suddenly turned and looked up at her, revealing a woman’s face with eyes of incredulous fear glinting from beneath the slick mat of hair. Plump lips and a dapple of freckles either side of her petite nose hinted at a natural beauty, had she not just been scrubbing blood from the floor.

“Wait –” was all she could utter before the toaster crashed down, causing a gash on her forehead that immediately spurted blood onto the floor as she fell.

Her attacker stood for a moment and watched as a crimson pool slowly blossomed beneath the woman’s head.

Placing the toaster back on the bench, she crouched down to grab the limp legs and heaved, slowly dragging the woman through the cabin, out onto the porch, loose limbs bumping over the old planks. With the final tugs to reach the Buick, the figure stepped over the body to open the trunk and lifted the body.

One last heave.

Thud.

The trunk slammed shut, the only way to make the latch stick, and she climbed into the front seat. With a puff of smoke from the tailpipe, the engine spluttered into life as the cabin lit up red from the glow of taillights. The car lurched forward with a spin of the rear wheels and wended its way along the unsealed road into the night.

Toward the swamp.

Toward the jetty.

Again.