The Fisherman by Matt Leavitt is the first short story included in the “Mad Men” anthology. Mad Men is a collection of three disturbing horror shorts from writers from the Midwest, specifically, Illinois. The themes explored in this collection range from man versus self, man versus man, and man versus creature.
We will be releasing the full short story in three parts. If you enjoy it and want to support the author or read the full anthology, check it out at Barnes and Noble.
Our Gothic Summer Giveaway Sale includes this short horror anthology this was published in, “Mad Men.” Simply enter coupon code BNPMADMEN100 at the checkout.
Cover photo by pine watt on Unsplash.
The Fisherman by Matt Leavitt Part 2
He hesitates before pulling on the net. He’s afraid.
The wait is just suspended right below the boat, unmoving.
He peers over the edge when suddenly it breaches through the water.
A face.
He throws himself back in the boat, his heart racing, and inches backward away from the net.
There is the sound of water breaking, splashing, and moving.
A hand appears at the rim of the canoe, pulling itself up.
He is frantic now. There is nowhere else to go.
The man is pulling himself into the boat. His skin dripping.
The boat jerks with the weight of two aboard.
The man is now inside the boat with the fisherman. He is wearing nothing, no clothing at all.
The man looks up and the fisherman freezes.
He tries to speak, to yell, but his voice can’t get through. It cracks and comes out as whimpers.
The man at the end of the boat, naked and dripping, is him. Everything about the man, his nose, his mouth, is him.
The man sits up in the boat, staring blankly at the fisherman as if trying to understand.
He still tries to scream. Nothing. Whimpering.
The man crawls up towards him, the boat dancing back and forth as he moves.
He crawls back, reaching overboard. He has to jump.
As if aware of his intentions, the man reaches out his hand and grabs the fisherman’s ankle, pulling up the leg hand in hand, pulling higher.
The fisherman gropes at the freezing water, trying to get away, but the man pulls him back into the boat.
He climbs atop the fisherman, and the boat shakes violently.
Finally, a scream.
The boat sits ashore, halfway in the water. It’s empty, a trail of footprints emerges from the boat heading towards a wooden gate. The gate is painted with a child’s art. Green and blue handprints coat the side of the wood. Some are larger than others, some small. You can almost imagine the child being hoisted up under his arms to place his hand higher toward the top of the fence. The wind is still droning on about something, that strange grey hum of the clouds. The rain is more pronounced now, thicker dancing popping up from the gravel of the driveway.
Inside the home, a woman bends over a stove, going back and forth from the pot to check on her son who plays out in the yard. The sun is setting, the living room growing dimmer, and supper will be ready soon. The massive pot burns above a gaslit blaze, its sides streaked dark and charred. The woman pulls her hair back and reties her knot. She is sweaty from the heat and it seeps down into her eyes.
“Thomas!” she called out from the kitchen. He was always staying out later than he should, he knew when it was time to come in, but he pretended not to hear. The woman dropped the ladle into the pot and turned her head around the corner to look out the back door, the ladle sinking deeper into the pot.
If you are enjoying “The Fisherman,” visit our blog at The Ritual for related flash fiction.
“Thomas!” Her voice cracks.
“Yea, mom!” a voice calls back from the yard.
“Get inside already, it’s pouring!”
“Yea, mom!”
“Now!” she yells back, not waiting for an answer. She returns to her stove.
The boy calls something back to her, but she pays no attention. He knows to come in now.
The woman stirs the pot some more and loses herself with the pitter-patter of rain on the roof. Her husband should be home by now. She’s over the sink now, scrubbing away at something stubborn she left to wash later. The food was sticking to the pan now and she had to strain her arms to chip it off. She used an old frayed ball of steel wool. Bits and pieces of egg and fish clung to the metal wire. Suddenly, the woman grows cold. She realizes she is freezing. She turns to grab a cardigan that hangs from the stairway rail that leads upstairs when she glances out the back door again. The frame is open.
“Thomas?” she calls out to the house.
She walks towards the door and feels water beneath her feet. It’s freezing.
“Ugh, there’s water all over the… Thomas!”
She calls out again.
She wanders to the door and peers outside. The backyard is loud with raindrops and her voice crashes out amid the torrent and thunder.
“Thomas!”
She closes the door, leaving it ajar, and walks back into the living room towards the stairs. The rug lining that rides the stairs is damp. The are wet footsteps in the carpet.
“What the hell are you doing…” she mutters under her breath.
“Thomas this isn’t funny! You’ve gotten water everywhere!”
She climbs the stairs, two at a time, fed up with the child.
The bathroom light is on. As she heads towards it, she feels the floor beneath her feet. It is soaked. The puddles are deep, and the water comes up on top of her foot. She curses aloud and flings the bathroom door open.
“Oh…”
Her husband stands in the doorway before the sink, naked as the day he was born, but much older. Age has brought spots to his body and creases to his skin. His hair receding and littered with grey patches, like a hyena on its hind legs.
“I didn’t realize you came home… what’s wrong?”
The man turns to her as soon as she speaks and looks at her with a first look as if he had not heard her come up the stairs or open the door. His face is alight with wonder.
“I don’t understand. Will you say something?”
The man’s head draws forward as she speaks, as a bird’s head moves, tilting and wide-eyed. She takes a step back.
“You’re frightening me…stop it.”
She takes another step back. With a loud squeak, her foot swings up in front of her. She slips and falls backward, her ass hitting the floor.
The man immediately falls on her, tearing at her face, his fingers reaching into the crevices of her eyes and mouth. She bites and bucks, but the weight of the man is a tomb.
Thomas reaches down into the grass, parting and patting blindly in the rain. In one hand he holds a slingshot, a child’s toy that his father has crafted from some wood. He scours the ground for his rock. It is painted blue and perfectly round for slinging. He has no luck and fears his mother’s wrath. She’s always tense before dinner.
He walks uphill, getting his sandals covered in mud that wasn’t there an hour ago. The rain is pouring hard now, causing the grass and topsoil to muck together into angry mud, the kind that sucks you down.
He approaches the gate and sees the door open.
If you are enjoying “The Fisherman,” visit our blog at The Ritual for related flash fiction.
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