Down and down, it felt like hours, the music getting louder and more excited in my head the whole time.
And then we came to the water. He started down the steps into it and the music stopped; the place was silent, deader than the woods above, even, low-ceilinged, filled with black water. Still.
I wanted to vomit, but you never do in a dream.
He stepped in until the water was up to his thighs. He looked at me over his shoulder. Smiled.
It looked more like oil than water, like a million black oceans from a million ancient worlds all poured into one cave. Whatever was on the other side, or underneath, or wherever he expected me to go, made my knees weak.
He went down until it covered his belly, then looked back again.
I took another step backward, but that was all I could do. The strange creeping terror ran through my veins like ice.
This was worse than death. This was nothing.
The Temple.
I shuddered.
He stepped out of the water dripping and took my hands, looked right through me. He put one hand on either side of my face — the water was crystal clear running off him, pattering against my shirt, the obsidian ground. He kissed me.
I took a step forward. “It’s too quiet. It’s not right.”
He stopped me talking with his mouth, his tongue clever and warm again. He pulled me down until we stood thigh-deep in water, and then he put himself hard against me. All that existed was the taste of him, the smell of his breath, the feeling of his skin, him hard against my leg — and god, oh god help me, he was so warm on the inside.
I wanted to crawl in there and die warm. Not cold in this water.
I sat on the stairs, up to my chest in the water, and he sat in my lap facing me. For a long time like that, with his cock grinding into my belly and mine pushing at the split of his hard ass through wet clothes, just breathing through his mouth. He rocked his hips to rub us off, he came down into my mouth like he was starving, he dug his nails into my shoulders and sides. If it hurt, if I groaned, he did it harder, everything harder.
Just when I thought I might die, he pulled away, slipped his hand into my pants, and grabbed my cock. I tried to gasp, but he wouldn’t let up his kissing. His tongue went liquid, turned into slick vines, and slipped down my throat.
Now I dug my nails in, clawing at him hard. But not because I wanted him to stop. I jerked into his hand, over and over, fuck, I still remember how it felt like dying. Like little pieces of him drilling down my throat, into my lungs, taking root, spreading, choking. The waves of heat were too close together, it couldn’t last, I was going to die and love it -
He groaned into me, and all the little strings he’d planted in me quivered — fucking quivered.
It’s like this a million times over, when we take you.
But it wasn’t really a million. It was a number that didn’t exist, bigger than the black underground ocean, bigger than whatever waited inside it.
When you’re ready, come back. Come with me.
I woke up with my pants half-off, gasping for air.
He didn’t come last night. The music, the black ocean, the freaky glow, his eyes, fuck, there’s nothing else. I know I’ll go tonight, and I know I’ll follow him all the way.
It’s almost dark, and there’s another storm coming. If anyone reads this, just tell Jason’s mother I’m sorry. Tell her I got what I deserved.
Andrew Scearce
THE LAKE AT ROOPKUND
“What do you mean I can’t come with you?”
“Jas, don’t be upset. Heather said she wanted to meet alone. What can I do?” Isha nervously brushed a few dark strands of hair out of her eyes.
I spotted a stray thread on the bajot and brushed it off into my hand. “It’s because of what you two did in college, isn’t it?” I opened the cupboard and carefully let the thread fall into the trash.
“Absolutely not,” Isha said, tucking her sewing kit into a sequined pouch. “Like I said, it only happened once. It was stupid. God, I should have never told you.”
I looked past my wife to the photograph of Heather and Isha on the wall. They were wearing matching Misk-U sweatshirts–cut to reveal their midriffs; Heather had her arm around the subtle curve of Isha’s waist, her fingers bent, pressing into Isha’s fair, but darker skin. “Sure,” I growled.
“Whatever. You’re in my light.”
I grumbled and stepped aside.
Isha held her mother’s sari to the light and squinted.
I leaned in. “She’ll never know,” I said, tracing my finger over the microscopic irregularity in the weave.
“Of course she will. Mother never misses anything. But it’s the best I can do,” Isha said. She carefully folded the sari and laid it in the box with both hands.
“Just remind me not to be here when she picks it up.”
Isha cringed. “Oh, God, I’m sorry Jaswinder.”
“Sorry about what?”
“Mother is coming over at six. I completely forgot to tell you.”
“You’re kidding me, right? At the exact time that you’re meeting Heather? You planned it that way, didn’t you?”
“Enough of this,” Isha snapped.
I shoved my hands into my pockets and stared out the window. “You know how your mother pesters me about having grandchildren. Maybe I’ll just tell her the truth this time.”
Isha slammed her fist on the table. “You will do nothing of the sort, Jaswinder! I will not be the shame of this family!”
I closed my eyes and leaned my forehead against the glass. “Fine,” I breathed.
After Isha left I picked up the college photograph and stared at it. They were in their dorm room, a pair of unmade bunk beds and a mirror slightly out of focus behind them. As I studied it I noticed something that I hadn’t seen before. Reflected in the mirror, on a dresser, next to the camera that had taken the photo, was a device that looked remarkably like a vibrator.
A chill ran up my spine.
I dumped the sari in the hallway then ran out and hailed a cab. I told the driver to take me to Kathgodam station, and offered him double the fare if he didn’t pick up anyone else.
We got there in ten minutes.
There were a few people outside the station, including a couple of boys who were talking about a dead jackdaw they’d seen on the tracks–but no sign of Isha. I checked the electronic schedule: the train from Moradabad was scheduled to arrive at 18:05. That left me with thirty minutes to kill, so I crossed the street to the bar and took a seat by the window.
Isha arrived a few minutes later in a taxi full of people. After the car drove off, she turned her head a few times, looking around, then took a seat on the platform.
At 18:09 the train rolled in. The conductor stepped off and put a wooden box in front of the door, calling for the passengers to exit. An old woman, accompanied by a much younger man–probably her son–stepped off first. A pair of hikers with massive backpacks followed, stopping to point at the mountains and stretch their arms.
A few moments later Heather stepped off the train. She wore a tight white tank top and a pleated red skirt with matching heels. Her hair was shorter than it was in the picture, cut just below her chin, and she’d dyed it black with blond highlights. The old woman snarled at Heather as she walked by, then looked to her son for agreement. He nodded his head disapprovingly, but glanced at her bare legs a few more times just to make sure he was thoroughly disappointed.