The Midnight Sardine Club-Pecha

The Midnight Sardine Club

Margo Pecha

Zoe was a liability, of that much I was certain. I watched her uneasily through the narrow slit of a bookshelf as she wiped a wet rag over the display window, gliding it over the Esoteric Ephemera & Antiquities decal. She bopped to the music pumping into her ears through headphones that threatened to slip off her head, elbows akimbo and oblivious to my hidden gaze. It was only a matter of time before something in the shop broke, slipping through her fumbling hands and unleashing a curse or a poltergeist upon the both of us.

She had been thrust on us for the summer by Simon’s sister and her husband as they worked a few things out. Relationship troubles, I supposed, but I didn’t bother asking. I was too shocked at the prospect of entertaining a sixteen-year-old for an undetermined amount of time. And since she didn’t have a food handler’s permit, she was stuck with me during the day as Simon went to work next door at the bakery.

“Can’t she stay with another relative?” I’d pleaded with him in the days leading up to her arrival. “An antiques store filled with haunted objects and occult artifacts is no place for a child.”

I knew Simon hoped Zoe and I would form some sort of relationship, but I couldn’t see how – I wasn’t a fun aunt. My idea of a good time was traipsing through a stranger’s sagging barn in search of arcane relics, or scouring faded texts for information regarding the demonic entity inhabiting my latest acquisition. But Simon insisted it would be good for all of us, and so Zoe had waltzed in with her suitcase stuffed full of CDs, fashion magazines and enough cosmetics to outfit a circus.

So I found menial tasks for her to do. Polishing the silver in the display cases and dusting the bookshelves. Sorting and filing the stereoview cards. Taking inventory of the less breakable items I stocked. She wasn’t annoying, but she was a disruption to my daily routine and was hard to ignore, especially because she was clumsy. She tripped on her own feet and banged her elbows into doorways. She dropped her Walkman over and over. She strode into tables and stumbled over the cats. I worried there would be nothing left undamaged in the shop by the time she went home.

Eventually, I shoved a bag of potato chips into her hands and ushered her upstairs to watch TV. She’d been lingering near the cursed teapots a little too long for my liking, caressing their gleaming bodies affectionately. We really didn’t need a possession on our hands.

I was having a snack and leafing through some papers late one night when I heard a shuffling sound coming from the hall. When I glanced up, Zoe hovered in the doorway, her rumpled pajamas hanging off her slight frame.

“I can’t sleep,” she said. “The whispering is keeping me awake.”

“What whispering?” I asked, fork held midair.

“You know, from the things.” She gestured her hands toward the floor, indicating the shop beneath.

“Ah, yes, the inventory. Did you try reading?” I asked.

“No. I can’t concentrate with all the noise.”

“Well, try harder,” I said dismissively, returning to my papers and preparing another bite.

“What’re you doing?” she asked, lingering in the doorway. Her eyes were smudged beneath with purple shadows.

I paused, a silver-skinned fish poised on the flat of an antique sardine fork. “Having a snack.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Fish? At midnight?”

“Sardines. Packed in spiced olive oil. On a sourdough cracker, with pickled red onion and stone-ground mustard.”

“Gross. Can I try?” She plopped herself down at the table and watched me assemble the appetizer.

“Oh, you wouldn’t like it,” I said, and I immediately realized my mistake when her eyes narrowed at me in a challenge.

I begrudgingly handed her the cracker. Fearlessly, she popped the whole thing into her mouth.

Her face lit up, and my heart sank. Our tinned fish budget was about to go through the roof.

The next night I was ready, two tins sitting on the counter while Simon’s snores reverberated through the apartment.

“These are Beach Cliffs.” I peeled open the first can. “Terrible stuff. First commandment of Sardine Club: never buy water-packed fish.”

“So why do you have them?”

Karswell rubbed his furry body against my leg and I scritched his wide head affectionately.

“The boys like to feel included.” I speared the fish and set them on two dishes. “And if you give the cats the bad stuff, they don’t know they’re missing out on the good stuff.”

She arched an eyebrow at me but didn’t comment further. Once the cats commenced chowing down on their treat, I opened the second can.

“This one’s for us. King Oscar’s. Not bad for your average grocery store tinned fish.” I extended the can toward her. “Here, sniff. Decent quality olive oil.”

“Briny,” she said, flaring her nostrils.

“These are good beginner sardines. Perfect size for crackers.”

I removed a fish from the tin and plated it up for her, setting it atop a crostino thinly spread with herbed garlic butter.

The cats wound around our ankles, begging for more than their fair share as we ate in silence.

“What were you reading last night?” she asked around a mouthful.

“A Comprehensive Treatise on the Phenomena at Larog’s Close,” I said.

“Sounds boring. Is that for work?”

“Yes and no. I’ve always had an interest in paranormal things, so it’s fun to learn, and sometimes it helps me in acquiring inventory for the shop. What are you reading?”

She appeared startled. “Nothing,” she said after a moment.

“One should always be reading something,” I reprimanded, sliding another silvery fish onto her plate. “Try that with some of your uncle’s homemade mustard, it’s good stuff.” I settled back in my chair and nibbled on a cornichon. “Do you like to read?”

She lifted one shoulder and poked at the fish on her plate. “Sometimes, when I have time. But I have a bunch of stuff I’m supposed to read this summer for school. And I have to memorize a poem to recite on the first day back.”

“Ah, I see,” I said. “Perhaps I can help.”

We began to meet once or twice per week, Simon’s snores droning in the background, and while we munched we discussed Zoe’s assigned reading. We snacked our way through meaty tins of Nuri and lemon-infused Matiz. We dissected Poe and Eliot and Dickinson. We sampled the many delightful flavors of Porthos and enjoyed fatty pilchards marinated in acidic tomato sauce. We plated up little Riga Gold sprats, smoked and dripping with flavorful oil that we licked from our fingers, while we debated the finer points of Twain. We raided Simon’s cupboard of homemade preserves, pickles and relishes, creating endless flavor pairings. We left no tin unfinished; our fingers left unctuous stains on the books.

And the days became easier. I still didn’t trust her around the teapots, but she proved helpful around the shop and had a knack for creating intriguing window displays. And she loved Karswell and Magnus, who could often be found sleeping in a pile of her discarded laundry on the guest bed. I suspected she was sneaking them bites of the good tinned fish when I wasn’t looking.

As I flipped the calendar from July to August, I felt a pang of dismay that summer was passing so quickly. There were still so many tinned fish to sample, so many poems and novels to discuss. Zoe would go home at the end of the month and I would only have the cats to share my sardines with.

“Do the things downstairs speak to you too?” she asked me one night, nibbling on a spare bit of gouda.

“Is Mrs. Webb’s Brown Betty trying to woo you again?” I asked, setting my fork down. I was only half joking; the teapot’s recent escalating brashness concerned me. I’d even witnessed phantom steam billowing from its spout one afternoon while the ceramic remained cold to the touch.

“It was the Royal Bayreuth lobster creamer, actually,” Zoe said drily. “He’s upset we’re eating his friends and has been threatening violent crimes in retribution.”

I snorted. “The only crime that thing is guilty of is being horribly ugly.”

She rolled her eyes and began swiping the crumbs littering the tabletop into a pile. “I’m serious, though. When I stand in the shop, I can hardly think. It’s so noisy. How do you do it?”

“You just have to ignore it. The inventory feeds off your attention.”

“But aren’t you giving them attention by displaying them? Selling them?”

“People often come to me because they’re looking for something,” I said, spearing an olive and pairing it with a square of cheese. “I’m selling them to people who want to give them attention. I’m merely the middleman. Whether or not you give the inventory your attention is up to you. Now, have you decided on a poem to memorize yet?”

At the last meeting of our little club, I surprised Zoe with her own sardine fork. She oohed and ahhed over the mother-of-pearl handle and the intricate pattern etched into the metal.

“And that’s real silver,” I told her. “Not any of that silver-plated junk. You’ll want to find a quality polish to keep it from tarnishing.”

“Is it haunted?” she asked, and I thought I detected a hint of hope in her voice.

“No,” I said, “it’s just a normal fork. I wouldn’t want to send you home with something that’ll keep you up at night.”

“I have a surprise too,” she announced, smiling slyly at me.

She produced a squat tin and set it on the table between us. It was oblong and dull, emblazoned with a flourish of flaking text: Gormann’s Spineless Deepwatchers. A pair of cartoonish eyeballs was printed on the lid of the can, the illustration faded.

“What’s this?” I asked. “I’m not familiar with Gormann’s.”

“I found it in that hidden room downstairs when I was sorting inventory. I thought we could try it tonight.”

I set the can down and regarded it warily. “I don’t keep food down there. And how do you know about that room?” I narrowed my eyes at her.

“Uncle Simon showed me. I didn’t know you had so much stuff!”

Simon. I set my lips in a thin line.

“It just sort of called to me when I saw it in the corner. What’s a deepwatcher?”

“I don’t know.” And I had a suspicion I didn’t want to know.

“What do you mean you don’t know? I thought you knew everything,” she joked.

I pushed the can away. “I know a lot about antiques,” I said. “That’s about it. Tinned fish are merely a hobby.”

She rolled her eyes and pulled the can back toward herself, tapping the top with the tip of a finger. “I think it’s eel,” she said. “Spineless, though? They must remove them before packing.”

She pried up the tab and punctured the can, gently peeling back the lid in a curl.

“Ugh, it smells terrible!” Zoe buried her nose in the crook of her elbow. “Why’s the brine black?”

“Probably expired,” I said, my skin prickling uneasily and nostrils flaring. “We shouldn’t have even opened it.”

We peered warily into the murky packing liquid. A ripple undulated across its surface.

“Careful,” I chided. “That’ll stain the table if it sloshes. Your uncle will be upset.”

“That wasn’t me,” she protested.

Our gazes locked. “Well, I didn’t bump the table.”

A long, fleshy being rose from the can, inflating like a balloon as it pulled itself from the liquid using a pair of hands whose palms were covered in suckers. The angular fins at the top of its body quivered as it met the cool air of the apartment, and a plethora of tentacles followed, slapping against the tabletop and puddling the black brine that dripped from its body. Fully reconstituted, it was roughly the size of a loaf of bread, squid-like but alien in nature, with comically large, flat eyes that revealed no emotion or intelligence and two human hands where flattened clubs should have been. It balanced acrobatically on its hands and regarded me evenly.

“Whoa,” Zoe whispered. “What is that?”

“A deepwatcher, I’d imagine,” I told her. “Don’t touch it.”

Another one extracted itself from the tin, dilating and distending as it clambered over the lip and tipped the can over, spilling the remaining brine across the table. It tottered over to Zoe, and I sat petrified and helpless as the liquid seeped into the wood, unable to tear my gaze from the spectacle.

The duo wobbled along the tabletop, entertaining Zoe as they gained their footing and took stock of the kitchen. She laughed, delighted, and clapped her hands. I sat stiffly in my chair, wary of the display. Nothing good ever came of a strange being extracting itself from confinement.

The first one padded closer to me on its hands and inspected me with a flat, unblinking eye that shimmered even in the low light. It flared its remaining tentacles in the air, reminding me of one of Simon’s hens raising her hackles. The tentacles swayed, drifting in an invisible current.

A muted light warmed beneath its flesh, the way your hand glows if you hold a flashlight to the other side, and the second deepwatcher, across the table and regarding Zoe, responded with its own luminescence. They flashed a series of signals to each other, the one closest to me blinking steadily like a yellow traffic light, before the fluorescence faded entirely.

Then it lunged toward me, launching itself into the air and wrapping its tentacles around my neck and head in a wet, viselike grip as its large hands restrained my wrists. The deepwatcher loomed close, its stench of rot and stagnant water overpowering. I retched, and it took the opportunity to force its fins into my open mouth.

I struggled and tried to push at it with my hands as it sunk itself inside, filling my throat. I gagged and sobbed. It squirmed deeper, eager, and we locked eyes as its face maneuvered closer. It clicked its beak and its fingers tightened on my wrists, holding me steady as it forced the remainder of its body in. My jaw cracked and slid abruptly to the side, a terrible pain searing through my face. I couldn’t breathe. I tried to scream but was unable.

Tentacles poured from my mouth, and my vision went dim and fuzzy around the edges. I suddenly seemed to see myself from above – a bizarre sea anemone slumped in the kitchen chair, swaying and pitching as if anchored deep beneath the ocean, subjected to the cruel whims of the currents.

Across the room I could see the other one had a grip on Zoe. Her torso thrashed and her arms beat at its body as it wriggled against her head, shuddering in excitement.

A hot tear rolled down my face, and a single tentacle drifted up to tenderly caress my cheek before slipping inside with its brethren and sliding down my throat. The world went dark.

I woke in bed, gasping and tangled in sweat-soaked sheets. My breath came in panicked bursts and my pulse pounded in my head. I pressed my hands along my throat, probed frantically at my abdomen and tugged at my skin. I felt nothing inside.

“How’re you feeling?” Simon had appeared in the doorway.

“Zoe,” I said, scrambling from the bed. “Is she ok?”

“Hey, hey, take it easy.” Simon placed his hands on my shoulders and eased me back into bed, tucking the covers around me. “Christ, Tabby, you scared the shit out of me.”

“Is she ok?” I gripped his wrists.

“She’s fine, she’s still sleeping. Her fever’s finally gone down.” He pried my fingers from his wrists and reached for a glass of water on the nightstand, pressing it into my hands. “Drink some water, you’re probably dehydrated.”

I gulped from the glass and sagged against the headboard, relieved. The side of my face ached.

“What happened?” I asked.

“You tell me. I found both of you passed out on the kitchen floor yesterday morning. There was brine all over; it smelled awful.”

“Yesterday?” Panic edged my voice higher. “How long was I out for?”

“Close to twenty-four hours, I’d guess. Whatever you two ate must have gone bad. And I think you dislocated your jaw when you fell, it looks swollen.”

“It was squid,” I said, wincing as I probed at the tender flesh of my jaw. “Or something like squid – they had human hands, it was terrible. They crawled right out of the can …” I pinched the bridge of my nose and squeezed my eyes shut, remembering the cold fingers gripping my wrists, the twining embrace of tentaculum around my neck. My breathing was coming quick again but I couldn’t get enough air in my lungs. “They disappeared inside us! I don’t know what happened!”

“Honey, you had food poisoning. You were hallucinating,” Simon said gently.

He folded me into his arms, and I sobbed into his shoulder.

“It’s ok,” he said, hugging me tenderly. “It’s over now. No more tinned fish, alright?”

Zoe remained in bed for a week, finally awake but tired and pale. I paced nervously about the apartment and the shop, traipsing up and down the stairs in a failed attempt to quiet my mind. I surreptitiously slipped into the bathroom as often as I could and hovered over the sink, fingers sunk deep into my throat as I convulsed, attempting to bring forth the vile thing that had forced itself upon me. But nothing crawled from my esophagus other than a weak dribble of sour bile, and after a while I managed to convince myself that Simon was right – we’d eaten some bad fish and hallucinated the whole ordeal.

On the day of Zoe’s departure, I found her standing in the empty shop, taking in the shelves and cases crammed full of artifacts and objects. The morning sun bled in through the display windows, washing her in its pallid light. She had become subdued and sullen since the incident, preferring to remain alone in her room, and had turned down any attempts on my part to discuss what had happened.

I stepped through the storefront quietly, not wanting to disturb her. I merely needed a reference book from behind the counter.

“‘We have lingered in the chambers of the sea,’” she quoted softly, “‘by sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown. Till human voices wake us, and we drown.’”

“‘The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,’” I said, pausing behind the register. “An excellent choice.”

“I can’t hear them anymore,” she said absently, her gaze flicking from item to item on the shelves, and I couldn’t tell whether or not she sounded sad.

“That’s probably for the best,” I said.

“I guess,” she said, and went outside to wait for her parents.

I watched from the upstairs window as they bundled all her belongings into the car, my in-laws squabbling about whether or not Zoe’s bike was tied down correctly and if they should stop for lunch.

Zoe lingered on the sidewalk, her head tipped up toward the apartment. She seemed to be searching for me behind the curtain. A glint of silver flashed in her hand, and she saluted me with the sardine fork, briefly touching it to her forehead, a small smile playing along her lips, before she folded herself into the back seat.

I exhaled in relief as the car pulled away from the curb, ready for life to return to normal. And for a short period of time, it did.

When the first letter arrived, Simon was thrilled; here was proof of my newfound relationship with Zoe, the result of my good influence on the girl. I waited until he’d left for work before opening it.

Her writing was a wild scrawl across the page. She described the subaqueous dreams she’d been having in great detail, visions of strange glowing fishes and the crushing weight of murky water; a longing for deep, rushing currents and the cold, clammy caress of curling appendages; of a large, pale hand beckoning and gliding seductively across her cheek before tugging her down, down, down.

A cold sweat had broken out along my forehead and I felt sick to my stomach. I rushed to the bathroom, barely shutting the door behind me before I retched into the sink and coughed up a waterlogged sardine – head, fins and all. It splatted unpleasantly into the porcelain basin. Its dead eye stared up at me, vacant and cold. I flushed it and tried to put it out of my mind, but the brackish aftertaste lingered in my mouth.

The fish was an isolated incident, but the letter was not – Zoe has continued her correspondence despite no reply from me. At first I received a letter every few weeks, then one per week, and now two or three arrive daily. They’re fevered and anguished, yearning for a feeling, a place, something she’s sure exists but cannot get to. Her missives are desperate and despairing, pleading with me to help her find the wondrous thing that lurks just out of sight.

My trusted texts offer no clues. I feel I’ve been subjected to some cruel cosmic joke.

There are nights where I think I’ve heard the wet slap of a clammy hand on the floor, where the cat sits up from a deep slumber and stares, unflinching, into the dark hallway. I inevitably find myself in the bathroom, gazing into the mirror at my tired reflection and wondering what it is I harbor inside. I press my palms to my abdomen but sense nothing, and so I return to bed, where I sleep fitfully but do not dream.

I wake, as always, wary, waiting for the day I will surely feel those hidden hands groping their response from within.

Margo Pecha lives in southwest Washington state where she writes about obsession, paranoia and rurality. Her fiction has appeared in Cosmic Horror Monthly, Fraidy Cat Quarterly, and anthologies such as The Muddy Goose Guide to the Weird Northwest and Encounters with Cryptids. When she’s not reading or writing, she’s working in her gardens and herding chickens.

Without in any way limiting the authors’ and publisher’s exclusive rights, any unauthorised use of any part of this story to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited.

This story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, events, locations or general circumstances is entirely coincidental and/or used in a fictitious manner.