Odd nocturnal ritual

Part of Flash Fiction February 2023, prompt was “Odd nocturnal ritual”.

Every night Ol’ Perwiddle would awake and start walking backwards.

Why no one knew. He was a crotchety old man, and people would rather not disturb him for fear of verbal retribution. On the occasions anyone did ask, he told them in no uncertain terms to “mind their own business!”

And so every night, any other night owls in town would watch silently as Ol’ Perwiddle wandered past them in his flapping nightshirt, come rain or shine. His face determined and grim, undertaking his unknown task silently and with dedication.

There was one occasion a long time ago that the townsfolk whispered about when someone followed him in the shadows. It was young Sandra Smee, who has long since moved on to a better place and way of life. She was plucky and bold in those days, and light of foot, accustomed to a little light thievery to feed her sick brother.

She decided one balmy night to see what Ol’ Perwiddle was up to and if there was any profit in it. For years afterwards, she recounted the tale for a drink or three around the roaring fire of the Slaughtered Lamb. She recalled following him as he perfectly and without hesitation or stumble made his way to the town’s rocky beach. Upon reaching his intended destination, he stood with his arms outstretched and his back facing the black waves.

Then he began to chant a low, throaty series of nonsensical words she didn’t recognise. The waves suddenly stopped flowing, and she saw shapes slowly emerge from the watery depths in the half-light of the moon. With slow purpose, they approached Ol’ Perwiddle and gathered behind him, some gently patting his back with squelching webbed hands and feet.

There seemed to be a conversation between them and Ol’ Perwiddle, and Sandra Smee snuck closer for a better look. She tiptoed between the trees and then caught the forms of these strange watery creatures in a slither of moonlight. Their faces were hideous, a gruesome twisting of eyes, mouths, and other orifices. All over their bodies were pustules and boils, popping and bursting with mucous and brine.

She saw that they were massaging Ol’ Perwiddle with their slimy appendages, and he relished it.

The sight nauseated her, and she could not stop herself from retching on the tree’s roots. The throng fell silent, and she looked up in horror to see hundreds of eye-shaped holes staring in her direction and the hard stare of Ol’ Perwiddle. The creatures retreated into the inky depths, and he approached her with angry strides.

She then found herself in her bed. The sun risen above her head. She sat bolt upright, feeling tracks of dried residue on her back, sand in her shoes, and the faint smell of bile on her clothes.

What had happened? She spent the rest of the day in an uncharacteristic daze, processing what she had seen. She finished her work for the day late and wandered back through the twilight streets when Ol’ Perwiddle came striding past her backwards, same as always. As he did, she caught a glance off his face. It was fixed with an almighty grin.