I grew up knowing the smell of a brothel. They try to cover the aroma of the women's work with incense and salts. Yet the sweat and desperation bleed through, choking me as I work. I avoid the women during their working hours, staying away from the other floors, keeping myself to the bar on the lowest floor.
Men with all sorts of backgrounds from all kinds of places visit the Ewe's Sanctuary. It lies close to the docks, wafting sea winds inside with every customer. The air is always damp, unsure whether the sea rot or the brothel's fragrance will win.
Some men laugh too loudly, some think like they're drowning on land. Some speak to women like they're saints, and others speak to them as if they're the objects the women deny they are
I was born here and raised behind the bar of Ewe's Sanctuary.
I've seen all kinds of men, and I serve them all the same. A cracked mug, a cheap pour, eyes that don't linger, and breaths of alcohol clouding men's words.
Some of them come in alone. Some leave alone. Not all of them leave. But they always return. Always searching for the pleasure they cannot attain for themselves: The men of Bruis, the travelers, the vagrants, the poor, the rich, the neighbors, the foreigners, the good, the evil—all of them. Every single one of them seeks the bliss of the brothel, abusing its goods in exchange for some Marks.
Except for the sailors.
My desperation.
My key to freedom is as soon as I'm of age.
Unlike those who keep their eyes shut, they know. They understand that evil is real. They acknowledge the monsters that are about.
One of the sailors' cups slams on the table, shaking the rickety thing. He's an old seafarer: wispy eyes, tan, wrinkly skin with overworked, calloused hands, and cheeks flushed by the alcohol.
"Can't we get any rest this voyage?" he complains. The old sailor slams his cup again, jarring the silence that had started to form around him. A few heads turn, more out of habit than curiosity. No one cared, until someone bled.
"I told the captain we should've tied the bastard down." The sailor hiccups. His voice sounds like his throat has been salted and sun-dried.
"What, Delvan? This again? You're still telling that old story? That ghost piss about that cursed boatswain?"
"It ain't no ghost piss," the old sailor, Delvan, barks. "I saw him. I saw the black pouring out of his mouth. I saw his eyes boil and turn to juice. I watched him rip Farrow's jaw off with his bare damn hand."
A few at the table chuckle. One of the younger sailors hands Delvan another pint of beer. Delvan's hands shake as he accepts the drink, taking a large gulp. He leans forward, his eyes glinting off the lantern light. "He was possessed, I tell you. Something had crawled inside his head and made home there. I saw it!" Delvan punches the table.
"It wasn't him anymore. He kept mumblin' about 'her voice' in the waves, kept talkin' to the wind like it answered back. He laughed when he killed them, while they screamed and begged."
"You were drunk," one of them muttered.
"I wish I were drunk!" Delvan roars. "He slaughtered most of the crew in minutes, tore em' to bits. Said the sea was feeding him. Said the sorrow was sweet. And then..." Delvan shook his head. "And then he stood there smiling. Smiling like his guts weren't leaking outta his stomach."
"You've been in the sun for too long, old-timer." The sailors begin to laugh into their drinks, "I thank my lucky stars this is my last voyage with you."
Delvan shakes his head, dropping his drink onto the floor, as he clutches his skull. "I-i saw it. I'm tellin' the truth. I know I am."
I move toward their table, picking up Delvan's pint from the floor. The man's shaking, holding himself together. I could see the fear etched into his face. The other man continues to make their jokes, chugging on their drinks while the old sailor sits in distress.
I usually ignore the madmen. Yet I couldn't. I know he's telling the truth. But sailors like Delvan don't come back easily from harsh memories like that. They need a push.
"Then how'd you survive then?" I ask. The table slowly dies down and stares at me. I didn't mind them; I kept my gaze on Delvan, waiting for him to come back.
He slowly releases himself. Delvans straightens a little before staring at me. His eyes meet mine, his cursed soul looks at me.
"The man wrapped in fire, he killed that damned boatswain, burning him into dust, erasing him and all of the gore."
"Where did he go?"
"That man surrounded himself in white fire and disappeared. Turning into ash, floating along with the ocean breeze. His hair is as bright as the moon. His eyes resembled the stars. I stared at him, and the man... I could tell he was no regular soul. He wasn't human. He was some dauntless figure basking in moonlight. When he erased his existence on that ship, we still lingered. We waited for the wellerman to save us. I wouldn't be alive if it weren't for that soul."
The other men continued to make jokes at Delvan. But I know he's telling the truth. I can see the despair in his damaged soul. He saw things he couldn't understand, but his eyes are still closed. He knows what he saw: evil. And chose to keep his eyes closed.
No one believes him.
But I do.
Because I see it latched to him.
It crawls along his back—a thing with too many legs. Long, bone-white limbs twitch in excitement, making a sound like fingernails dragged across wet teeth. It stabbed into Delvan's spine without his noticing. It sinks mandibles behind Delvan, eating away at his neck—soul—like he's nothing but soft fruit. Its body is stretched like skin over emptiness, and where its head should be is a single weeping eye. There is no face. Just that eye, oozing. It stares at Delvan's neck. Then, the eye shifts to me.
It clicks all of its limbs once and whispers, "You. See. Me."
The thing whips from Delvan's neck, ripping its mandibles from him.
Immediately, Delvan gasps once, his eyes go wide, and then he slumps like a puppet with no strings, smacking his head on the table.
His breathing stopped. It took a moment for me to realize Delvan is dead.
The creature flies in a corkscrew motion up into the air, its carapace rattling against itself. The thing matches eye level with me.
"You. See. Me."
It twitches, getting close. Its eye centimeters away from my face. It circles me once, appearing in front once more. The eye blinks, not blink, it rolls backward, secreting a green slime from its mandibles, streaking across the eye like weeping rot. The stench hits me. It's rancid. It creeps into my nose like a fly I can't swat away.
"You. See. Me."
The thing says again. I hold my breath. I keep my eyes on Delvan, ignoring the monstrosity attempting to get my attention. I clench my hands so I can keep myself from shaking.
"There goes the old timer," the sailors laugh. They all take drinks and try to swallow them whole. They can't see the thing in front of me—the horrible monster; the demon; the devil; the evil that took Mother. It floats in front of me mockingly.
"Hey, kid," I turn my head to the sailors, the voice yanking me back into their world. "Get another round, will ya'?" One of the men takes out a few Marks, placing them on the table.
I simply nod, ignoring the money they placed. The creature lets me by, watching me as I pick up several of their cups and bring them toward the bar.
I can feel it follow me. The noise of its limbs echoes near my ears. The smell of death wafts from its body. I know it wants to take me away, to feed on me like it did Delvan, like it did to Mother.
I keep my eyes on the cups in my hands as I walk steadily, making my way to the bar and placing them on the counter. John the Bartender tosses the cups, drowning them in water. I wait as he refills them.
But the creature isn't still.
It hovers closer toward my ears, clicking its mandibles, sounding like the two blades hitting one another. Its limbs scrape the rafters above me. I grip the bar's edge, trying to drown the clicks with the laughter of the drunk men behind me. It lingers. It won't stop that hellish clicking. It seeps into my head, bouncing in my skull, invading my mind. It knows. I know the creature knows.
It's playing me like a toy, like some sort of ragdoll.
It wants me to notice. That thing is waiting for me to mess up; it's waiting for confirmation that I'm aware of its existence. It thinks of me as prey. I am prey. I am the creature's prey.