Fresh Salmon for McTavish
Short comedy horror - 4 minute read
I’ve been sharing a short horror story online nearly every Halloween since 2001. This year there will be two - the next will come tomorrow, on Halloween itself.
Today, we have a little comedy, tomorrow we have good old fashioned Gothic horror.
Every month, I’ll be posting a new story, paid subscribers will get post-mortems of the stories in the following week, talking about the ideas and decisions in the writing (and more).
Let’s begin…
Fresh Salmon for McTavish
“See you tomorrow, Drew,” called the skipper.
“Aye, I’ll see you bright and early. We’ll find Nessie yet!” he shouted back.
The sonar boat bobbed as Drew McTavish disembarked. He stood on the old wooden jetty, patiently watching the boat until it was out of sight. McTavish shook his head and smiled. He was an immense man with hair as red as a highland sunset, and it fell across his broad shoulders that supported limbs as thick as cabers. His plaited beard swayed in the evening breeze. Small stones were woven into it, and they clinked gently as he strode away from the loch.
Scattered over the slope, the scant trees were either bare or clinging to their last russet leaves. As McTavish set off, each powerful stride was met with a brittle crunch. Despite the cold of the season, only a white vest strained to cover his muscles, the taut cotton only a faint shade lighter than his own pale skin. He wore a kilt and a sporran. The tartan seemed to flash in the last sliver of the sunlight dipping below the Scottish peaks.
He reached a good height above the loch and took a seat on a favourite stone, resting in a dip worn there by centuries of travellers stopping to take in the breath-taking view. The loch spread below him, glittering as twilight caressed the land. The musky scent of heather hung in the air.
A deep sense of contentment settled through him. He thought of his beautiful wife, and the fresh salmon she had promised for dinner, and released a contented sigh hung for a moment in the cool air.
On the loch’s surface, he took pleasure in seeing the way the waves caught only the colours of the sky, never revealing that which lay below in the inky water. Some silly bugger thought he’d be able to find Nessie with a posh sonar kit and a native guide, did he? No, McTavish knew the loch better than almost anyone or anything alive, and he knew the sonar would never find the beast. But, while some rich Sassenach wanted to throw money at the hunt, McTavish would happily take it.
It was time to make his way home. He tore himself from his reverie and strolled back downhill towards the path around the loch.
He couldn’t say what gave the first hint he was being followed. Maybe it was an out-of-place rustle among the hillside’s heather, perhaps the lapping of the dark waters seemed to quieten, as if afraid of the unnatural creature trailing him. The birds had certainly chosen to sing elsewhere that night. The moon was rising, full and mysterious, casting a dreamy glow across the hills.
Those were the subtle clues, but it was the reek that really told him trouble was nearby. It was like a week-dead sheep, picked over by crows and ravaging wild haggis. McTavish flared his nostrils, trying to place what animal spawned of earth could smell that way and yet live.
He turned slowly, muttering ancient oaths in prayer he would not find the answer he expected.
The beast stood on its hind legs, black fur matted thick with mud and blood. Only its chest was clear of fur, and it was visibly that of a man. Bulging scars criss-crossed it, some fresh and sickly pink, but mostly they looked old, long healed and shining, as if they were remnants from centuries of struggles and not a single lifetime.
McTavish prided himself on judging the strength of an opponent, and even below the animal’s fur he could see powerful toned muscle sheathing its long arms, easily the match of his own burly frame. The nails were long and curved, the thumb placed back nearer to the wrist, and it too had a vicious claw. Black gunge had crusted there and McTavish didn’t doubt that terrible infections lay festering in the ooze.
Above the loathsome and fearful body was the head of a wolf. Its muzzle was long and pointed, with teeth like ivory blades, glinting and wet with abundant saliva. Drool ran from its jaws as it stalked closer to its prey.
The werewolf, for that was what McTavish knew it to be, spoke to him: “There’s a fine feast of flesh upon your bones, handsome one.”
“I fear a lad like yourself, Jimmy, may be trying to bite off more than he can chew,” McTavish replied.
“He jests!” the beast snarled. “The Scot finds humour in his demise! He mocks! Calls me ‘Jimmy’! Oh, the fates do laugh at you this night.”
“You intend to eat me, Jimmy? I had other plans. My bonnie wife is preparing fresh salmon for me. I should hurry. It is my favourite, you see, and I would prefer not to offend the lady with my tardiness.”
“Fool! You doom is sealed this brightly lit night! This hillside shall be your grave!” On saying this, the werewolf lunged. At supernatural speed, it propelled itself towards McTavish, claws catching the moon’s light. With speed and grace far beyond his size, McTavish stepped aside, and the werewolf stumbled past.
“My wife,” said McTavish, “she has beautiful green eyes. Yes, I admit, she could perhaps lose some weight around the waist—and can’t we all these days?—but the way she can present salmon. I tell you, it brings a tear to my eye. So fresh.”
The beast’s bark was like the crack of a glacier. It spun on all fours with haste no natural wolf could manage, viscous froth was flung from its black lips as it turned, baring its teeth and snapping at the air.
“Now then,” the burly Scot continued, “it is rude to keep a lady waiting, so I must be off.” With that, he strolled towards a thicket of trees.
The creature raged, feet pounding across the ground to close the distance created by McTavish’s mighty strides. It leaped at the Scotsman’s back, dirt-caked fur whistling in the air, claws primed, ready to slice flesh.
The Scot turned and slammed an enormous flipper into the werewolf’s jaw, sending the creature flying. It spun, legs and limbs scrabbling at nothingness as the trees came ever nearer, then it thumped into the bare trunk of a mighty wych elm. The stately branches swayed with the impact and beat the body as it tumbled down through them. Golden leaves drifted around it.
The creature lay stunned, secluded by the remnants of a fallen pine.
“I think you should sleep this off. Here’s a trick I learned in Glasgow,” came the voice of McTavish from fifteen feet above the dazed werewolf. “I see you, Jimmy.” With that, the Scot swung his bulbous head down on his long neck, head-butting the werewolf into unconsciousness.
A change had come over McTavish. His kilt was gone, and the white vest disappeared. His skin had turned pale grey, his neck long and thick, his arms had become flippers, and his body was now broad as a boat. Behind him, a wide tail had emerged, swishing in the gorse, stirring up the highland’s rich peaty scent.
The Scot looked down at the werewolf, nodding at a job well done.
In the loch, McTavish could see his wife. The water seemed to boil ahead of her as she chased a school of salmon. She caught one in her razor-sharp teeth and tossed it in the air. Her neck curved elegantly, and there was a mischievous glint in her eye when she glanced his way. McTavish’s heart skipped a beat. Aye, she was a bonnie lass. A little round about the middle, but then so was he, half the time.
McTavish waddled on his stumpy flippers down to the loch, away from the sleeping werewolf. It wouldn’t wake before the morning.
Scotland’s only were-plesiosaur smiled at his wife, and together they sank beneath the waves.
The End
I hope you enjoyed ‘Fresh Salmon for McTavish’!
There will be another story tomorrow - next time we’ve a Victorian-era tale of English folklore and monsters…
After that, we’ll be settling into one new story for all subscribers every month, along with other content about writing, video games, films, and more.
For paid subscribers, next week I’ll post a breakdown of the narrative decisions made while writing this story, giving insight into the writing process and maybe inspiring you in your own work.
Typically, there will be one post on The Inciting Incident every week - I’ve not settled on a day just yet. If you have preferences, please post them in the comments!
If you enjoyed this story, please give it a like, a share, comment below to encourage me, or even upgrade to a paid subscription if you fancy supporting my writing and learning more about the writing craft.
Until tomorrow, be kind to yourself and others. Thanks for reading!
Mata