Blackwater Lights by Michael M. Hughes

couldn’t—wouldn’t—look into her eyes.
    They moved inside, and it was wet again, dark, and fragrant with the thick odors of flowers and pollen and ripe earth. He looked up and understood he was inside an organism: a giant white membrane, plastic and breathing. It wasn’t a greenhouse at all—he was inside a living being.
    She helped him to lie down, down into the grass—soft, winding, dewy green blades that twisted in tendrils on his naked flesh. Inside a circle of flickering candles. She poured something into his mouth, salty and bitter, and the warmth washed through his limbs as he swallowed uncontrollably. And hands were touching him, electric hands, skillful hands, moving between his legs. Her face moved into his, red serpentine hair hanging like ropes, and she was speaking but it didn’t make any sense. Just sounds, meaningless syllables. Her voice turned into colors and objects and danced in front of his face as she chanted.
    Then she was gone. She walked away into the darkness, leaving a ghostly white trail of dripping afterimages in her wake. He was alone, in the circle, in this alien place. Yet he wasn’t alone, not nearly; he sensed the spirits, the intelligences, the essences of all the energy around him, all focused upon him with their mix of curiosity, love, and desire.
    And then she was back, on the ground in the circle next to him, naked flesh pressing against his, breasts brushing against his belly. But as the face moved into his vision, it wasn’t Lily. Not Lily. It was a face he knew, knew but couldn’t remember, a face beautiful and young and knowing.
    “I know you,” she whispered in his ear. She flicked the tip of her tongue along the side of his face.
    Crystal. Dancing, frightened Crystal
.
    His eyes closed and he slipped quickly into unconsciousness.

Chapter Seven
    Ellen’s eyes widened when she saw him. “What’s wrong?” She sat in the booth across from him. “Are you all right?”
    Ray shook his head. He needed coffee. Or better yet, a Coke—something to settle his stomach. Maybe a coffee and a Coke—his old college hangover standby. “I’ve been better,” he said.
    “Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Are you sick?”
    “No,” he said. “Just had a really bad night.” He wiped his eyes. They hurt as if he’d been crying. Swollen from lack of sleep. “I’ll take that coffee.”
    She stood. “Sure.” Her eyes sized him up. He knew he looked like hell. He’d looked like a zombie in the mirror, pale, face drawn, purplish bags under his eyes. “Hey, you want to take a walk? I’m going on my break in about ten minutes.”
    He looked up. She wasn’t really asking. She had been a nurse, William had said, and he could tell. “Okay,” he said. He had no choice. If he couldn’t tell someone the truth about what was happening, he’d snap.

    They sat at a picnic table in the municipal park beneath a lush, spreading oak. Ellen had made them both Styrofoam cups of sweet iced tea. She drank from hers and looked up through the leaves. Shadows flittered across her face. A perfectly fine face. Not the kind of face that would catch your attention across a room, but soft, comforting. She was normal, thank God. Normal—and that was such a beautiful, sane, perfectly agreeable, and wonderful thing.
    She turned to him. “So, what happened to you?”
    He sighed. Where to start? “The thing is, I’m not really sure.”
    “I have forty minutes,” she said. “Why don’t you start at the beginning? Like why you’re here?”
    She listened. He told her everything—the camp, the recurring nightmares, Kevin,meeting Lily, the party, Crystal naked in the yard. Even seeing the lights. But he couldn’t bear to look at her as he let it all pour out. Any trace of doubt in her eyes would have shut him up and that would have been the end. As it was, he couldn’t imagine anyone believing him. Telling it to her made it seem all the more insane—the ranting of a drug-addled,