Secret Lives by Jeff VanderMeer

and curl of its face that they flicker and flare only when the creature blinks, the movement catching on the hint of moon above. A myriad of smells rise from the thing as it approaches the beach, some of the sea and some not of the sea. Brine and riddled, rotted wood, passionflower and sage; a glimpse of mint. The thick musk of dead fish is a distant aftertaste. There is in the curled, coiling scents such a sadness of forgotten memory as to be unbearable.
    At first, the creature struggles under the weight of displaced water; it must raise its shoulders, push out its chest, pull each leg from the sand with a muscle-damaging effort. But, closer to the shore, the kelp and other debris drains flat against its barrellous body. The water trickles away to nothing. Suddenly, a sinnuous quality displays itself; a litheness at odds with the thick directness of its form . . .
    There’s always rain on those nights when the creature crunches a path up the beach toward the high tide mark. A mist that obscures the dark green fir trees beyond the sand. As it walks, it raises its head to feel the rain more fully, and a sigh seems to fall out of the general area of its face, enters the world as a fresh, clean sound.
    From the directness of its path—the way in which it forces its ungainly body to adhere to a quick and certain destination, with no diversions—an observer might think the creature planned to enter the forest, to lose itself amongst the dark, damp, cool camouflage of the firs. Yet ever it is the same: the creature stops at the high tide mark. Beyond this point, the creature will not venture.
    In its solid quiet, its fealty to the idea of motionless, the creature quickly becomes no more animate than the trees, the gathered shells and rocks that form a necklace for the high tide. And yet, in the intensity of that stillness, lies hidden some tension, some coiled event or contact. Every muscle in the creature’s body seems poised for action, and still no action comes.
    Until, from amongst the trees, treading carefully, a man appears and walks up to the creature. He is as hidden in shadow as the creature. There is no difference now, under full nightfall, in the color of their skin.
    The man stops in front of the creature. The creature makes a sound like a thousand branches heavy with rain. The man bows his head. The man puts his hand upon the creature’s shoulder. The creature bows its head. Now the man makes the sound of a thousand branches heavy with rain. Now the man bows his head and the creature puts its hand upon the man’s shoulder.
    After a moment, they drift away from one another. One slowly walks into the ocean. The other walks in amongst the trees.
    One of them is Constantine Markopoulos, a comic book artist and certified hypnotist with a degree in computer science and cognitive psychology. One of them is unknown. Which is which has not yet been determined, nor is it clear that making this distinction would lead to any greater revelation. What this secret life means, or what in entails, cannot be understood simply by waiting from a safe place with binoculars held at the ready.
    Some secret lives remain inscrutable under even the closest observation.

THE SECRET LIFE OF
    SHANE HAMILL
    Here is everything that I know about the strange events that happened in and around the area of our bookstore, starting eighteen months ago. This is also everything I know about Shane Hamill. We never liked him. I want that on the record, first and foremost. We never liked him, and I’m fairly sure he never liked us. There may have been some good reasons for this situation, and some bad reasons, too, but I doubt any of it is important now.
    Shane once made out with a girl in a graveyard. I don’t know if he met the girl there or if they came there together. I mention it because Shane told us about it so often, or referred to it. For my part, I found this fact kind of creepy, not cool. Others, more attuned to the Goth scene, I believe