Creatures: Thirty Years of Monsters by Clive Barker, Robert McCammon, China Miéville, Joe R. Lansdale, Cherie Priest, Christopher Golden, Al Sarrantonio, David Schow, John Langan, Paul Tremblay

because, really, it’s the hash or shrooms or whatever the hell we ingested from that foil pouch. I probably should have asked Kenny what it was. But it didn’t matter. He always got good shit, and it hadn’t killed me yet.
    Kenny doesn’t return. He’s gone. Vanished. Poof!
    I stagger to the edge of the boat. My stomach clenches. I retch. Nothing comes up. The water below is still, gleaming darkly. No sign of Kenny and no sign of the Kraken.
    Kraken? What the fuck is a Kraken, I think. And where the hell did that come from? Then I remember: Me and Kenny used to listen to this Scandinavian death metal, you know. And one of the bands was The Kraken. All the cover art on their CDs had this beast, a big huge mother-fucking Octopus that lives in the deep sea and attacks ships. Pirate ships. Avast mateys!
    But there can’t be a Kraken, can’t be a beast. No. It’s the drugs, baby, the hallucinogens. Kenny has fallen over. And he’s probably dead now because I’m here thinking about Norwegian death metal when I should be saving my friend.
    So, I jump overboard, into the lake—and it’s a lake for goddamn sakes, not a fucking sea, so there can’t be a Kraken—and it is cold, you know. Cold. And I sober up real fast, and swim about, but I can’t see when I’m under, it’s too dark. And it is so cold I’m beginning to tighten up, my arms and legs like lead, or some sort of heavy metal, or Scandinavian death metal, dig? And I’m chuckling because it’s funny and scary and fucked up. And I guess I’m not all that sober because I’m making self-referential jokes while Kenny is drowning. But I’m sinking too. So I struggle over to the side of the boat and manage to pull my wet, skinny-ass body back onboard.
    No sign of Kenny. Nothing. The lake is calm, motionless, a thing at rest.
    And that was the last time I saw Kenny. Until last night.
    When he called, I didn’t recognize his voice. It was garbled. Bad cell phone connection.
    But it was him all right. We chatted about old times, as if nothing had happened, nothing had changed, his voice warbling in and out as if there was some sort of interference on the line. I told him I thought he was dead and he laughed. Laughed like a madman, like a drunken pirate.
    See, I didn’t report anything. I was scared, you know. Who wouldn’t be? Fucking crazy-ass shit. Kind of surreal. Almost convinced myself none of it happened. And I guess it didn’t, because here was Kenny on the other end of the line and he sure as hell wasn’t dead. You know?
    Yeah, I was a fucking coward. Selfish bastard.
    Here’s his story: He fell overboard. Fuck, surprised we both didn’t, truth be told. That was some mighty fine mushrooms we’d consumed. He told me he went under and that he could see things really clearly, like a new world opening up to him, and he swam around for a while, like he was born to water, you know. After a bit, he surfaced, but I was gone. Or he couldn’t find the boat. (Whatever, you know? I wasn’t going to tell him that I panicked, bolted, ran the boat up onto the shore and scuttled off into the night. That I was abandoning my friend, like my old man abandoned me.) So he swam to shore. It wasn’t that difficult. It was easy, he said. The most natural thing in the world. But, he laid low. Because he’d changed. Something deep inside him broke open. Something new and wondrous and alien. And he knew the world wasn’t ready for it, for him. This was his chance to start fresh. So he moved around, changed his life. He wasn’t the same old person. Not even close. This was his second chance.
    Some story, eh?
    So we arranged to meet up at this pub down by the docks to catch some music, some Norwegian black/death metal thing. It wasn’t quite my bag anymore—I’m no kid, you see—but, fuck, it’d be great to see Kenny. Great to hear his voice.
    The place was loud, dark, smoky, and smelled of the sea. Smelled of dead fish guts and puke. A three piece band was on the