Tremble: Erotic Tales of the Mystical and Sinister

“I don’t know, I’m not sure what I feel anymore.” She turned away in embarrassment, unable to hold the abbess’s gaze.

“We have a retreat, a special place where the sisters may go for periods of solitude. I have been there myself. It is a cave by the sea.”

On reading the expression of dismay on Clarissa’s face the abbess smiled. “Oh, it’s not that bad! It’s fully equipped with electricity. It is a beautiful place to be alone and reflect. You are at one with the elements. It’s magical—trust me, I know. Anyway, I’m giving you no choice; my driver will take you there tomorrow.”

She exited in a cloud of lavender water and flurry of pale blue skirts.

Clarissa climbed out of the car and helped unload her bags—two suitcases, one full of books, the other clothes—and a tray of potted seedlings. They were some herbs and several bulbs she had planted to remind herself of Australia.

The retired soldier who chauffeured for the convent peered at the sea and the rocks then back at the Australian woman.

“You gonna be all right?” he asked gruffly in broken English, thinking she was too pretty to be a nun.

Clarissa looked at the mouth of the cave. It had a yellow door neatly built into the stone wall. Wild lavender, thyme, and fennel grew down the side of the cave and onto the grassy outcrop in front of it. A small cove fringed with spotless white sand lay below. It had rock pools into which the sea crashed.

“We Australians are survivors,” she said and smiled.

He grunted and insisted on showing her where the nuns kept a lobster pot in the ocean, explaining how she should pull it up once a week to either eat or free the unfortunate crustacean inside. There was also an oyster bed, mussels that could be picked off the rocks, wild onions and garlic growing farther up the grassy slope and a lone peach tree planted by a nun two hundred years before. Although Clarissa had brought plenty of supplies the driver was still reluctant to leave her alone in this remote spot.

“Here,” he said, holding out a mobile phone, “this is for you to use in an emergency. The Mother Superior s

aid you should keep it with you at all times.”

“No, thank you. I don’t think I want the temptation of talking to people.”

The driver ignored her and pushed it into her hand.

“You take it, if you don’t I lose my job. I have been told to collect you in four weeks.”

Shaking his head he walked back to the car. All English are pig-headed but the colonial English are most pig-headed, he thought as he carefully maneuvered the ancient Jaguar back up the grassy slope.

Clarissa slipped off her sandals and walked down to the beach. The soft grass felt delicious under her feet. She reached the sand, stripped off, and waded into the shallows naked. She lay down and allowed the gently lapping sea to roll over her body, lifting her up with every wave. For the first time in her life she felt safe, as if her physical self was melting into the water, extending like a thin film that stretched over the surface of the sea, then the oceans, then over the very skin of the world itself. Total safety, total surrender. Perhaps it is Nature that is divine; the thought curled at the edge of her mind like a whisper, almost indiscernible from the scented breeze that carried across from the beach, brushing against her closed eyelashes and cheeks.

It was later, after a simple meal of fresh crab, bread, and salad, that she noticed the tray of seedlings. They had grown at an extraordinary rate—the basil, which had barely been visible, was now six or seven inches tall and covered in leaves. Even the bulbs had shot up, several bearing buds just about to burst into bloom.

“It’s not possible,” Clarissa said out loud; she’d only planted them the day before. Could she be mistaken? No, there was no way—she’d planted the seedlings herself, using the dry scrubby soil she’d scooped out from the convent grounds. She couldn’t imagine that thin earth being particularly fertile. So why were the plants growing at such a phenomenal rate?

As she walked back to the kitchen table she became aware of how heavy her body felt. She stood up and lifted her smock, running her hands over her belly. She seemed to be swelling visibly. Was she growing as well? Coincidence; must be some kind of weird optical illusion, she thought, then carefully measured herself with a piece of string, tying a knot to mark the breadth of her waist. After another glass of wine she finally fell asleep watching the dying embers of the open fire.

In the morning, half-awake, she turned automatically and was shocked to discover she had grown so large that lying on her side was impossible. She glanced across at the plants: the tulips had already blossomed and were beginning to die, while the basil had gone to seed.

Maybe whatever’s wrong with me has speeded up as well! If it’s a disease it could be spreading unnaturally fast. The thought that she might have picked up some parasite upon her arrival on the island filled her with horror. She reached for the mobile phone but accidentally knocked it to the floor where it broke on the tiles.

Panicked, Clarissa struggled to her feet. What was she going to do now, miles away from any medical help? She glanced around the cave and noticed a small pile of flares neatly stacked in the corner. She picked one up, it was damp with mildew. They were all useless. No flares, no phone, and no transport—she was trapped.

“Clarissa, be rational.” The sound of her own voice echoing slightly against the cave walls made her feel even more lonely. Determined, she continued, “Don’t panic, perhaps the swelling will start to go down by itself.”

To double-check that it wasn’t just her imagination she pulled the length of string from the mantelpiece and tried to wrap it around her waist. It didn’t even join. She was bigger, far bigger.

Repulsed by her body she threw on a loose dress, then realized that she was ravenous. Like a crazed woman she pulled out the supplies of sardines. Her hands shook with hunger as she ripped three tins open and emptied the contents onto a hunk of bread. She crammed the food into her mouth, hardly chewing, desperate to appease the gnawing sensation that radiated out from her center.

With oil dripping down her chin she eased herself into a chair. The weight of her stomach pushed against her bladder and made her legs ache. And still she was visibly expanding.

“Well, if I’m still eating I can’t be that ill, right?” Anyway, what could she do? The nearest road was at least ten miles away and she couldn’t imagine finding the strength or the agility to walk there.

“Trust in God” would be the advice she would give to a village woman in the same situation. Trust in God. But where was her faith? Desperate, she lowered herself onto her knees and began to pray. Suddenly a curious sensation made her sit up. Her stomach actually jumped slightly, then again.

She froze, terrified. Whatever was inside her belly was moving. Perhaps it was a parasite, wriggling through her organs up toward her heart. She looked around wildly, trying to get some sense of reality. She noticed a series of charcoal marks crossed off on the whitewashed wall. Written neatly alongside each row were dates and names of women. Nuns, she guessed, who had stayed here before. It was a crude calendar. She peered closer; some of the dates went back to the sixteenth century. Suddenly she noticed the initials MS carved into the wall: MS 1904.