The Wooden Crate

By Adam Musil

Lightning flashed and Agent Thompson gawked at the scratch marks across the old sailor’s face.

The wooden crate lowered into the truck.

“You government boys better not open that crate,” the sailor said, raising his mangled arm.

Everyone at the agency knew the sea monster stories were bullshit. Just another drunk sailor, Thompson figured.

That night Thompson walked the warehouse and found the wooden crate empty. He lit a cigarette and smirked at the thought of the drunk sailor. Thompson backed into a puddle of water and his stomach sank. He felt a warm breath behind him. It smelled like fish.