by Donna Burgess

Created on: January 23, 2009

The Migration

They fled the high tides, those elegant spiders of the surf, hundreds upon hundreds, dime-sized and scrambling, one claw raised in a miniature salute or perhaps a tiny gesture of warning. Nevertheless, my daughter and I became fascinated as, on the fifth day straight they appeared, as if on schedule.

Sideways marching, heading toward the powdery dunes with purpose, they ascended our bare feet like small long-nailed fingers, toying with our toes.

"Look, Mommy," my daughter said on the seventh day, "they're bigger!"

And indeed, she was right. Not much, yet it was noticeable.

Two weeks into this strange migration, the crabs had increased to the size of house cats, still scrambling from the sea with some sort of agenda, their claws raised haughtily above their armored backs.

The day finally came, perhaps a month from the day our interest began, when I wished very much we would find something else to fill our mornings.

The first of the creatures slipped out of the frothy waves and I realized, quite horrified that it had grown a head.
A perfect, blond head with a fine, lineless face.

My daughter laughed and pointed excitedly. "He's got personality, Mommy. Can we keep him?"

As he hustled by, he snapped his claw at us twice.
Click click. And then he winked.

His army followed, all sporting new "personalities," as well.

I swore we'd never return to the beach at high tide, yet two weeks later here we stood, having given in to our curiosity. The sun was already high and warm, the air thick with salt and seaweed.

We fled at the sight of the first one-this mutation, this horrid dream in daylight.

There before us skittered a half-human, half-crab-a female, long hair falling like a soaked, silken curtain, dragging across the wet sand. She moved slowly, unsure, as her legs were bent and misshapen. She scrambled, spider-like, up the beach toward us, and we ran for the car, screaming. Her back was flat, shelled. Her face wore a sandy, wet smile. Her claws snapped madly at the air.

My daughter is asleep now. We've been stuck here for more than three hours, the sand washing out little by little from under the little Honda's tires. The car is covered with those things, peering hungrily in at us through the windshield and back window. They smile and sometimes snap their pointed claws. Click click. I feel a chill tickle my spine at this sound.

I write this on a crumpled McDonald's cheeseburger wrapper I found under the passengers seat. Just in case . . .

I pray they go back with the tide, that they go back before I feel the car begin to slide out with the waves. I pray we get out of this and I swear we'll never come to the beach again.

Learn more about this author, Donna Burgess.
Click here to send this author comments or questions.