The Crab of Harpers Ferry

I always kept my head pressed against the window on the trip to Harpers Ferry. I liked the way the overgrown forests sailed past as dad let off the pedal and coasted down the hill toward the Potomac River and the Harpers Bridge.

It always felt like a valve; the only way in and the only way out. The only thing that separated the untamed wilderness of West Virginia and its hollers and country folk from the civilized concrete fields and heavy development of Maryland. That bridge was the only thing separating the ancient realities of our continent from the encroaching anthropocene future.

I would think of how encompassing humanity had become; like Sideling Hill out west in Maryland’s portion of the Appalachians. We cut straight through a mountain, hundreds of feet, like it was no trouble at all. It took sixteen months for us to destroy billions of years of tectonic effort and erosion. I believed there was nothing humans couldn’t accomplish if they wanted to; that there was no limit that existed to our immense power over nature.

Mom was silent this time, which was unusual. My dad adored my grandmother, his mother-in-law, almost as much as my mom did. They were always so excited to see her, just as excited as me and my brother and sister.

But today it was just me, and just Mom.

I guess I was silent too; less than thrilled that today I wouldn’t be seeing my grandma like I had in the past. Today, my mother warned, the crab was in control; an unthinking beast that thought only of filling its belly, a monster laying in wait.

I did not like the crab. Mom didn’t either. But she seemed to understand it better than me.

“Just remember, your grandma’s in there somewhere,” she reminded me.

“I know, but… it doesn’t feel like it.” I said, the words being met by her silent, meek smile in the rearview mirror.

We’d coast carefully along the outer bank of the Potomac, passing the only gas station I’d ever seen sitting directly in front of a steep cliff and surrounded by a falling rock net. The sheerness of the mountains intimidated me, especially when compared to the modest hills that lay just across the river.

One more bridge, and straight ahead; a few more twists and turns and out we were in a small, isolated little community. My grandma had lived there most of her adult life, and mom grew up there. But it was a lonelier place now, so many years after my grandpa died.

We parked in the drive just beyond the sterile white car that was always here, an obelisk I never saw move that only reminded me of the crab. Me and Mom sat in silence; a thick, lingering, suffocating silence where I let my imagination wander.

The cars faded away to horse-drawn buggies. My grandma’s mid-century rancher turned to an old homesteaders' cottage, the barn out back became red and the unkept field in front became vibrant with the vegetables sown by my grandpa.

We dismounted, and I ran my hand along the shimmering fur of the horse that brought us here, still warm and thrumming from our journey. Mom took my hand as we navigated the labyrinth of beautiful flowering hedgerows together. She knew the way instinctually, and so did I, but I would never admit it. I liked the way we walked it together, hand in hand.

A maiden from the village met us at the heavy door to the crab’s layer. She was my mom’s age, but Mom was very young. She greeted us differently; my mom with a sullen look of understanding, and me with a bright, warm smile.

“Go on in, baby, I’ll be right behind, okay?” My mom said.

I felt scared. Sweaty. My stomach turned and twisted. “Okay,” I affirmed, bravely as I could.

I pushed ahead, the door creaking and screaming from its hinges as I pulled it away from the stagnant vacuum within. The familiar scent of the elderly had been replaced a short time ago with the humid, assaulting smell of seaweed rotting on hot sand—the gross smell of an abandoned beach after a storm.

It was dark, too. Darker than any room I had ever been in during my brief life. I knew somewhere in this lair—this once-familiar home—that the crab was lingering. Laying. Waiting. I could hear the clacking of its claws and the chittering of its unhinging mandibles; the creaking of its shell at all the joints, the way it struggled to peel away its shell. But there was no fresh, spongy meat left. This shell was its last, and it knew it.

“Where’s your bitch of a mom?” It burbled from the darkness, rustling in its bed of sharp coral and unwashed chitin.

“She’s outside,” I assured, “Just talking with the—”

“That fucking witch you all forced into my home?”

I assured it once more, “No—she’s here to help, remember?”

Its rattling grew stronger, groaning in agony and anger as a torrent of beeps and flashes came from the arcane equipment that surrounded it. I hesitated to stoke the fire. I hated seeing it, but knew this was the last time I could look. The light brought the crab forth.

Its weak eyes twitched uncomfortably as it looked at me. I looked back at it, pulling in on myself. The meat underneath its shell was bursting at every seam, exploding out and consuming the faded red of its exterior. The beady eyes had grown cloudy, and its mandibles struggled to pick through the food in front of it.

“Oh, honey—” it said, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

I pushed tears from my eyes and slowly came to its sickly, horrid bed. “It’s okay. I know it's hard. But I’m here now, and you can be—better—and. I missed you.”

The rough, snapping claw turned to a dry, wilted hand in mine. The empty husk of this tender woman looked back at me when I finally rubbed my eyes clear. What little light lingered in her eyes felt like the heat of a dying star as it settled on my face and her cracking lips struggled to smile.

“Oh, I missed you too, baby. You haven’t visited much. Where’s your mom?”

“She’s just outside,” I assured one last time. “She missed you, too.”

“Oh, just outside? Ah, that’s good.” she giggled, “I love you, honey.”

“I love you too, grandma. I love you so much.”

It took sixteen months for us to destroy Sideling Hill, and it took the crab four weeks to take my grandma.