Juruti, Pará

Brazil

Guilherme Carneiro was a superstitious man. Unlike the locals who had deep-rooted cultural beliefs, Guilherme was more inclined to believe in his own personal follies. He was said to be paranoid, and that was true, but there was something more to his one-man sect than simple nerves. Guilherme had an almost ritualistic habit of only sailing down the Amazon when the moon was half full on its right side. He'd make a few exceptions, of course, but what he never, ever, ever did was sail on the river when the moon was bright on its left side. His father had been attacked and killed by a caiman on one such night, and Guilherme specifically remembered looking up at the sky and cursing the moon which so often took the lives of his kin through the power of fate. The moon, he thought, was a celestial body which could be fought. The Sun was a sacred bringer of life, and it would be foolish to defy the stars, but the moon was simply a ghostly rock, reflecting the light of its more brilliant companions while it drifted aimlessly through the night sky. And so, taking to the river on a day when the moon glowed brightly on its right side, Guilherme started his motor, which sputtered like an old man, and zoomed across the wrinkly water.

The river was at its maximum width on this particular night, fed by the warm rain of the wet season. The trees were almost completely immersed in this flood, looking more like bushes than anything. It wasn't uncommon to see leaves and branches being dragged along by the mucky current in the wet season, and Guilherme had to keep his eyes open, lest one of these obstacles get caught in his motor, which was already feeble enough to merit caution on smooth waters. Guilherme was no stranger to motor damage, but he fared better than the majority of fishermen. He knew the river like the back of his hand, and although he had the occasional slip up, his track record was far from unclean. He made good use of his rickety motor, and he therefore had to bring it to the shop far less frequently than most of his peers. Even so, he couldn't afford to replace the engine at the moment. Money was tighter than usual.

It wasn't long before Guilherme found what he was looking for. There was a dark, rippling patch of water, perfect for piranha fishing. Guilherme could usually sell his best fish to the novelty vendors, who would perform taxidermal procedures on the corpses and sell them to tourists for a small fortune. They seemed to like Guilherme, giving him more money than the fish were worth. Of course, they also sold the displays at an unfair price, so their kindness was only half admirable. Guilherme had seen the place where they prepared the corpses, once. He'd never forget the jars of false eyes lined up at every table. There was something horribly morbid about that place.

Despite the unsettling nature of his superiors, Guilherme did not wish to change occupations any time soon. He was lucky to make a decent amount of money in such a niche market, and since fishing was all he knew, fishing was all he did.

Guilherme turned off his motor and leaned forward in the rickety boat, which swayed under his shifting weight. He had brought bits of cow flesh to use as bait, which he kept in a rusty bucket. There was no need to ensure that the container was sanitary: the fish would be long dead before the tetanus kicked in. Once he had a bleeding scrap latched securely on his hook, he dipped the line into the water. Piranhas, unlike most fish, were perfectly content with eating stationary prey. As long as it bled, it was fair game.

Guilherme waited for a good fifteen minutes before he began to wonder why there were no fish in the dark spot. It was possible that they simply weren't in the biting mood, but that was rather unlikely at this hour. Perhaps his meat was unsuitable. No, that wasn't true. It was unsuitable most of the time anyway, and the piranhas always seemed to bite regardless of quality.

And then, Guilherme discovered the reason behind their disappearance. The fish were darting around a rotting carcass upstream. He could see their silvery-orange bodies flitting in and out of the water, tearing apart some sort of dead animal with quick bites. When the body drifted out from under a half-immersed tree and into the moonlight, Guilherme recognized the tail of a dolphin. It was very peculiar, indeed. In all his years of fishing, Guilherme had never seen piranhas take down a fully-grown dolphin.

As soon as this thought crossed his mind, Guilherme realized that he was an idiot. They hadn't killed the dolphin themselves: something larger must have felled the creature and left the scraps for scavengers. As far as Guilherme was concerned, anything ferocious enough to kill a decently large mammal was a threat to him. He had a sneaking suspicion that a caiman was to blame.

Quickly, Guilherme revved up his motor and sped away from the scene. Caimans had a nasty habit of attacking unarmed men in boats. Somehow, the creatures were smart enough to recognize when their prey was vulnerable.

Guilherme's boat was suddenly knocked off course by a floating object that he had not seen in the darkness. Quickly, he shut off the motor to avoid damaging the system. It was then that he noticed the smell. It was an awful, putrid stench that reminded him of rot and feces. When he leaned overboard, he saw a dead caiman, floating bellyside up. Guilherme put his hand over his nose and mouth in disgust, and pushed the corpse away with his fishing pole. It rocked lightly, then drifted away with a gentle splashing sound. The stubby arms dipped underwater as the dead animal rotated.

Unlatching part of the motor equipment from its stand, Guilherme examined his engine for external damage. There was none. As a matter of fact, there wasn't any sign that the propellers or any other mechanized bit had come into contact with the creature. This, put together with the suspicious smell of rotting flesh, meant that the caiman had been dead before hitting the boat. Guilherme was inclined to believe that it had died of natural causes, until he caught a glimpse of the creature's face, which had been brutally mauled. Whatever had killed this foul beast must have been responsible for the dolphin's demise as well, judging by the similarly cruel lacerations on both victims. Something that was large enough to kill two animals, one of them a predator, would pose a significant threat to the villagers, should it wander too close to the docks. It should be destroyed as soon as possible.

Guilherme reached forward slowly and opened a secret compartment in the hull of his boat. He pulled out an old shotgun, which he had reserved for emergencies such as these. He didn't quite trust the weapon, as it could easily be a dud, or worse, dangerously rigged, but he didn't have much of a choice. It would be irresponsible to let the mysterious monster roam freely through populated waters. Furthermore, if he were to kill the creature without damaging the hide, it might be worth a small fortune.

As Guilherme cocked the gun, he noticed something unnerving. What he had thought to be a simple log suddenly dipped underwater, disappearing from sight. It was almost certainly a caiman, or something equally crocodilian and monstrous. Thinking back to the night his father had died, Guilherme couldn't help but feel optimistic. The moon was bright on the right side tonight, which meant that the heavens were on his side. Slowly, he scanned his surroundings, keeping the gun pointed at the murky depths.

Without warning, he heard a loud splash and felt a set of jaws clamping around his head. He dropped his gun as he was yanked backwards, screaming at the top of his lungs. The noise was suddenly cut off when he was dragged underwater by his assailant. He was dead before he could get the slightest glimpse of the monster, but he had noticed something cruelly poetic before entering the water.

Although the moon was bright on its right side, its reflection was quite the opposite.