The Ferryman’s Toll

The year was 1999, and the air in our small town of Kettlebrook was thick with the scent of pine and damp earth. I was sixteen, preparing for my General Certificate of Secondary Education, the exam that would decide if I could stay in the local grammar school or be shunted off to the technical college. My friend, Callum, who lived in the same housing estate as me, was also studying, though he attended a different school. Our estate was a sprawling maze of identical red-brick houses, built after the war to house the workers of the nearby quarry. Mine was near the center; his was at the far edge, where the pavement gave way to a dirt track that wound through a dense, old forest known as the Blackwood.

At the edge of the Blackwood, there was a river, the Lychwater, which had a dark reputation. The old folks in the town whispered about the ‘Ferryman’s Toll,’ a legend dating back to the 1800s, when a riverboatman named Edwin Cross was said to have been hanged for ferrying bodies to escape justice. But our generation knew nothing of that. To us, the river was just a place to smoke and skip stones, even though the water always seemed unnaturally cold, and the current was stronger than it looked.

A week before the exams, Callum suggested we study by the river, claiming the fresh air cleared his head. I was reluctant, but he was persuasive, and the library was packed with anxious students. We took our notes and a couple of cans of cheap soda, and headed down the dirt track. The forest was eerily quiet, the canopy blocking out most of the sunlight, and the only sound was the crunch of our shoes on the gravel. When we reached the river, we found a flat rock near the bank and spread out our textbooks.

We studied for about an hour, the drone of insects and the gurgle of water our only company. Then, a sound cut through the silence: a splash, followed by another, rhythmic and steady, like oars dipping into water. I looked up and saw a small rowboat approaching, but it seemed to glide without any visible rower. The boat was old, made of dark, waterlogged wood, and it came to a stop right beside our rock, bumping gently against it.

I felt a chill run down my spine, but Callum laughed. ‘Maybe it’s a ghost boat,’ he joked, and leaned over to inspect it. The boat was empty, but in the bottom, there was a single object: a tarnished silver coin, lying on a bed of moss. ‘Looks like a toll,’ I said, trying to keep my voice steady. Callum, always the daredevil, reached out and picked it up. The moment his fingers touched the coin, the water around the boat turned murky, and a cold hand shot out from beneath the surface and grabbed his wrist.

I screamed and grabbed Callum’s other arm, yanking him back. The hand was pale, with long, cracked nails, and it tightened with incredible strength. I pulled with all my might, my feet slipping on the wet rock, until finally the hand released, and Callum fell back onto the grass, panting. The coin was still in his palm, but it was now dripping with dark, slimy water. The boat slowly drifted away, sinking back into the murk, and the river was calm again.

We ran back to the estate, not stopping until we reached my house. We told my mother, who turned pale and quickly called her sister, who lived in the next village. She spoke in hushed tones, and I caught snippets of ‘Ferryman’s Toll’ and ‘the drowned.’ That night, Callum developed a fever, and his hand began to swell, turning a sickly greenish hue. My parents took him to the hospital, but the doctors were baffled. They gave him antibiotics, but nothing helped.

Over the next few days, I visited Callum. He was delirious, muttering about ‘paying the toll’ and ‘the ferryman’s list.’ On the third night, he looked at me with clear eyes and said, ‘He wants you too. He’s coming for you.’ I dismissed it as feverish rambling, but when I left his room, I saw a small, wet footprint on the hospital floor, leading away from his bed and disappearing into the hallway.

Callum died that night. The official cause was listed as a rare bacterial infection, but I knew better. At his funeral, I kept the coin he had dropped, which I had tucked into my pocket, feeling its cold weight against my leg. I didn’t know why I kept it, but I couldn’t throw it away.

A year later, on the anniversary of his death, I was walking along the river, trying to make peace. I saw the same rowboat, gliding towards me. This time, it stopped right at the bank where I stood. In the bottom, there was another coin, freshly placed. And I heard a voice, dry and echoing, in my mind: ‘The toll must be paid.’ I backed away, my heart hammering, and I turned to flee. But as I ran, I felt something cold wrap around my ankle, and I stumbled.

I looked down. The river had risen, and a pale, bloated hand was gripping my leg, pulling me toward the water. I screamed and clawed at the mud, but the force was irresistible. The last thing I saw before the water closed over my head was the rowboat, now manned by a shadowy figure, its face hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat, and I knew that my ferryman had come.

I never finished my exams. They found my body three days later, tangled in the reeds downstream. The coin was never found. But if you ever find yourself near a dark river on a quiet day, and you see a small rowboat approaching with a single tarnished coin, don’t touch it. The ferryman is always looking for his next passenger, and the toll is a life for a life. At least, that’s what the old folks say. And now, I believe them.