The Last Ferry

The invitation had come through a chain of forwarded messages, each one adding a layer of urgency. Our final year at the university in Cebu City was ending, and a group of us—strangers bound by a shared course—decided to celebrate with an overnight stay at a resort on the far side of Mactan Island. The resort, called ‘The Last Ferry’, was supposedly a converted ferry dock, now a private pool and cottages. The owner, a taciturn man named Mang Lito, had offered a ridiculously low price for a group of students, with only one condition: we had to arrive by the last ferry from the mainland, at 6 PM sharp. The ferry, he said, was part of the experience.

We were ten in all, a motley crew of tired students. I remember my friend, a stoic nursing student named Carla, was the most skeptical, but she came anyway, saying she didn’t want to miss our last hurrah. We took a jeepney to the port, the sky already bruised with orange and purple. The ferry was a rickety wooden thing, but it chugged along the channel, the water black and still. As we approached the island, I saw the resort: a long pier with a single lamp flickering at the end, and beyond it, a cluster of nipa huts. The pool, they said, was carved into the old dry dock, filled with water pumped from the sea.

Mang Lito met us at the pier, his face half-hidden in the gloom. He didn’t smile, just handed us each a key to our huts and pointed to a dining area where a simple dinner of grilled fish and rice awaited. ‘The pool is open until dawn,’ he said, his voice like gravel. ‘But mind the water. It’s not like a regular pool. It’s the sea, and the sea has its moods.’ We laughed nervously, thinking it was his attempt at ghost-story atmosphere. That first night, we swam, the water surprisingly warm, and the stars so bright they seemed to press down on us. But I noticed Carla didn’t get in. She sat at the edge, her feet dangling, staring at the water as if it were a living thing.

At around 2 AM, the others were getting tired. One by one, they retreated to their huts. Only Carla and I remained, sitting on the edge of the pool, our legs in the water. The lamp on the pier had gone out, and the island was plunged into near darkness, save for the moon that peeked from behind clouds. ‘This water is wrong,’ Carla said suddenly. I looked at her, but she was staring at the pool. ‘It’s not moving. Look, there’s no current, no waves. It’s just… still. Like it’s waiting.’ I tried to dismiss it, but she was right. The water was unnaturally flat, even for a pool. And then I saw it: a reflection on the surface, but not of the moon or the stars. It was a shape, like a man, standing just behind us. I turned, but there was no one. When I looked back at the water, the shape was gone.

Carla pulled her legs out and stood up, her towel wrapped tight. ‘I’m going to check something,’ she said. She walked towards the old ferry dock, where the boat had been moored. I watched her silhouette disappear behind the huts. I sat there, alone, the silence oppressive. Then I heard it: a sound like a boat scraping against wood, followed by a splash, muffled but distinct. I called out her name, but no answer. I ran towards the dock, my flip-flops slapping on the wet planks. The ferry was still there, bobbing gently. But the water around it was not still anymore. It was swirling, as if something had just been dragged under. I called her again, my voice cracking. The only reply was the creak of the boat and the lap of the water.

I found Carla just before dawn, crouched inside one of the old ferry cabins, her clothes soaked, her eyes wide. She wouldn’t speak at first, just shook. Eventually, she whispered, ‘There’s something in the pool. It pulls you down. It’s not a water spirit. It’s a passenger. It missed the last ferry, and now it wants a ride.’ I thought she was hysterical, but then I saw her feet. They were pale, almost translucent, and there were faint lines around her ankles, like rope burns. She never went near a rope.

When the sun rose, we gathered at the pier, waiting for the first boat back to the mainland. Mang Lito stood at the end of the pier, watching us. As we boarded, he said, ‘You’re lucky you left before the tide turned. That pool is a doorway. Every night, the last ferry brings someone new, but they never stay. The water takes them.’ We didn’t laugh. We didn’t look back. But as the boat pulled away, I saw Carla’s face in the morning light, and she was smiling, but it wasn’t her smile. It was the smile of someone who has finally found their way home.

I never went back. But sometimes, on the radio, I catch news about students who disappear near Mactan. They always say they drowned. But I know better. The pool is still there, waiting. And the last ferry, it never stops sailing.