The Last Ferry

My father, Elias, passed away on a cold November morning in 2015, a few hours after my daughter’s sweet sixteen. He had been drinking heavily, but that was nothing new. The official cause was a cerebral hemorrhage, but I’ve always suspected his heart simply gave out from a lifetime of sorrow. We found him in the boathouse, slumped over the old wooden workbench, a half-empty bottle of whiskey beside him. He looked almost peaceful, as if he’d just fallen asleep while repairing the fishing nets.

I remember talking to him on the phone that evening. He was cheerful, laughing about how my daughter had danced the night away. He said he was going to fix the lantern on the dock because he didn’t want the ferry to miss its morning crossing. The next call I got was from my brother, his voice choked with tears, telling me to come home.

A week after the funeral, my wife, Sarah, was sorting through the laundry in the living room, our youngest son, Toby, playing with his toys at her feet. I was standing by the window, staring out at the gray, churning water of the Sound, trying to make sense of a world without my father. Suddenly, Sarah looked up and said, ‘Hey, Toby, someone’s calling you.’ She tilted her head, as if listening. Toby jumped up, his face bright, and ran to the old rotary phone in the hallway. I watched him pick it up, heard him say, ‘Hello? Papa?’ My blood ran cold. The phone in the hallway had been disconnected for years.

I walked over to Toby, my heart pounding. He was nodding, listening intently. I gently took the receiver from his hand. There was nothing but static, and then, faintly, a voice I knew too well. It was my father’s voice, muffled and distant, as if it were coming from underwater. ‘The lantern’s out, son. Keep it burning. The ferry’s coming.’ Then the line went dead.

I tried to rationalize it. Grief does strange things to the mind. But Sarah swore she hadn’t touched the phone, and Toby insisted he had heard Papa’s voice. The next night, I couldn’t sleep. I went down to the dock. The lantern was dark. My father had always kept it lit, guiding the ferry that crossed to the mainland. He was the ferryman, you see, the only one who knew the treacherous currents of the channel. I lit the lantern with trembling hands, and as the flame caught, I saw a shape in the fog, a small rowboat, moving towards the dock without a sound. It was empty, but I could have sworn I saw my father sitting at the oars, his face pale and hollow. He looked at me, and I heard his voice in my head, clear as day: ‘Get in, Mira. It’s time.’

I backed away, my heart racing. The boat drifted close, then vanished into the mist. The lantern flickered. I ran back to the house, my mind reeling. But the vision wouldn’t leave me. Every night, I saw the rowboat at the end of the dock, waiting. I told Sarah, but she dismissed it as grief. ‘It’s just your mind playing tricks, Mira,’ she said. ‘He’s gone.’ But I knew better. My father had never left me. He was still there, in the water, in the fog, in the eternal rhythm of the tide.

On the third night, I gave in. I walked out to the dock, the cold air biting my skin. The rowboat was there, waiting. I stepped in. The moment I did, the world shifted. The fog thickened, and the sound of lapping water filled my ears. A figure materialized at the oars. It was my father, but not as I remembered him. His eyes were black, sunken pits, and his skin was the color of drowned flesh. He looked at me with an expression that was both sorrowful and hungry.

‘You shouldn’t have come, Mira,’ he said, his voice like a growl from the deep. ‘But now that you’re here, you’re mine forever.’ The boat began to move, gliding across the water. I looked back at the shore, where Sarah and Toby stood, their forms fading in the mist, calling my name. I wanted to scream, but no sound escaped my lips. The boat carried me away, into the endless night, leaving the living world behind. My father’s lantern remained on the dock, still burning, a beacon for the lost. But it wasn’t for the living. It was for the dead, who now knew I was one of them.