The Last Ferry at Dusk

I never thought much of the old wharf, the one that jutted out into the gray, restless water like a broken finger. I’d grown up in the small coastal town of Port Blume, a place where the fog rolled in every evening and the seagulls cried like lost souls. My family had moved there when I was twelve, into a house that sat at the end of a gravel road, half-hidden behind a tangle of cypress trees. The house itself was ordinary—two stories, peeling paint, a porch that sagged in the middle—but the land around it was not. The beach behind the house was littered with driftwood, and at low tide, you could see the remains of an old pier, rotted and broken, stretching into the water. Locals said it was haunted, but they said that about everything.

My name is Mara, and I was fifteen when the events occurred that made me believe them. My parents were both marine biologists, always at the lab or out on the research vessel, and they often left me alone for long stretches. That particular autumn, they had a project that kept them late every night, and I grew accustomed to the solitude. I’d cook myself dinner, watch TV, and listen to the sound of the waves from my bedroom window. But sometimes, when the house was too quiet, I’d hear things that made me freeze: footsteps on the stairs, a door creaking, a child’s laugh in the hallway. At first, I chalked it up to the wind and the old wood. But then the lights in the bathroom started flickering, and I’d catch glimpses of a figure in the corner of my eye—a woman, I thought, with long hair that hung over her face. She never moved, only watched. The smell of salt and something sweet, like decaying flowers, would come and go without warning.

The day it reached its peak was a Tuesday in late October. The sky was the color of old pewter, and rain fell in sheets, turning the yard into a swamp. I was home alone, as usual, with our two dogs, Baxter and Sadie, huddled at my feet. They were usually restless, but that day they kept looking at the hallway, their ears pricked, low whines escaping their throats. I tried to ignore them, focusing on the TV, but then I felt it—a cold draft on my neck, like someone breathing behind me. I spun around, and for a split second, I saw a figure standing at the end of the hall. It was tall, and I thought I saw a flash of a red coat. Then it was gone.

That was when I noticed the dogs were staring at the front door, not the hall. A low growl rumbled in Baxter’s chest. I looked at the window, and through the rain, I saw a light bobbing out on the water. It was coming from the old wharf at the end of our road. I knew nobody docked there anymore—it was condemned. But there it was, a small lantern, swinging as if someone was carrying it. I squinted, and I saw a shape, maybe a person, standing at the edge of the pier, facing the sea. My heart started to pound. I was told never to go down there. But the person was probably just some lost tourist. Still, I felt an inexplicable pull, a need to see who it was. I grabbed a raincoat and a flashlight, and told the dogs to stay. I hesitated at the door, but a voice, soft as a sigh, seemed to whisper in my ear: *Go.* So I went.

The rain was cold, stinging my face as I walked down the muddy path to the wharf. The wind howled, and the pier groaned under my steps. The light was still there, but it seemed to move away from me, deeper into the fog. I called out, but my voice was swallowed by the storm. I followed the light, my boots slipping on the wet wood. I thought I saw a figure in front of me, a woman in a red coat, but the light was behind her, blurring her features. Then she turned and walked into the water, and the light vanished. I ran to the spot where she’d been, but there was nothing—just the black, churning waves. I felt a wave of vertigo, as if the pier itself was tilting, and then I heard a faint, disembodied whisper, almost like a plea: *Don’t let them take me.* I spun around, but I was alone. The rain had stopped, and the fog was thick. And then I realized I was standing in a completely different place—the forest behind the house, not the pier. I saw a path I’d never noticed before, lined with stones, leading into the trees. I had no memory of walking there. My flashlight flickered, then died.

I stumbled back to the house, soaked and shaking. I burst inside and locked the door, my breath ragged. The dogs were waiting, but they were staring at the kitchen doorway. A terrible smell filled the air—rotten meat and salt. I moved to the kitchen, and there, on the floor, was a pile of wet clothes: a red raincoat, a pair of boots, and a locket. The locket was open, showing a picture of a young girl with a wide smile. I had never seen it before. I picked it up, and the smell grew stronger, and I heard a child’s laugh, high and gleeful, from the backyard. I ran to the window and saw a small figure, no more than a child, standing in the middle of the yard, wearing a red coat just like the one on the floor. The figure waved at me, then pointed toward the woods. I knew, with a certainty that chilled me deeper than the rain, that I was not alone. That I had never been alone. And that the creature I had seen was not a ghost—it was a harbinger. The real horror was about to begin.

That night, after my parents returned, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed, listening to the wind, and I heard a soft tapping on my window. I pulled back the curtain and saw the little girl in the red coat standing on the lawn, looking up at me. She smiled. Her mouth was too wide, her teeth too sharp. She whispered, just loud enough for me to hear: *You let me in. Now I’m never leaving.* And she pressed her hand against the glass, leaving a wet, impossibly cold handprint that stayed even after I wiped it. I knew then that the story was not over. The pier, the forest, the red coat—it was all connected. And I was the next link in the chain.