The Last Ferry at Dusk

The night was unseasonably warm, even for late September in the small coastal town of Pemberton Bay. My partner, Marcus, and I had just moved into a rented cottage near the old pier, drawn by the promise of quiet and sea air. But that night, the air was thick and still, and the only sound was the distant groan of the ferry as it made its final crossing of the evening.

We went to bed early, as we often did, with the windows cracked open to let in the brine. The room was dark, save for the pale glow of the moon spilling through the gaps in the curtains. I lay on my side, facing the wall, while Marcus’s breathing evened out behind me. My mind was restless, hovering in that hazy space between wakefulness and sleep, when a woman’s voice, low and melodic, spoke my old nickname—’Elsie’—as if it were being sung from the bottom of the sea.

I felt a sudden pressure at the soles of my feet, like stepping into ice water, and a heaviness began to climb up my legs, past my knees, my hips, my chest. It was as if a second body was being sewn into my skin, and I couldn’t move my fingers or toes. My mouth opened without my consent, and a low moan escaped, followed by the word ‘no’ dragged out in a tone I didn’t recognize. I heard Marcus’s voice from far away, muffled, as if through water: ‘Elsie, wake up, you’re having a bad dream.’ But I couldn’t respond. I couldn’t even blink. I was a passenger in my own flesh.

The pressure reached my throat, and just as I thought I would drown in it, it receded as quickly as it had come, sliding back down through my feet and leaving me gasping. I shot up in bed, my heart pounding, and Marcus’s hands were on my shoulders. He told me I’d been muttering in my sleep, but I could still feel the phantom touch of wetness on my skin, and the words I’d heard didn’t belong to this world.

The next day, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had been left behind. I walked to the pier, where the ferry was docked, its white hull scarred with rust. An old fisherman, his face like cracked leather, was mending a net. I asked him if there was a story about a woman named Elsie. He spat over the side and said, ‘No, not Elsie. But there was a girl named Sylvie who went missing on the last ferry out of here—five years ago this week. They found her shoes at the end of the pier, but never her body. Some say she still comes back, looking for a way to the mainland.’

That night, I dreamed of the ferry—its deck slick with rain, the harbor lights blurring through mist. In the dream, I was standing at the railing, and a woman in a long coat appeared beside me. She didn’t look at me, but she whispered my name again, ‘Elsie,’ and pointed toward the dark water. I woke with a start, and Marcus was shaking me, his voice sharp with worry. ‘You were crying out—something about a silver locket and a promise. What’s going on?’

I hadn’t told him about the locket. I found it that morning in the cottage’s nightstand, tucked behind a yellowed book of nautical charts. It was tarnished silver, with a tiny clasp, and inside was a faded photograph of a young woman who looked eerily like me—same eyes, same hair. Engraved on the back were the initials ‘S.M.’ and a date.

I knew then that whatever had come through my feet wasn’t a dream. It was Sylvie, trapped in the cold waters of the bay, and she had found a way into my body. But why me? Why now?

The third night, I refused to sleep. I sat in the living room, staring at the locket, while Marcus slept upstairs. At 3:00 a.m., a low hum began to vibrate through the floorboards, and the lights flickered. I felt the cold start at my feet again, and this time, I didn’t fight it. I let Sylvie in, and she spoke through my mouth, her voice hoarse from salt and grief. ‘He took my locket,’ she said. ‘The ferryman. He said I’d come back if I ever tried to leave, but it wasn’t the ferry. It was the dock master, old Mr. Hargrove. He planted the locket in that nightstand to lure you. He wants to add you to his collection.’

I felt her anger, her desperation, and then I was back in my body, cold as ice. I ran to the bedroom, shaking Marcus awake. I told him everything—the voice, the locket, the dead woman’s warning. He looked at me with terror in his eyes, not because of the ghost, but because he knew something he hadn’t told me.

‘I found a box of old photographs in the attic,’ he said slowly. ‘There’s a picture of a woman who looks exactly like you, standing with Mr. Hargrove in front of the ferry. The back says ‘Sylvie and Thomas, 1912.’

The docks in Pemberton Bay were older than we thought. And the ghost of Sylvie wasn’t trying to possess me out of malice—she was trying to warn me that I was the next one meant to disappear.

The next morning, I threw the locket into the sea. As it sank, I felt something release in my chest, like a sigh. But that night, as I lay in bed, I heard a knock at the door. When I opened it, no one was there—only a wet footprint on the porch, and the distant horn of the last ferry, though it had stopped running years ago. I closed the door, locked it, and never spoke of the name Sylvie again. But I still dream of iron and cold water, and sometimes, when the moon is high, I feel my feet tingling, as if someone is trying to climb back in.