The Last Ferry Home

I’ve always been drawn to the darker corners of the world, but I’ve never had the stomach to stay long. My friends called me a coward, and they were right. But sometimes, the horror finds you even when you’re just trying to get home.

In the autumn of 1991, my family moved to the outskirts of a small coastal town called Port Meridian. The town was quiet, almost too quiet, with a single road that wound along the cliffs and disappeared into the fog. That road led to the old ferry that connected us to the mainland. Most people avoided it after dark—the ferry had a reputation, and the locals whispered about the night it ran aground in the 1950s, taking thirty souls with it. They said the spirits of the drowned still waited on the shore, eager to join the living on their crossings.

I was twelve, and I thought their stories were just that—stories to scare children. My mother, a nurse, worked the late shift at the town’s small clinic, so it was often my job to pick up my younger sister, Lily, from her piano lessons at Mrs. Hartley’s house, which sat just beyond the ferry landing. The only way back was along that road, through a marsh that stretched for miles, where reeds grew taller than a man and the water crept in with the tide.

That night, the fog rolled in thick and low, swallowing the road signs and turning the world into a gray blur. The ferry had already made its last run, and the landing was empty except for the old wooden shack that served as the ticket office. I parked my bicycle against the railing and walked to Mrs. Hartley’s house, but the porch light was out, and the door was locked. A note, damp and peeling, was taped to the window: ‘Lessons canceled. Gone to town. Family emergency.’

My heart sank. Lily was with Mrs. Hartley, and they weren’t here. I had no phone, and the clinic was miles away. The only thing I could do was walk back along the marsh road and hope to catch a ride home. I called Lily’s name into the fog, but only the sound of the tide answered.

I started down the road, the gravel crunching under my sneakers, the reeds closing in on both sides. The fog played tricks on my eyes; every few steps, I thought I saw a figure standing among the reeds—a tall, thin shape, motionless, watching. But when I turned, it was just a bush or a sapling. I told myself it was my imagination, but my hands were shaking.

After about twenty minutes, I heard something behind me: a soft, rhythmic tapping, like a cane on the pavement. I stopped, and the tapping stopped. I walked faster, and it quickened, keeping pace. I turned around, but the road was empty, only the fog rolling in waves. The tapping continued, now from the side, among the reeds, as if something was moving parallel to me, brushing against the stalks.

I broke into a run, the bicycle forgotten. The marsh seemed to stretch on forever. I could see the old ferry dock in the distance, but the ferry was gone. A new sound joined the tapping: a low, guttural singsong, like a lullaby twisted and wrong. It came from all around me, from the reeds, from the water, from the sky. The words were indistinguishable, but the melody was the same one my mother used to hum to me when I was sick.

I tripped over a root and fell face-first into the mud. When I looked up, I saw her—a woman in a tattered white dress, her hair hanging in wet strands over her face. She stood at the edge of the water, halfway between the road and the marsh, her arms outstretched as if welcoming me. She was humming that lullaby, but her voice was wet, gurgling, and her skin was the color of seawater.

‘Do you want to cross?’ she asked, her voice like the creak of a dock. ‘The ferry is late. The last one never left.’

I scrambled to my feet, backing away. The reeds seemed to press closer, and the fog thickened until I could barely see my own hands. The woman began to move toward me, her steps slow but deliberate, her bare feet leaving no prints in the mud. I screamed, but no sound came out. My legs were frozen, pins and needles shooting through them.

Then, from behind me, I heard Lily’s voice, small and clear: ‘Ellie, don’t be scared.’ I spun around, and there she was, standing at the side of the road, her school uniform clean and dry, a smile on her face. ‘She’s just waiting for the ferry. It comes every night at midnight. Don’t you want to ride it with me?’

I reached for her, but my hand passed through her. She was translucent, her edges shimmering like moonlight on water. The woman in white drew closer, and I felt the cold seeping through my clothes, through my skin, into my bones. The marsh began to flood—dark water rising around my ankles, then my knees. Lily laughed, a sound that was too high, too hollow.

‘It’s warm, Ellie. Come in. The ferry will take us home.’

I wanted to run, but the water was pulling me in, and the woman’s hands were reaching for my shoulders. I closed my eyes and screamed—a real scream, this time, raw and loud, tearing my throat. And then I felt a hand on my arm, but it was rough and dry, and a voice said, ‘Hey, kid, you okay?’

I opened my eyes. I was lying on the gravel road, face down in the mud, and a man in a faded flannel shirt was kneeling beside me. He had a lantern, and behind him was a rusty pickup truck, its headlights cutting through the fog. He helped me up, and I was shaking so hard I couldn’t stand.

‘Where’s Lily?’ I gasped. ‘I saw her. She was right there.’

The man’s face went pale. He looked around, then said, ‘Who’s Lily?’

‘My sister. She was wearing a blue dress. She was by the reeds.’

The man shook his head. ‘There’s no one here but you, kid. And I’ve lived here all my life—I know this marsh. No one should be out here at night. Not after what happened to the ferry.’

He drove me home, and my mother met us at the door, her face white as chalk. She hugged me, and I sobbed into her shoulder, telling her about Lily and the woman in white. My mother’s hands began to tremble. She pulled back, her eyes wide, and said, ‘Ellie, Lily has been gone for three years. She was on the ferry when it sank. We moved here to be near her grave.’

I stared at her, my mind refusing to accept it. But then I remembered: the note on Mrs. Hartley’s door was dated a month ago. The piano lessons had ended long ago. And the lullaby my mother hummed—it was the one she always hummed when she visited the cemetery.

I never told my mother about the woman in white. I never told anyone. But sometimes, even now, when the fog rolls in off the ocean, I hear that wet lullaby, and I see Lily standing at the edge of the water, waiting for me to join her. And part of me wonders: if I had taken her hand that night, would the ferry have finally come?