The Last Ferry on Cold Harbor Lake

Last Tuesday, my partner Derek and I drove out to Cold Harbor Lake to help his old friend, Marcus, whose truck had blown a tire on the winding gravel road that hugged the shore. The lake was a sprawling, gray expanse that seemed to swallow the late afternoon light, and the few houses we passed were boarded up for the season. We found Marcus leaning against his rusted Ford, smoking a cigarette, a grim smile on his face as we pulled up.

Derek and I had moved into his parents’ place back in March, a sprawling Victorian house on the outskirts of the city. The house was beautiful, with high ceilings and ornate moldings, but it was always dark and cold, as if the sun had forgotten it existed. The winter had been brutal, and I’d had a persistent sinus infection that made my head feel stuffed with cotton. The house only made it worse—the radiators clicked and hissed but never quite warmed the rooms, and the corners gathered shadows that seemed to linger even at noon.

As Derek and Marcus wrestled with the spare tire, I wandered down to the lake’s edge. The water was a dark slate, and a thin mist was starting to roll in, curling around the reeds like a slow breath. That’s when I noticed the ferry. It was old, a wooden flat-bottomed boat with a rusty chain running across the lake to a small dock on the opposite shore. No one had used it in years, I thought—the chain was slack, and the ferry was half-sunk, its planks green with algae. But as I stared, something moved on the far bank. A figure, thin and hunched, was standing at the edge of the water, watching me.

I called to Derek, but by the time he looked, the figure was gone. Derek shrugged it off. ‘Probably a fisherman,’ he said. But Marcus, who had grown up around here, went pale. ‘That’s the old dock,’ he said. ‘No one’s supposed to be there. The place used to be a suicide spot back in the day. They closed it off after the last one.’ He didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t ask.

On the drive home, the mist followed us. It clung to the windshield, and I had to wipe it away repeatedly, even though the heater was on full blast. I felt a tickle in my throat, and by the time we reached the city, I was coughing. By midnight, I had a fever. I dreamed of the ferry, of the chain groaning as it moved across the water, and of the figure on the shore—closer now, its face a blurry smear of gray.

For the next two days, I couldn’t shake the cold. I stayed in bed, but the house was so dark and cold that I felt like I was lying in a tomb. My skin was clammy, and I had a constant ringing in my ears. On the third morning, Derek found me at the kitchen table, staring at a map of the lake I’d printed from the internet. There, on the far shore, was a small dot labeled ‘Ferry Landing.’ I told Derek I needed to go back, that I had to see the ferry up close. He argued, but I was insistent—I felt a pull, like a magnet, and I couldn’t ignore it.

He drove me out that afternoon. The lake was even more desolate than before, the water black and still under a low sky. The mist was thicker, almost a fog, and the air smelled of rot. We parked near the old dock, and I walked to the water’s edge. The ferry wasn’t there. Instead, there was a rowboat, half-hidden in the reeds, its paint peeling and its seats covered in moss. I stepped into it without thinking. Derek shouted from the shore, but I rowed out onto the lake, the oars slicing the water with a thick, sucking sound.

The fog swallowed the shore, and the only sound was the creak of the oars and my own ragged breathing. My fever spiked, and I felt a warmth spread through my chest, like something was blooming inside me. I stopped rowing and just drifted. The lake was utterly silent. Then, the ferry appeared—not the old one, but a gleaming black boat with a single lantern at its bow. It glided toward me, cutting through the fog without a sound. On its deck stood a tall figure in a long coat, its face hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat. It didn’t speak, but I heard a voice in my mind, clear as crystal: ‘You’ve come back.’

The ferry drew alongside, and the figure reached out a hand—long fingers, pale as bone. I took it, and stepped aboard. The boat didn’t rock. The moment I was onboard, the lantern flared, illuminating the deck. There were others there, standing motionless, their faces gray and wet, like drowned things. They didn’t look at me, but I felt their attention, heavy as stones. The ferry began to move, gliding toward the far shore, where the mist was thickest. I wanted to jump, but my legs wouldn’t move. The figure stood beside me, its hat brushing my ear, and whispered, ‘You’ve had a cold all winter. But now you’re home.’

I woke up on the shore, coughing up water. Derek was shaking me, his face white. ‘You were in the water,’ he said. ‘You were floating face down. I swam out and dragged you in.’ I looked at him, and for a moment, I didn’t recognize him. Then I felt the heat again—the fever was gone, replaced by a deep, bone-chilling cold. I looked at my hands. They were pale, almost translucent, and there was a faint pattern of frost on my skin. I opened my mouth to speak, and my breath came out as a plume of ice.

We drove home in silence. The house was as dark and cold as ever, but now it felt welcoming, like a blanket. I walked to the mirror in the hallway and saw my reflection—but it was different. My eyes were a milky gray, and my hair, once a rich brown, was now streaked with white. I touched my cheek, and it was like touching a frozen fish. Derek was behind me, his voice trembling. ‘Honey, what’s happening?’ I turned to him, and I tried to smile, but my face felt stiff, like it was cracking. ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘I just feel better now.’

That night, I didn’t sleep. I stood by the window, watching the moon rise, and I felt a pull toward the lake. It was a gentle tàug, like a string tied to my chest. I knew I would go back—not that day, but soon. The ferry was waiting. And the figure with the wide-brimmed hat had told me something else, something I kept to myself: ‘The cold is the price. But you’ll never be sick again.’ And it was true. I haven’t had a runny nose since. But I also haven’t felt warm. Not even once. And every time I look at the lake, I see the ferry waiting, and I know it’s only a matter of time before I step aboard again—for good.

Derek and I are still together, but he talks to me like I’m a stranger. Sometimes, when he touches me, he shivers. And last night, I found him googling ‘exorcism for the cold.’ I didn’t tell him I’ve already made peace with it. Because out there, on the lake, I saw my reflection in the water—and it was smiling. I don’t know if it was me or the other me, but it was happy. And that’s enough.