The Last Ferry to Bainbridge

I never understood the appeal of prom. The rented tuxedos, the corsages wilting in the heat, the desperate need to be seen. I was nineteen, a year out of high school, and the whole ritual felt like a costume party for people who were already playing pretend. So when my mom suggested we take a trip to the Pacific Northwest to see the Kurt Cobain exhibit at the Museum of Pop Culture, I jumped at it. I’d been saving my tip money from two summers of waiting tables, and the thought of standing in the shadow of that Seattle skyline, of walking the same streets where he found his noise, was more real to me than any slow dance.

We flew into Portland first, a city of rain-slicked streets and food carts. Mom had booked us a little Airbnb in a neighborhood called Alberta, all bungalows and murals and the smell of fresh coffee. For two days we wandered, hitting Powell’s Books and the Saturday Market, where I bought a thrift-store flannel that smelled like someone else’s life. But the real destination was Seattle, and the ferry ride from Bainbridge was the first step.

We took the ferry from Bainbridge Island, a forty-minute crossing that felt like leaving the world behind. The water was grey and choppy, and the wind bit through my jacket. As the city rose on the horizon, a cluster of glass towers punched into the clouds, I felt a nervous flutter in my chest. We were going to see the Kurt Cobain exhibit, and then, if we had time, we’d hit the Ghost Adventures location.

I’d been a fan of the show since I was fifteen. There was something about how they chased the paranormal with flashlights and EMF readers that made me feel less alone in my own anxieties. The Seattle location was the old Northern Life Hotel, a building that had been abandoned for decades, rumored to be haunted by the ghost of a little girl. Mom, ever indulgent, promised we’d have dinner there after the exhibit.

The exhibit was overwhelming. Guitars in glass cases, handwritten lyrics, a flannel shirt that seemed to hang with the weight of his absence. I stood in front of a notebook page of ‘Something in the Way’ and felt my throat tighten. Mom squeezed my hand and said, ‘He was just a boy who made noise, but the noise mattered.’ We spent four hours there, and by the time we left, the city lights were starting to fizzle on.

Dinner at the Northern Life was an oddity. The hotel had been converted partially into a restaurant and a ‘ghost tour’ attraction, with velvet ropes cordoning off the upper floors. We ate in the basement, which had been turned into a moody, dimly lit dive bar. The walls were exposed brick, the tables were old oak, and a single TV played a loop of the Ghost Adventures episode filmed there. Mom laughed at the dramatic music, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that the air was too still, like the building was holding its breath.

After our meal, the manager offered us a private tour of the upper floors. Mom was all for it, but I hesitated. The episode had shown the little girl’s room on the third floor, where investigators had recorded EVPs of a child humming. I told myself it was just a building, but as we climbed the creaking stairs, my skin prickled.

The third floor hallway was lined with peeling wallpaper and a single flickering bulb. The door to the girl’s room was open. Inside, there was a child-sized rocking chair, a tarnished music box, and a window that faced a brick wall. The tour guide, a bored-looking college kid, said, ‘This is where she was found, but they never confirmed it was actually her.’ He shrugged. ‘People say they hear humming.’

Mom walked over to the music box and, without thinking, wound it up. It played a tinny, broken lullaby. I felt a shiver down my spine, and I knew I wasn’t just imagining it. The temperature dropped, and I could see my breath. ‘Can we go?’ I asked, my voice a little high.

The guide nodded, and we hurried back down. As we walked to the ferry terminal, I couldn’t shake the hum. It was stuck in my head, a melody that didn’t quite fit any song I knew. The ferry was late, delayed by high winds, so we stood in the terminal, watching the lights flicker on the water.

When the ferry finally arrived, it was nearly empty. We found a seat in the main cabin, away from the few other passengers. The boat lurched, and I felt a wave of nausea. I tried to hum the lullaby to calm myself, but the notes came out wrong. Mom looked at me strangely. ‘You’ve been humming that since we left,’ she said. I hadn’t realized. I stopped, but the melody wouldn’t leave my head.

The crossing was rough. The boat pitched and rolled, and I gripped the armrest. Through the windows, I could see the dark water, and I noticed something floating just below the surface. A flash of white, like a dress. I told myself it was just a plastic bag. But the shape was wrong.

We docked at Seattle, and I breathed a sigh of relief. But as we walked down the gangplank, I felt a cold spot, like a pocket of winter in the middle of summer. I turned, and for just a second, I saw a small, pale face pressed against the cabin window. Then it was gone.

We drove to our hotel, a modern high-rise near the Space Needle. I didn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the girl, and the humming filled my ears. I felt like I was drowning in it. In the morning, I had scratched marks on my arms, and I didn’t remember doing it.

At breakfast, Mom noticed the scratches and went pale. ‘We should go,’ she said, her voice tight. ‘I think we’re not wanted here.’ We cut our trip short. We packed and drove to the airport, but as we passed the ferry terminal, I saw the little girl standing at the edge of the dock, waving. She was wearing a white dress, and she was smiling.

On the plane, I tried to hum the lullaby again, but this time it came out as a scream. The passengers turned to stare. Mom held my hand, and I saw fear in her eyes. I haven’t hummed since, but the girl is always with me now. Sometimes, when it’s quiet, I feel a cold spot on my neck, and I know she’s found me.

I crossed off the Ghost Adventures location, but I never watched the show again. And I never rode the ferry back. The last thing I remember from Seattle is the hum, and the girl, and the way the water closed over her head as the boat pulled away.