The Last Ferry to Duskwood

It was the tail end of a bitter November, and the village of Hollowbrook had been buried under a week of unrelenting fog. My younger sister, Maeve, and I—both of us shivering in our thin coats—had decided to take the long way home from the mill, our boots crunching on the frosted gravel. We were close, despite our frequent squabbles over the last biscuit or the television remote. That evening, though, the cold had made us allies. We walked in silence, our breath pluming like ghosts, until we reached the old stone bridge that arched over the Duskwater River.

Hollowbrook was a dying town, its mill shuttered, its young folk gone. The only life left was the ferryman, Old Crone, who ran a small rowboat across the river for the few souls who still needed to cross. But tonight, the river was too thick with ice for any boat, and the ferryman’s hut stood dark and empty. Maeve and I paused at the bridge’s midpoint, peering into the murky water below. The fog was so dense that the far bank was invisible, and the only sound was the water’s slow gurgle.

‘I dare you to say his name three times,’ Maeve said, a mischievous glint in her eyes. She was always daring me, and I, the older brother, felt obligated to accept. ‘Old Crone, Old Crone, Old Crone,’ I whispered, half-laughing. The sound of my own voice seemed to trail off into the fog, and for a moment, nothing happened. Then, from the river’s edge, came a shuffling sound—like wet boots dragging over stone.

We spun around. At the bank, just below the bridge, a figure stood. It was tall, wrapped in a long coat that seemed to swallow the light, its face hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat. It didn’t move, just stood there, as if waiting. My heart hammered. Maeve grabbed my arm. ‘Who’s that?’ she breathed. I shook my head, my mouth dry. The figure lifted one hand, slowly, and beckoned. Its fingers were long, impossibly pale, and they crooked in a gesture that made my skin crawl.

We should have run, but our legs were frozen. The figure began to walk—not toward us, but along the riverbank, its steps uneven, as if one leg was shorter. It stopped at a spot where the ice had cracked, revealing dark, churning water. Then it turned its head, and even from a distance, I could see the gaping hole in its face where a mouth should have been. It pointed at the water, then at us, and then it vanished into the fog.

We stumbled back to our house, a rambling old cottage with a kitchen that had once been a dairy. We didn’t speak, but we both knew we’d seen something wrong. Inside, we bolted the door and tried to warm ourselves by the range. But the chill had settled deep. Maeve said she heard a clatter from the pantry, but when we checked, nothing was out of place. I told her it was just the wind. But we both knew the wind didn’t sound like that—like a dragging, shuffling weight.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in my bed, listening to the house creak and groan, until I heard a sound that made my blood run cold: the slow, rhythmic scrape of footsteps in the corridor below. They moved from the front door to the kitchen, and then stopped. I crept to the top of the stairs and peered down. The kitchen door was ajar, and a sliver of moonlight showed me the figure from the river—standing beside the pantry, its head tilted as if listening. Its hand was on the door handle.

I screamed, and the figure dissolved like smoke. Maeve rushed out, and we spent the rest of the night huddled in my room, the lights burning bright. In the morning, we found the pantry door open, and on the stone floor lay a single, sodden fishing boot—the kind Old Crone had worn. But Old Crone had died twenty years ago, drowned in the river. We never spoke of it again, but every time the river fogged over, we heard that shuffling, dragging sound, and we knew the ferryman was still waiting for his last fare.