The Last Ferry to Gull Island

I never believed in ghosts. Not until three nights ago, when I stood on the dock at Blackwood Point, waiting for a ferry that had been decommissioned twenty years ago. My name is Elena, and I’ve spent my life studying folklore—specifically, the maritime legends of the northern coast. My mother, Clara, was a marine biologist who swore she saw things in the deep: shapes moving beneath the ice, lights that followed her boat. I called it stress, oxygen deprivation, the usual. But when she disappeared three years ago during a research trip, I threw myself into her work, hoping to find answers in her notes. All I found were cryptic references to a place called Gull Island, and a ferryman who apparently only appears when the fog is thick enough to swallow the moon.

I arrived at Blackwood Point with a duffel bag and a half-baked theory. The town was a husk of weathered shacks and a single diner, where the owner, an old man named Silas, eyed me like I was a bad omen. ‘You’re not going to find anything but rock and gull shit,’ he said, wiping a glass with a rag. But when I asked about the ferry, his hand stilled. ‘That boat sunk,’ he said. ‘The Maria—she went down in ’03 with all hands. No one’s run a ferry since.’ I pulled out my mother’s notes, spread them on the counter: a sketch of a small steamer with the name ‘Maria’ on the bow, and a handwritten line—’Solomon picks up at midnight. Only when the fog rolls in.’ Silas went pale. ‘Solomon Gale,’ he whispered. ‘He’s been dead for forty years. But the folks who sometimes see a light out there—the ones who go missing—they all talk to Solomon.’ I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the draft from the door.

At midnight, the fog came in from the sea like a living thing, curling around the pilings and swallowing the dock lamps. I was alone, the only sound the lapping of water and the creak of rotting wood. Then I heard it: the slow, deep toll of a bell, and the chug of an engine. Through the mist, lights appeared—two yellow lanterns swaying on a dark hull. The boat sidled up to the dock with a soft bump, and a man stood at the helm, his face in shadow beneath a wide-brimmed rain hat. ‘You the one looking for your mother?’ His voice was like gravel underwater. I nodded, heart hammering. ‘Name’s Solomon. I’ll take you to Gull Island. Fare’s a secret you don’t want to keep.’ I thought he meant money, so I offered cash. He shook his head. ‘No. A memory. The worst one you’ve got. You give that to me, and I’ll bring you there.’ I thought of my mother, of her face the last time I saw her before she vanished—she’d looked terrified, and she’d whispered, ‘Don’t let them take you to the island.’ I gave him my memory: the night my father left, the screaming fight, the look of broken glass on the kitchen floor. Solomon nodded, and the boat lurched forward.

The crossing took an hour, though it felt longer. The fog never lifted, and the water around the boat was black as oil, but I could see shapes beneath—long, pale forms that circled like eels, or maybe arms. Solomon said nothing, just steered with a gnarled hand on the wheel. When we reached Gull Island, it was a gray stone hump rising from the sea, covered with screaming gulls that fell silent as we approached. A single dock, rotten and green, led to a path of crushed shells. Solomon tied the boat. ‘She’ll be in the lighthouse,’ he said. ‘But be careful. The island collects things. Memories. People. They don’t always leave.’ I stepped onto the dock, and the moment I did, the air turned cold, and I heard my mother’s voice from somewhere ahead, calling my name.

The path wound through dripping trees and brambles, and the lighthouse loomed—tall, black, with a lantern that was dark. The door was unlocked, and inside, the air was thick with dust and the smell of salt and rot. I climbed the spiral stairs, my footsteps echoing. At the top, in a bare room with a round window, I found my mother. She was sitting on a crate, her hair gray, her eyes sunken. She looked at me as if she’d been expecting me. ‘Elena,’ she said, her voice like wind through dry grass. ‘You shouldn’t have come.’ I rushed to her, but when I reached out, my hand passed through her. She smiled, a terrible smile. ‘I’ve been here since I died,’ she said. ‘Solomon takes the living, but the dead he keeps. I thought I could find the other side, but this is all there is. You have to leave before he comes back. He’ll take your worst memory, and that’s all you’ll be.’

I heard footsteps on the stairs, slow and heavy. Solomon’s voice echoed up: ‘You’ve seen her. Now, you’ll stay.’ I looked at my mother—or the ghost of her—and she pointed to a window. ‘Jump. The water will take you, but only if you believe it’s a way out.’ I hesitated. The thought of leaping into that black sea terrified me, but the footsteps grew closer. I ran to the window, shattered the glass with a chair, and looked down at the churning water. Solomon burst into the room, his rain hat gone, revealing a face of rotted skin and hollow eyes. ‘You owe me a memory!’ he snarled. But I gave him one already, and I wasn’t going to give him my life. I jumped.

The cold hit me like a fist, and I sank into darkness. But instead of drowning, I felt something solid beneath my feet—a sandy shelf. I pushed upward, and broke the surface to see the lighthouse behind me, but the island was gone. I was alone in the open sea, a fishing boat bobbing nearby. A man shouted, and they reeled me in, wrapped me in blankets. They said I’d been adrift for two days, that they’d seen a light and followed it. I told them about Solomon, the island, my mother. They exchanged glances—they thought I was crazy. But as we sailed back to Blackwood Point, I looked at my reflection in a porthole, and I saw my face, but for a moment, it was my mother’s face, and she was crying.

Now I’m home, in my apartment, typing this at 4 a.m. I haven’t slept. Every time I close my eyes, I see the lighthouse, and I hear a bell tolling from the mist. And I remember something I had forgotten: I didn’t give Solomon my worst memory. I gave him a lie. My worst memory was the night my mother vanished—she called me, and I didn’t answer because I was angry. Her last words were ‘I love you.’ I heard them, and I let it ring. Solomon might still be out there, waiting. The fog is rolling in past my window, and I think I hear the chug of an engine. But what scares me most is not that he’ll come—it’s that part of me wants to go back to the island, because the only thing that keeps me human is holding onto that memory. And if he takes it, I’ll be nothing at all.

I’m going to write this down, and then I’m going to burn it. Not because it will help. But because I have to leave something behind, in case I don’t come back. And if you’re reading this—if anyone finds this note—know that Gull Island is real. The ferry doesn’t run. But Solomon will always come when the fog is thick. And he will always ask for your worst memory. Do not lie. It’s the only thing you’ll have left.