The Last Ferry to San Isidro

It was the first of November, the day when the dead are said to wander among the living, and we were all gathered in the old house in the village of San Isidro, a place that seemed to cling to the side of a misty mountain. The house, built by my great-great-grandfather, stood at the edge of a dark, deep lake, and behind it rose a forest that even the oldest villagers avoided after sunset. The tradition was to light candles in the windows and on the graves in the cemetery on the hill, to leave out food for the souls, and to lock the doors early, for they said that on this night, the veil was thin, and the dead walked the paths they knew in life.

My eldest sister, Elena, had to travel from the distant city of Baler, and she’d taken the last ferry across the lake, arriving just as the orange sun dipped below the ridges. She was exhausted, having spent hours in the bone-jarring bus ride and the slow, creaking ferry. Her face was pale, and she shivered as she stepped into the warm kitchen, where my mother and I and our younger twin brothers, Marco and Luis, were preparing the sticky rice cakes. My mother, Rosalinda, hugged her tightly, but I noticed a shadow in Elena’s eyes, something she tried to hide with a smile. She said the ferry had been unusually quiet, and the ferryman, an old man she’d never seen before, had spoken to her in a language she didn’t recognize, and he’d pointed to the deep water and said, ‘They are waiting.’ We dismissed it as travel weariness.

That night, we all planned to sleep in the large room on the second floor, as we always did during the holidays. But my mother insisted on staying in the small room below the terrace, the room where our grandfather, Don Esteban, had died five years ago. She said she wanted to be close to his memory. Elena, too exhausted to climb the stairs, said she’d stay with my mother. So the four of us, the twins and I, went up, leaving the two of them below.

The house was old, and it groaned with every shift of the wind. The floorboards creaked. The windows rattled. But that night, the sounds were different. I lay in my bed, listening to the lake water lapping against the dock, and the occasional hoot of an owl. The twins were already breathing evenly in their sleep. But I couldn’t rest. I kept thinking about my grandfather. He had been a fisherman, and he had died in that room, his face contorted in fear. The stories said he’d seen something in the lake, something that had followed him home. And now my mother and sister were sleeping in his bed.

Sometime past midnight, I heard a sound from below. It was a scraping sound, like a chair being dragged across the floor. Then a low murmur, as if two people were speaking in hushed tones. I crept out of bed and down the stairs, barefoot, the cold wood biting my feet. The door to the terrace room was slightly ajar, and a sliver of candlelight spilled out. I peered through the crack.

My mother was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the window, her lips moving as if in prayer. Elena was standing in the middle of the room, her back to me, facing the corner where an old wooden armoire stood. She was rocking back and forth, and she was whispering. ‘Elena?’ I said, pushing the door open. They both turned to me, and my blood ran cold. Their eyes were black, not the normal brown, but deep, empty pits, and they were smiling at each other in a way that made my skin crawl.

‘Elena,’ I said again, my voice trembling. But it wasn’t her voice that answered. It was a deep, resonant voice that seemed to come from all around, ‘We have come home.’ My mother stood up, and she walked towards me, her movements jerky, like a puppet on strings. ‘We have been waiting for such a long time,’ she said, and her voice was not hers. I stumbled backward, tripping over the threshold, and fell onto the floor. They advanced, and I saw that their bare feet left wet footprints on the dry wood, as if they had just come out of the lake.

I screamed, and I heard the twins above stir. They came running down, and when they saw the scene, they froze. Marco grabbed my hand and pulled me up, and we dashed towards the front door. But the door was locked, and the key was not in the lock. It was then that I realized the house was sealed, the windows painted shut, just like the old tradition. ‘The souls have taken them,’ Luis whispered, his face white.

We ran to the kitchen, the only other exit to the yard, but the back door was also sealed, and through the glass I saw the lake. The lake was black, and on its surface, a mist was rising, and I could see shapes moving just beneath. The twins and I huddled in the corner, as the footsteps of our mother and sister echoed through the house, coming closer. The last thing I remember is the sound of the ferry bell, ringing out from the lake, and a phrase in a language I didn’t understand, but somehow I knew: ‘The last ferry has arrived.’ Then everything went dark.

The next morning, the villagers found the house empty. The candles had burned down to wax stubs, and the sticky rice cakes were untouched. The front door was unlocked, and the windows were open. There were wet footprints leading from the terrace room, across the kitchen, and down to the dock. But there was no ferry at the dock. There was only a note, written in a shaky hand, on the kitchen table. It said: ‘The last ferry to San Isidro never returns.’ No one ever saw my mother, my sister, or the twins again. I alone survived, and I tell this story to warn you: when the dead call, they do not let go. And if you ever see a ferryman pointing at the water on the first of November, do not take his ride.