The Last Ferryman’s Call

In the autumn of 2024, the leaves on Maple Street had turned a sickly yellow, as if the trees themselves were wasting away. My mother, Clara, had been ill for months, her body slowly giving up on her. I, her son Daniel, had moved back to our small town of Ashford to care for her. We were not a family given to flights of fancy; we spoke plainly, and death was no exception. So when Clara told me one morning that she had dreamed of her uncle, old Martin, who had died in a fishing accident decades ago, I listened.

She sat at the kitchen table, her hands wrapped around a mug of tea that she barely touched. ‘Daniel,’ she said, her voice steady, ‘Uncle Martin came to me last night. He was standing at the foot of my bed, wearing his yellow raincoat, dripping wet. He said, ‘Clara, the ferry leaves at dawn. Be ready.’ I knew what she meant. It was not a dream of warning but of summons. In our family, these visitations were taken as truth. My mother had always said that Martin was the harbinger, appearing only when the end was near.

I tried to process this, to wrap my mind around the reality that my mother, who had been fighting her illness with quiet determination, was now preparing to leave. She asked me to sell her beloved rose garden statues, the ones she had collected from every corner of the world. ‘They will need a new home,’ she said, ‘and I will not need them where I am going.’ I did as she asked, posting them online, watching strangers carry away pieces of her life. It was a strange, hollow ritual.

As the days passed, Clara’s condition worsened, but her mind remained clear. She spoke of the ferry, of the dark water, and of Martin waiting for her. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something else was in the house with us. At night, I would hear the floorboards creak, and once, I caught a whiff of saltwater and diesel, like the harbor where Martin had drowned. I told myself it was my imagination, but the dread grew.

One evening, as I sat by her bedside, she reached out and grasped my hand with surprising strength. ‘Daniel,’ she whispered, ‘the ferryman doesn’t just take the dying. He takes the living who are not ready. You must not listen to him.’ I asked her what she meant, but she closed her eyes, and soon she was asleep. I could not interpret her words, but they chilled me.

The next night, I had a dream. I was standing on a misty shore, the water black and still. A small boat approached, piloted by a figure in a ragged cloak. As it drew near, I saw it was not Martin, but a man with a gaunt face and hollow eyes. He called out, ‘Daniel, the cargo is heavy. Help me row.’ I felt an irresistible pull to step into the boat. Just as my foot touched the water, I woke, gasping, soaked in sweat.

I went to my mother’s room, but she was gone. The bed was empty, the sheets cold. I searched the house, but she was nowhere. Then I saw the back door open, leading to the garden. I stepped out into the cold morning air, and there, among her roses, lay a single yellow raincoat, dripping as if just taken off the sea. I knew she had gone with the ferryman.

The visitations did not end with her death. Every night since, I see the boat, and the figure calls my name. The ferryman is still waiting, and I fear that he is not just for the dying. Last night, I saw my reflection in the mirror, and for a moment, my face was gaunt, my eyes hollow. I am not ready, but I hear the water lapping at the shore, and I wonder how long I can resist before I, too, must take the journey. The yellow raincoat hangs in my closet, and sometimes, it is wet again.

Now, it is November, and the leaves have fallen, leaving the trees bare like skeletons. I have not slept in days, but every time I close my eyes, I see the ferry, and I hear the call. The last ferryman’s call is not a whisper; it is a command that echoes in the bones. I am afraid that soon, I will answer, and there will be no one left to tell the tale of how the living can be taken, not just the dead. So I write this, a warning to all who might read it: if the ferryman comes to you, do not listen. And if he shows you a yellow raincoat, run. Because the dead are not the only ones who can hear his call.

I hear him now, outside my window. The night is still, but I can hear the creak of oars, and the splash of water. He is here. And I am not ready. But maybe, none of us ever are.