The Night the Sea Gave Back

The summer of my thirteenth year, my family and I rented a weathered fisherman’s cottage on the island of Iona, off the west coast of Scotland. The cottage, called ‘The Anchorage,’ sat on a cliff overlooking the churning Atlantic. There were whispers in the village, of a girl who had disappeared there decades ago, a girl named Morag, who had been seen walking the cliff path on the eve of the summer solstice, never to be seen again. We dismissed the murmurs as tourist folklore, too wrapped up in the promise of seaside adventures.

My cousin, Alistair, and I were given the attic bedroom, a cramped space with a single skylight that looked out onto the restless sea. The first night, we were woken by the sound of something heavy scraping across the floor below us—like furniture being dragged. Then a crash, as if a stack of clay pots had fallen. My aunt ran up, blaming us for being clumsy. We were too groggy to argue, and after we’d tidied up the strewn kitchenware, we fell back asleep.

The following nights were silent, and we began to relax. Then, on the ninth evening, we returned late from a ceilidh in the village, the salt breeze potent and the moon a sliver. Alistair volunteered to sleep in the main living area by the peat stove, while I climbed the ladder to the attic. As I settled into the narrow bed, I glanced out the skylight. A face was pressed against the glass—a young girl, perhaps thirteen, with dark, water-soaked hair plastered to her cheeks. Her eyes were wide and pale as if drained, and her lips moved but no sound came. She was floating, not standing, just above the windowsill, and as I watched, she raised a hand and pressed it flat against the glass, leaving a smear of something dark and glistening.

I froze, my breath caught. I tried to scream, but my voice was a whisper. The girl tilted her head, and I saw her lips form the words: ‘you took my place.’ Then she was gone, leaving only the smear that dried into a crust of salt by morning. I convinced myself it was a dream—a trick of the moon and sea fog. But Alistair swore he’d heard a girl crying under the floorboards all night.

The next day, we explored the coast. At the base of the cliff, we discovered a small, hidden cove, accessible only by a narrow, slippery path. On the sand lay a tangle of old fishing nets and a child’s shoe, crusted with barnacles. Alistair picked it up, and inside was a piece of paper, folded and soaked but still legible. It was a crude map, marking a spot just offshore. ‘She wants us to find her,’ he said, his voice trembling.

That night, we took a small rowboat from the cottage’s rickety jetty. The sea was eerily calm, the water like black glass. We rowed to the marked spot, about a hundred yards out. Alistair leaned over the side with a lantern. There, below, was a pale shape—a body, caught in the anchor chain of a long-sunken boat. As we watched, the shape stirred, and a face turned up to meet us. It was the girl. Her eyes were open, and they were filled with a cold, ancient rage.

We tried to row away, but the boat wouldn’t move. The water began to churn around us, and a voice rose from the depths—a voice like the grinding of stones—’You came. Now you must stay.’ I looked at Alistair, and I saw that his features were shifting, blurring, his skin taking on a translucent, watery hue. I glanced down at my own hands; they too were dissolving, becoming droplets, merging with the sea. I saw the cottage on the cliff, and in the attic window, a girl—she was watching, and for a moment, she smiled.

We are now part of the sea, my cousin and I. We wait beneath the waves, and when the summer solstice comes, we rise to the surface, hoping that some new family in the anchorage will look out their skylight and see us, just as we saw her. And maybe, one day, one of them will take our place.