The Plank of Still Water

I woke with a start, my eyes snapping open in the pitch black. The first thing I noticed was the angle of my body—not lying flat, not sitting up, but suspended at a forty-five degree incline, as if I were a plank propped against an invisible wall. My stomach muscles were relaxed, my back supported by something that felt solid yet intangible, like compressed air. Panic flickered, but my mind, trained to find logic, clamped down. I tried to move—lift an arm, wiggle a toe—but my limbs were lead. It was as if my bed had risen with me, a phantom platform beneath my spine.

I was in my cabin on the research vessel, the ‘Albatross’, anchored in the middle of the Sargasso Sea. We were here to study the floating kelp forests, but the water had been unnervingly calm for days, a glassy stillness that felt wrong. I’d gone to bed alone, after a dinner of tinned fish and stale crackers, the crew already asleep. Now, I was frozen in this impossible pose, my eyes straining to see through the darkness.

Rationalization was my only weapon. I thought of sleep paralysis—yes, that had to be it. But sleep paralysis doesn’t hold you at an angle, and I could feel the pressure against my back, not the soft mattress. I tried to grit my teeth, to flex my fingers, but nothing responded. The silence was absolute, broken only by the distant hum of the ship’s engines, a sound that suddenly seemed far too quiet. I listened, and realized the engines were off. We were dead in the water.

Minutes passed—or maybe hours—and then, without warning, I was released. I collapsed onto the mattress, gasping, my heart pounding. I lay there, trembling, for a long time, before I dared to move. When I did, I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood. The floor was cold under my bare feet. I walked to the porthole and peered out. The moon was a hazy glow behind wispy clouds, illuminating a sea that was impossibly flat. Not a ripple. Not a wave. It looked like black glass.

A sound from behind me—a soft, wet slither. I spun around, but the cabin was empty. The door was ajar, a sliver of light from the corridor spilling in. I hadn’t left it open. I crept forward, my heart in my throat, and peered out. The corridor was empty, but the floor was slick with what looked like seaweed, dark and glistening. I followed the trail, my bare feet leaving prints, until it ended at the laboratory door.

I pushed it open. The lab was a mess—beakers shattered, papers scattered, and a thick, jelly-like substance coating the floor. It smelled of brine and decay. And there, in the center of the room, was a body—one of the crew, a man named Elias, his face locked in a rictus of terror, his arms outstretched as if he’d been trying to swim through the muck. He was rigid, like a statue, and his skin had a waxy, translucent sheen. I knelt down and touched his hand. It was cold and hard, like petrified wood. I felt a scream building in my throat, but I choked it back.

I ran. I ran through the corridors, calling out for the others, but the ship was a ghost. Every cabin was empty, every bunk untouched. I finally reached the bridge. The captain’s chair was overturned, and the instruments were dead. On the main console, someone had carved a message with a knife: ‘IT HOLDS YOU STILL.’

I felt a prickling on the back of my neck. I turned slowly. Through the front windows, I saw the sea. It was no longer black. It was a sickly green, and it was covered in a thick, undulating mat of kelp—but not the normal kind. These fronds were thick, like arms, and they were reaching up, up toward the hull. And in the darkness beneath the waves, I saw shapes—pale, humanoid shapes, floating just below the surface, their arms outstretched, as if waiting to embrace.

I backed away from the window, but then I felt it again—that invisible pressure against my back. I tried to move, but I was frozen, my body tilting backward, being drawn toward the door. The kelp was creeping over the deck, sliding under the door, snaking around my ankles. I was lifted, slowly, my arms pinned to my sides, my head craned forward. I was being carried, like a offering, toward the nearest porthole. Through it, I saw the pale shapes converging on the ship.

I couldn’t close my eyes. I watched as the kelp pressed against the glass, and I saw a face press up against it, its eyes milky, its mouth open in a silent cry. It was Elias. But it wasn’t. It was something wearing his skin.

And then the glass cracked.

I don’t remember the water. I don’t remember the cold. I only remember the stillness. The absolute, unending stillness, as I was held, suspended, at that angle, forever, in the quiet depths of the sea.