The Stick That Stayed Dry

The morning fog clung to the salt flats like a second skin, muffling the distant gabble of gulls. I walked the narrow spit of land that jutted into the gray sea, a familiar ritual with my border collie, Pip. The air smelled of brine and decay, and the only sound was the soft crunch of my boots on the pebbled shore and the jingle of Pip’s collar as she ranged ahead, nose to the ground.

Then came a sound that didn’t belong: a low, rushing whoosh, like a wave sucked backward over a long stretch of shingle. I turned, expecting a rogue breaker, but instead saw a dog — a sinewy, rust-colored setter — trotting toward me with a long, waterlogged branch in its jaws. Its coat was dry, impossibly dry, and it moved with a stiff-legged gait, as if its joints were cold. It paid Pip no mind, though Pip had frozen mid-sniff, her ears flattened, a low growl rumbling in her throat.

The setter stopped a few paces away, dropped the branch at my feet, and looked up at me with eyes that were too pale, like sea glass. I glanced around for an owner, but the flats stretched empty in every direction, the few distant figures of other walkers blurred by the mist. Something about the dog’s stillness made my skin prickle. It didn’t pant, didn’t wag its tail — it just stood there, a carven thing of bone and fur.

I bent to pick up the branch, more to break the tension than anything else. It was heavier than it looked, and cold, with a faint oily sheen that didn’t smear when I wiped it with my thumb. The bark was smooth as polished stone, and when I gripped it, I felt a pulse — a slow, rhythmic thrum, as if the wood were alive. I threw it, a clumsy toss that sent it skittering across the shingle, and the setter loped after it with a mechanical grace.

But it didn’t pick it up. It stopped at the branch, lowered its head, and nosed it — then turned and looked back at me, its pale eyes fixed on mine. A shiver ran down my spine, and I called to Pip, who had backed away, belly low, still growling. The setter picked up the branch and trotted back, dropping it at my feet again. I threw it once more, farther this time. Same result: it fetched, but would not bring it back until it had paused, staring at something beyond me.

I turned to follow its gaze. The fog had thickened, but I could make out a dark shape far down the beach — a figure, standing absolutely still at the water’s edge. It was too far to see clearly, but something about its posture was wrong: the head cocked at an unnatural angle, the arms hanging too long. I looked back at the setter, but it was gone. Vanished, as if it had never been.

Pip was trembling now, a low whine escaping her. I hurried toward the figure, my heart thumping, calling out, but my voice was swallowed by the fog. The figure didn’t move. As I drew closer, I saw it was a man, or what had once been a man — his skin was slick and gray, his eyes clouded like a fish’s, and he wore the tattered remains of a wetsuit. He held the same branch I had thrown, but now it was dripping wet, strands of seaweed tangled in the bark.

He raised the branch slowly, pointing it at me. A single word escaped his lips, a word I couldn’t hear but felt in my bones: ‘Throw.’ I backed away, grabbing Pip by the collar, and ran. When I finally dared to look back, the figure was gone, and the branch lay on the sand where I had dropped it — dry, smooth, and warm to the touch.

I never walked that stretch of flats again. But sometimes, on foggy mornings, I hear that whooshing sound, and I see Pip’s ears flatten, her eyes fixed on something I cannot see. And I wonder if the stick is still there, waiting for someone to pick it up and throw it one more time.