The Widow’s Drain

I live in the coastal town of Saltmarsh, a place that sits on the edge of a sprawling salt marsh. The town is riddled with drainage ditches, concrete channels that carry the runoff from the relentless winter storms. They’re deep enough to hide a man, and they snake through the town like veins. On the day it happened, it was late November, just after the last storm had passed. The air was still thick with moisture, and the sky was a dull, bruised purple. I usually walked my dog, a labrador named Rex, but he’d injured his paw on some broken glass, so I was walking alone, something I rarely did.

It was about 4:30 in the afternoon, and the light was already fading. I was crossing a narrow footbridge that spanned one of the main ditches, the one that ran behind the old fish cannery. The water below was murky and slow, choked with debris. That’s when I heard it: a heavy, rhythmic breathing, like someone was exerting themselves. It came from the ditch below. My first thought was a vagrant, but the sound was too regular, too purposeful. I slowed down, leaned over the railing, and peered into the gloom.

There was a figure huddled in the shadow of the culvert, half-submerged in the water. It was too dark to see clearly, but it seemed to be wearing a long, dark coat, and its head was bowed. As my eyes adjusted, I realized it was rocking back and forth, and the breathing was coming from it. I called out, ‘Hey, you okay down there?’

The figure stopped rocking. Slowly, it raised its head. I saw a pale face, gaunt and streaked with mud, but the eyes were the worst. They were wide and white, and they stared straight at me with an intensity that made my blood freeze. Then it spoke, in a voice that was barely a whisper, yet carried clearly: ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’

I should have run, but I was rooted to the spot. The figure began to climb up the concrete wall of the ditch, its movements unsettlingly fluid, like a spider. It reached the top and stood before me, only a few feet away. It was tall, and it smelled of stagnant water and something else, something sweet and rotten. It was then I noticed the rope around its neck, a frayed noose that hung down its chest.

I stumbled back, trying to get away, but my foot caught on a loose stone, and I fell hard on the bridge. The figure loomed over me, its head tilted at an unnatural angle. ‘You walk here every day,’ it said, its voice now wet and gurgling, ‘but you never look down. You never see us.’

I scrambled to my feet and ran. I didn’t look back until I was home, locked inside my house. I told my wife, but she thought I’d imagined it, maybe a trick of the light. But I couldn’t shake it. The next day, I went back to the bridge. The ditch was empty, but on the concrete edge, there was a small pile of stones, arranged in a pattern that looked like a face. And I noticed that the rocks were not just any stones, but chunks of coral, which don’t belong in this area.

Over the next week, I found more of these stone faces. One outside my front door, one on my car’s windshield, and one at my desk at work. Each time, the face seemed to be crying, with lines etched into the stone. I started having nightmares of being underwater, surrounded by those pale faces, their mouths open in silent screams.

I went to the local library, dug through old newspapers. I found an article about a man named Elias Wainwright, a hermit who lived in a shack by the marsh. He was found dead in the ditch, apparently a suicide, hanging from the bridge. That was ten years ago. The article said he had no family, no friends, and was buried in a pauper’s grave.

I knew I had to confront it. I went to the marsh, to the spot where his shack used to be. All that was left was a concrete foundation, covered in vines. As I stood there, I felt a cold hand on my shoulder. I turned, and there he was, the man from the ditch. Only now, his face was clear, and his eyes were not white but black, like the water. ‘You found me,’ he said. ‘Now you must take my place.’

He pushed me, and I fell backwards into the marsh. The water closed over my head, and I felt his hands around my neck, dragging me down. I struggled, but he was too strong. The last thing I saw was his face, smiling, as I drowned.

But I didn’t die. I woke up on the bank, sputtering. I was alone, and the sun was setting. I stumbled home, but when I looked in the mirror, I saw the rope marks around my neck. And now, when I walk the streets, I see them, the faces in the ditches, watching me. They know I’m one of them now. And I know that one day, I’ll have to find a successor, or I’ll be trapped in that cold, dark trench forever.