The fishing boat should have returned before sunset.
By midnight, nearly everyone waiting at the harbor had gone home. The storm gathering beyond the mouth of the bay offered an easy explanation for the delay, and most people were willing to accept it. Experienced fishermen knew when to anchor offshore rather than challenge rough water in darkness.
Elias Crowe, the harbor’s aging dockmaster, was not convinced.
He stood near the end of the main pier with his coat buttoned to his throat and his hands buried deep inside the pockets. The wind had strengthened during the past hour, carrying the scent of rain, salt, and bait left too long in wooden barrels. Ropes strained against the cleats. Rigging tapped against empty masts, filling the harbor with an uneven chorus of metal and wood.
Two fishermen remained with him beneath the overhang of the bait house. Thomas Bell leaned against a stack of lobster traps, smoking a pipe and pretending he had not looked toward the horizon every few minutes. Beside him, his younger brother, Daniel, paced across the wet boards.
“They should have been back hours ago,” Daniel said.
Thomas removed the pipe from his mouth. “They’ve been late before.”
“Not this late.”
“There’s weather coming.”
Daniel stopped pacing. “That boat has survived worse weather than this.”
Elias kept his attention on the darkness. He had worked the harbor for more than thirty years. Boats were late all the time. Engines failed. Nets tangled. Men drank more than they should and lost track of the hour. Most delays had ordinary explanations, and ordinary explanations were easier to live with.
Still, something about that night bothered him.
The sea was too quiet between the gusts of wind. Even the gulls had abandoned the docks.
A woman waited farther up the pier, wrapped in a gray wool shawl. Margaret Hale had refused every offer to walk her home. Her husband and eldest son were both aboard the missing boat.
She caught Elias looking at her. “You think they’re safe?”
“I think they know these waters better than most,” he said.
It was not an answer, but she nodded as though it were.
Daniel moved closer to the edge of the pier. “There.”
Elias followed the direction of his outstretched hand.
At first, he saw nothing. Then a faint light appeared beyond the harbor entrance, swaying low over the water.
Thomas straightened. “That’s them.”
Relief moved across Margaret’s face so quickly that Elias almost shared it.
The boat drifted into view beneath a thin layer of fog. Its lantern remained lit near the stern, though no one stood beside it. The sail hung loose, and the vessel seemed to be moving with the current rather than under anyone’s control.
Margaret stepped toward the edge of the dock. “Henry!”
No one answered.
The boat continued forward until the hull struck one of the outer pilings with a hollow thud. It scraped along the wood before settling against the pier.
Elias grabbed a line and secured it. “Thomas, come with me. Daniel, stay here.”
Daniel ignored him and climbed aboard behind the others.
The deck was wet, but not entirely from seawater. A dark smear stretched from the stern toward the open cabin. One of the fishing nets had been torn loose and lay tangled across two overturned crates. A lantern had shattered near the railing, scattering glass across the boards.
Margaret tried to step onto the boat.
Elias blocked her path. “Wait here.”
“My husband is on that boat.”
“I know.”
“Then let me through.”
“Not yet.”
Something in his voice stopped her.
Thomas moved toward the cabin while Daniel searched the deck. “Henry?” Thomas called. “Samuel?”
There was no response.
Elias noticed several deep marks along the outer railing. They were too narrow to have been made by an anchor and too evenly spaced to be damage from rocks. He ran his thumb across one of the grooves before looking over the side of the boat.
Black water shifted below him.
For one uncomfortable moment, he had the feeling that something was staring back.
“Elias,” Thomas called.
He found them below deck.
Henry Hale lay beside the narrow table, one arm bent beneath him. Samuel Pike had fallen near the storage cabinets. Neither man moved.
Margaret heard Daniel curse and began fighting to get onto the boat.
“Henry!”
Thomas climbed back to the deck and caught her before she could reach the cabin. She struck his chest and shouted at him to release her, but he held on.
Elias knelt beside Henry. The man’s skin looked pale beneath the lantern light. There was blood on his collar, though far less than Elias expected after seeing the stains above deck.
He touched two fingers to Henry’s neck.
Nothing.
Samuel was dead as well.
Daniel stood frozen near the doorway. “What happened to them?”
Elias did not answer. He had found two small wounds beneath Henry’s jaw. They were close together, cleanly made, and surrounded by faint bruising. Samuel bore similar marks near the base of his throat.
Before Elias could examine them more closely, a weak sound came from behind a row of storage barrels.
Daniel grabbed a lantern and pushed through the cramped space. “Someone’s alive.”
They found Owen Mercer curled against the hull with both arms raised over his head. His shirt had been torn at the shoulder. Seawater dripped from his hair, though the floor around him was mostly dry.
“Owen.” Elias lowered himself beside him. “Can you hear me?”
Owen flinched at the sound of his name.
“It’s Elias. You’re back at the harbor.”
Owen slowly lowered one arm. His face was nearly colorless, and his lips had taken on a faint blue tint.
“They followed us,” he whispered.
Daniel crouched beside him. “Who followed you?”
Owen’s eyes moved toward the wooden hull as though he could see through it to the water beyond.
“We thought it was a man.”
Elias leaned closer. “What man?”
“In the sea.” Owen swallowed with difficulty. “Samuel saw him first. Thought someone had fallen overboard.”
Thomas appeared behind them. Margaret’s cries carried down from the deck, muffled by the walls of the cabin.
“What happened when you pulled him in?” Elias asked.
Owen’s stare shifted to him.
“We didn’t.”
A tremor moved through his body.
“He climbed up.”
Daniel glanced toward the narrow stairs leading to the deck. “From the water?”
Owen nodded.
“He didn’t breathe. Didn’t cough. He just held on to the side and smiled at us.”
Thomas muttered something under his breath.
“There was more than one,” Owen continued. “We heard them beneath the boat.”
Elias felt the hair rise along the back of his neck.
Owen seized the front of his coat. His grip was weak but desperate. “White eyes. That’s all I could see when they came over the rails. White eyes and teeth.”
“You’re safe now,” Elias said.
Owen shook his head so hard his teeth clicked together. “They let me go.”
No one spoke.
Elias looked toward the ceiling as a wave struck the hull.
“Why would they do that?” Daniel asked.
Owen’s fingers loosened.
“So I could tell you.”
His eyes rolled shut, and his head fell against the wood.
Daniel reached for him. “Is he dead?”
“No. He’s breathing.” Elias stood. “Get the doctor.”
Daniel hurried onto the deck.
By the time Elias climbed after him, the remaining harbor lights had drawn a small crowd. Margaret sat near the bait house with Thomas beside her, though nothing could quiet her sobs. Someone had covered Henry and Samuel before carrying them ashore.
Questions passed through the gathering faster than answers.
Pirates.
Smugglers.
A fight among the crew.
A shark attack, though no one could explain how a shark had boarded the boat.
When Daniel repeated Owen’s story, a few people laughed nervously.
Old Silas Reed did not.
He stood apart from the others, his weathered face turned toward the harbor entrance. Silas had spent most of his life fishing the outer islands and telling stories no one believed.
“My grandmother warned us about the pale ones,” he said.
Thomas stared at him. “Not tonight, Silas.”
“They hunted these waters before this town had a name.”
“They’re bedtime stories.”
Silas looked at the covered bodies on the dock. “Most bedtime stories started somewhere.”
A few men shook their heads. Someone blamed Owen’s words on blood loss and shock. Another said Silas had spent too many years alone at sea.
Elias said nothing.
He returned to the boat and stood beside the railing, staring at the marks carved into the wood. Rain began to fall, tapping softly against the deck and spreading the dark stains beneath his boots.
Farther out, something disturbed the surface.
It might have been a fish.
It might have been drifting debris caught in the current.
Elias watched until the ripples disappeared.
Behind him, the people of the harbor continued searching for explanations that allowed the world to remain ordinary. By morning, most of them would have chosen one.
The rain grew heavier. Blood thinned across the deck, slipped through the gaps between the boards, and returned quietly to the sea.