The Swamp I’ve lived here my whole life. It’s not much of a place. No name, no fame.
The locals call it “the swamp,” even though it’s not. It’s a town. It feels like a swamp, though—always wet, always grey.
The air smells of salt so strong it sticks to your skin. The clouds never leave, the rain never stops, and mold creeps into everything. On the walls, the boats, even the old wooden houses.
That’s just life here. You don’t question it. You live with it.
Most people make a living off fishing. That’s been the way for centuries. There are no big offices, no schools for fancy things.
Just boats, nets, and the ocean. It’s an honest living, even if it’s tough. Pull in what you can, trade it in town.
If you’re lucky, you catch enough for bread, a couple of beers, maybe a coat for winter. If not, you tighten your belt and try again the next day. Me?
I’m a part-time fisherman, part-time tourist boat guy. I take folks out on the water—those curious enough to visit this place. There’s nothing pretty here.
No golden beaches, no clear skies. Just grey rain and black waves. But every now and then, someone shows up, drawn by the stories: spirits, monsters, curses.
Everyone loves a good scare, don’t they? People come with their cameras, notebooks, and gadgets. They ask about the history, the weird stories, the things locals never talk about.
Always digging. But something always happens to them. I’m just a fisherman.
I don’t have the answers they’re looking for, and I don’t try to stop them. My job’s simple: take them out on the boat, point out landmarks, share the safe parts of the stories, and bring them back. What they do after that is their business.
Still, I’ve seen enough to know better. Live here long enough, and you learn the rules. Not rules on paper—rules you feel in your bones.
The kind passed down in whispers. If you’re smart, you follow them. If you’re not, you don’t last long.
Take the kids, for example. They don’t play outside after dark. No one has to tell them; they just know.
It’s the same with the fishermen. There’s a stretch of water to the west we don’t fish. No one explains why.
We just don’t. And there’s a church in town—a rotting little thing with a leaning steeple. The door’s not even locked, but nobody goes inside.
Not ever. People like me don’t ask questions about these things. Questions are for tourists.
I’ve lived here long enough to know there aren’t any answers worth finding. It’s better not to dig too deep. This place isn’t kind to curiosity.
I remember one guy—a big-city type with a camera and a voice recorder. He asked me about the stories, the church, the western water. I told him what I tell everyone: “It’s just stories.
Nothing to see here. ” But he wouldn’t let it go. Kept poking around, asking the old-timers, sneaking into places he shouldn’t.
A week later, he was gone. Left town in the middle of the night, or so people said. Nobody saw him leave.
His car sat outside the inn for days. Then, one morning, it wasn’t. Just gone, like he’d never been here.
People don’t talk about it. They just shrug and move on. That’s how it is here.
This town—it has its ways. Ways you don’t mess with. Tourists think they’re chasing the supernatural, lost treasure, whatever keeps them up at night.
They think this place is like all the others they’ve read about online. But it’s not. They don’t understand: it’s not the stories that are dangerous.
It’s the place itself. This town doesn’t like outsiders. It barely tolerates the people who’ve lived here all their lives.
You keep your head down. Follow the rules. Don’t draw attention.
You survive. But I’m just a fisherman. What do I know about any of this?
I take my boat out, haul in what I can, and bring it back. When tourists come, I show them around, tell them what they want to hear, and drop them off at the dock. Nothing more, nothing less.
It’s an honest living, even if it’s not always easy. And yet, after all these years, I can’t shake the feeling there’s something about this place I’ll never understand. Something waiting in the corners where the light doesn’t reach.
Maybe it’s better that way. Maybe it’s better not to know. If you ever find yourself in this place, you’d do well to listen closely—there are rules here, and stories to go with them, and breaking either is a mistake you won’t live to make twice.
The first rule is simple: don’t swim where the dead lights are. Sometimes, on the calmest nights, faint glowing orbs appear deep below the surface. The fishermen call them “dead lights.
” They’re not fish or jellyfish—they’re something else. Some say they’re drowned souls, trapped in the dark, luring the living to join them. There’s no warning before they show up.
One moment, the water looks normal; the next, those lights glow far below. Yellow, green, white—it doesn’t matter. When you see them, you get out.
Doesn’t matter if you’re mid-dive or wading—once the dead lights appear, you leave. If you don’t, you won’t be leaving at all. People tell stories about the dead lights, warnings passed down like heirlooms.
There’s the fisherman’s wife who swore her husband was dragged under on a night when the water was smooth as glass. His boat was found adrift, nets full, but no sign of him—just faint glowing lights where his boat had been. Or the man who disappeared while swimming too far from shore.
The others said lights flickered beneath him just before he sank like a stone. Days later, his body washed up, lifeless and cold, eyes wide open, staring at nothing. Some say the dead lights are spirits of those who died at sea, angry and jealous of the living.
Others believe it’s the ocean herself, playing tricks to claim more lives. I don’t know which is true, but I’ve seen the dead lights myself, and I know better than to test them. The guy who did these tours before me told me a story once.
It happened one summer, years before I got started. He had a tourist on his boat—a guy in his twenties, all confidence and no sense. The tourist wanted to swim in the ocean “for the thrill of it.
” The old-timer warned him not to, told him it wasn’t safe to swim at night. But the tourist just laughed, said the old man was being dramatic, and jumped in anyway. The old-timer sat there, jaw clenched, watching the water.
He didn’t trust it—not at night, not in these parts. That’s when he saw them—the dead lights. Faint, glowing orbs flickering just beneath the surface, right under the tourist.
He yelled for the guy to get out, told him to grab the ladder. But the tourist just laughed again. Then the laughing stopped.
The old-timer said the tourist froze in the water, his face changing in an instant. His eyes went wide, like he was seeing something no one else could. He looked down, and then he was gone.
No splashing, no sound. Just gone. The water stilled, and the dead lights flickered out, like they were never there.
The body washed ashore days later. I’ve learned from his lesson and never taken anyone out after dark since. It’s not worth the risk.
The sea is as cruel as she is beautiful, and the dead lights are proof of that. The second rule: always put wax in your ears when passing by Salt Rock. That place is a stretch of rocks coming out of the water like broken bones.
The rocks are sharp enough to shred a boat’s hull in seconds, and shipwrecks litter the area like broken toys. It’s a place you avoid unless you absolutely have to go near it. The danger isn’t just the rocks.
It’s what you can’t see. Salt Rock is home to sirens. And no, they’re not the beautiful kind from fairy tales.
You can’t see them, but you can hear them. It starts as a low hum, something you feel in your bones before you hear it. The sound grows louder as you get closer.
It doesn’t hit all at once—it creeps in, soft at first, like a lullaby on the wind. But if you let it sink in, if you listen too long, you’re done for. The sirens’ song pulls you toward the rocks, draws you in like a moth to a flame.
You’ll think it’s the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard. By the time you realize what’s happening, your boat will be splintered, and you’ll be drowning. That’s why we use wax.
Every fisherman carries it—soft, sticky stuff to block out the sound. It’s not perfect, but it’s better than nothing. I keep a pocketful on me at all times and a tin of it on my boat.
If you see me heading out, you’ll notice me stop at the dock to press it into my ears before I go anywhere near that place. I had a tourist once—an older guy in his fifties. He’d read about the sirens online and didn’t believe in “old fishermen’s tales.
” He wanted to see the shipwrecks. He waved cash in my face, but I told him straight up: “I don’t go there, and neither should you. ” He found another boat—someone desperate enough to take the money.
I don’t know what happened out there. When they brought his boat back, he wasn’t on it. The man who took him didn’t say a word.
He just tied the boat up, got in his truck, and left town. Salt Rock has been that way as long as anyone can remember. The rocks stay sharp, the shipwrecks stay piled, and the sirens stay hungry.
No one’s ever tried to clear the wrecks or chart a safe path through. It’s not worth it. You leave it alone, like everything else around here.
This place is full of dangers, but they’re not hidden. They’re out in the open. You just have to know how to recognize them.
The rules aren’t complicated, but they’re unforgiving. Break them, and the sea will remind you who’s really in charge. The next rule is for the fishermen: always check your ropes.
You’d think rope is just rope. A simple thing, nothing special about it. But out here, ropes are lifelines.
They hold your nets, secure your boat, and make sure the catch doesn’t drift away. Without them, you’re not just losing your haul—you’re putting yourself at risk. So we check the knots, the lines, the fibers.
We don’t take chances. But sometimes, no matter how careful you are, the ropes don’t last. Fishermen talk about finding their ropes frayed or gnawed clean through, the ends marked with tiny, jagged teeth.
The old-timers call the culprits “rope biters. ” Nobody’s ever seen one, but the signs are always the same: nets floating loose, traps drifting off, and a clean bite through the thickest rope. Rope Biters are why we double-check every knot before setting out and why we don’t use cheap lines.
Some fishermen even have rituals. My uncle used to spit on the knots before tossing them overboard, swearing it kept the rope biters away. Others sprinkle salt over their nets to “bless” the lines.
Me? I just check my ropes twice, sometimes three times, before heading out. It’s worked so far.
Then there’s the hair tradition. A lot of fishermen around here grow their hair long—not for style, but for the sea. Old fishermen believe giving a piece of yourself to the sea keeps her from taking the whole of you.
They tie strands of hair into knots and throw them overboard as offerings. It distracts the creatures below, they say, giving them something to take so they don’t follow your boat. My dad taught me how to knot the strands just right, so they wouldn’t come undone before sinking.
It felt silly at first, like playing at an old superstition. But one day, when I forgot, my boat wouldn’t stop drifting. No matter how tight I tied the anchor, it kept pulling loose.
After that, I never forgot again. Call it coincidence if you want, but I’m not taking chances. Some younger guys laugh it off, calling it an old wives’ tale.
But they’ll learn. Out here, ignoring the old ways doesn’t end well. And then there’s the salt line.
This one’s different. It doesn’t happen often—maybe a handful of times in a fisherman’s life. But when it does, it stays burned in your memory forever.
On foggy days, a faint white line sometimes appears on the water. It stretches out past the horizon, like someone took chalk and drew it on the ocean. The old-timers call it the salt line.
They say it’s a border—a line between our world and something else. Crossing it takes you to waters you can’t return from. The waters past the salt line aren’t part of our world anymore.
They’re something else. And once you’re there, you’re gone for good. I remember hearing about a boat that went missing when I was a kid.
A small fishing crew, three men, vanished after a fog rolled in. Days later, their boat was spotted drifting near the salt line. Some fishermen swore they saw the crew waving for help, but nobody went near it.
They knew better. The boats past the salt line aren’t alive anymore. The wood looks too old, too rotten, but the boats still float.
And the people—if you can call them that—don’t look right either. They’re pale, like they’ve been underwater too long, and their movements are jerky, wrong. If you ever see a boat past the salt line, turn around.
Don’t wave back. Don’t call out. Don’t go near it.
And if someone waves to you from one of those boats? Ignore them. They’re dead, even if they don’t know it yet.
I’ve only seen the salt line once. Early one morning, with fog so thick you couldn’t see ten feet ahead, I spotted it—a thin white line cutting across the water. It didn’t look like much, just a faint shimmer, but the sight of it made my stomach drop.
I reeled my nets in faster than I ever had and turned the boat around. Didn’t matter that the catch wasn’t finished—I wasn’t sticking around to find out what was on the other side. On my way back, I thought I saw something in the fog.
A shadow of a boat, maybe, drifting near the salt line. I didn’t slow down to check. Didn’t look too hard.
Just kept going. When I told the other fishermen what I’d seen, they nodded like it was nothing new. One clapped me on the back and told me I did the right thing.
I’ve never gone out in the fog since. If it rolls in while I’m on the water, I head straight back. The sea can keep her secrets.
I don’t need to know them. The last rule is the simplest, but maybe the most important: never go near the lighthouse. It sits on a barren island—a lonely black shape against the horizon.
Nothing grows there. No trees, no grass, not even the stubborn plants that cling to rocks everywhere else. The island is dead.
Even birds avoid it, going miles out of their way. Fishermen do the same. You’d have to be desperate, or stupid, to get close.
The lighthouse has been abandoned for as long as I’ve been alive. Nobody talks about why. Some say the keeper vanished one night without a trace.
Others claim the lighthouse was never meant to guide ships at all. Whatever the truth, everyone agrees: it’s cursed. You don’t go there, you don’t look too long, and you don’t trust the light if it comes on.
The light shouldn’t come on. There’s nobody there to turn it on. The dock has rotted away, and the only boat big enough to make the trip sank years ago.
But sometimes, late at night, the light shines anyway. It cuts through the fog, sharp and searching, like it’s looking for someone. If you have binoculars, you can spot strange items scattered across the island.
A red backpack. A yellow notepad. A pair of sneakers.
A hair comb. Little things that don’t belong. People say they’re the belongings of those who drowned or disappeared near the lighthouse.
Tourists, mostly. People who didn’t know better—or thought they could handle it. The first time I saw the light, I was fifteen.
It was late, well past dark, and I was sitting on the dock with friends, watching the waves. The rain had let up, and the quiet was heavy, the way it gets around here sometimes. Then the light came on.
At first, it was faint, barely noticeable through the fog. Then it grew brighter, sweeping back and forth across the water. Daniel joked that the lighthouse was “coming back to life.
” He laughed, but there was nervousness in his voice. None of us said anything. We just stared.
Finally, Jimmy—an older kid who already worked on the fishing boats—stood up. He didn’t hesitate. He told us to look away, grabbed my arm, and pulled me to my feet.
Jimmy had the kind of authority that came from knowing things we didn’t. None of us questioned him. We followed him back to town without a word.
When we got there, he told us plainly: we were never to talk about what we’d seen. The light, he warned, wasn’t something to trust. It wasn’t guiding anyone.
It was tricking them. I didn’t understand what he meant back then, but I do now. The lighthouse doesn’t guide you to safety—it lures you in.
And if you follow it, you don’t come back. There are plenty of stories about those who didn’t listen. Like the couple who thought the lighthouse was “romantic.
” They rented a small boat and rowed out, ignoring every warning. When the fog rolled in, they vanished. Days later, their boat was found drifting near the lighthouse.
It was empty. Then there was the local who decided to camp on the island. He said the stories were “old superstitions.
” He rowed out with a tent and supplies, determined to prove there was nothing to fear. By morning, his boat had washed up on shore. He hadn’t.
All anyone found was his flashlight, lying in the sand with dead batteries. I’ve seen the light a few times since that night on the dock. I don’t look directly at it anymore.
I turn away, focus on something else, and wait for it to go out. It always does. Nobody knows why it happens.
Some say the lighthouse has a will of its own, turning on when it senses someone nearby. Others think it’s a signal—a way of calling something back to the island. Whatever the reason, the rule stays the same: you don’t go near it.
Let the lighthouse stand, alone and forgotten. The sea has enough dangers without adding that to the list. And if you ever see the light, shining out through the fog, just remember: no one is manning that lighthouse.
Whatever’s turning that light on, it isn’t human. There’s one last story I need to tell, about how I lost my right hand. I don’t share it often, but if you’re going to understand the rules—their real weight—you need to know.
It happened on a gray summer day, years ago. Tourist season, if you could call it that. This town doesn’t get floods of visitors, but now and then, strangers pass through.
They’re easy to spot—clean clothes, wide eyes, like they’re looking at a painting instead of a real place. That summer, there were more than usual. It happens sometimes when the stories about this place get passed around too much.
Rumors spark curiosity, and suddenly people want to see it for themselves. At first, it was fine. It always is.
We sold more fish, the souvenir shop had its best month in years, and even the bar was louder, full of strangers swapping exaggerated tales about this place. Noise means business in a town like this, so nobody complained. But peace never lasts here.
Not for long. One family stood out among the tourists: mom, dad, and a teenage son. They looked normal enough—middle-class, shiny sneakers, a decent car.
The kind of people who’d pick a cheap fishing town over a fancy resort for “authentic experiences. ” They rented a small room at the inn and stayed a week. The parents kept to themselves, walking the beach and snapping photos, but the boy was something else.
He was a college kid studying marine biology, and you could tell he loved it. I overheard him telling an old-timer how he wanted to work with sharks or coral reefs someday. Big dreams for a place like this.
But what really lit him up were the sea monster stories. He devoured every tale about dead lights, sirens, and shipwrecks like a kid unwrapping Christmas presents. His questions came fast and endless—what did the fishermen think the dead lights were?
Were sirens real? Had anyone seen the boats past the salt line? Looking back, the signs were obvious.
The curiosity, the questions, the way his eyes lit up when someone humored him. But in the moment, it just felt… nice. Flattering, even.
When you’ve spent your life in a forgotten town, it’s easy to let your guard down when someone shows interest. The boy spent his days sketching boats or jotting notes in a little leather journal. He wasn’t in anyone’s way, so no one told him to leave.
When he wasn’t sketching, he was talking—chatting up sailors and fishermen like they were old friends. He especially fixated on the lighthouse, though he didn’t say it outright. But I noticed how his questions always circled back to it.
What’s the farthest anyone’s sailed? Has anyone gone to the lighthouse? Does the light mean anything?
Most of the fishermen brushed him off, but a few humored him, giving the usual warnings: don’t go near it, don’t trust the light, the island’s cursed. They said it like you’d warn a kid about touching a hot stove. He laughed, called it folklore, but his curiosity only grew.
By the end of the week, the family had become a familiar sight. The parents had their routines, while the boy lingered by the docks, asking questions and sketching. Some of the fishermen liked him—said he reminded them of their kids back when they were full of questions instead of complaints.
I can’t blame them for not seeing it. Curiosity can look harmless. But in this town, curiosity is dangerous.
Too much of it, and you stop seeing the rules as rules. You start thinking of them as challenges. I’ve seen it happen—tourists thinking the stories are just stories, locals getting too confident.
It never ends well. The day everything changed started like any other. Gray skies, a light drizzle—weather so typical we barely notice it anymore.
I was prepping for a tour with a few tourists, the kind of slow morning where the water feels heavier, like it’s holding secrets. I didn’t think much of it. When I got back to the dock, the family was there.
The parents waved politely, but the boy wasn’t with them. I figured he was sketching or pestering some old-timer. It wasn’t until evening, when the fog began creeping in, that I realized I hadn’t seen him all day.
It wasn’t unusual for tourists to wander off, but something gnawed at me. I shook it off, telling myself he was fine, probably back at the inn. But deep down, I already knew better.
The signs were there, and I’d ignored them. I just didn’t know yet what it would cost me. By the time evening came, I knew something was wrong.
The boy’s parents stormed into the bar, their faces pale and tense. The mom was holding a piece of paper in her hands, shaking so badly she could barely keep it still. The dad’s jaw was tight, his expression stuck between fear and anger.
They asked if anyone had seen their son, and I felt a sinking weight settle in my chest. The boy hadn’t been seen all day. Not by me, not by the other fishermen, not by anyone.
That alone was bad enough, but then the mom unfolded the note she was holding and read it out loud, her voice trembling. It said that afternoon… he’d gone out to Salt Rock. Salt Rock.
Of all the places he could’ve gone, why there? It didn’t make sense at first—until I thought about all those questions he’d been asking, all those stories he couldn’t get enough of. He wasn’t just curious about the sea; he was curious about its secrets, the things no one else dared to touch.
And now, it seemed, he’d gone looking for them. The mom was near tears, and I could see the panic in her eyes. The dad looked calmer on the outside, but I could see it too—the helplessness hiding behind his stern expression.
They were scared. And they had every reason to be. I don’t have kids of my own, but I’ve always had a soft spot for them.
They remind me of when life was simpler, before I knew what the sea was capable of. So when I heard where the boy had gone, I didn’t stop to think twice. I told the parents to stay inside the bar, where it was warm and dry, where they’d be safe.
The last thing I needed was for them to go out there themselves and get into even more trouble. The other fishermen started whispering to each other as soon as the parents sat down. I could hear their voices carrying over the bar.
They weren’t planning to go after the boy. Not to Salt Rock. I caught bits of what they were saying—how the sea had been too rough lately, how going out there would be a waste of time.
“But a kid is out there. ” I said. No one answered.
They just stared at me, shame across their faces. But none of them moved. Not one.
A few of them looked down at their drinks, their eyes avoiding mine. Others looked at the parents, who sat quietly in the corner, the mom still holding that piece of paper. No one offered to come with me.
Their silence said everything. I didn’t have time to argue. I turned and left.
If no one else was going to help, I’d do it myself. The first thing I did was take out my knife and cut a long braid from my hair. I tied it into knots the way my father had taught me, my hands working fast and steady.
A piece of myself for the sea. A small offering, a distraction. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing.
Next, I packed extra wax into my bag. Salt Rock was no place to go unprepared. The sirens there didn’t care who you were or why you’d come—they’d drown you all the same if you weren’t careful.
The wax was my best defense, and I wasn’t about to leave without it. Finally, I went over my ropes, checking every knot and line twice, then a third time to be sure. The sea was restless, and I couldn’t afford even the smallest mistake.
Rope biters or not, my lines had to hold. If they didn’t, I’d be as lost as the boy. When everything was ready, I pushed my boat off the dock and climbed aboard.
I started the engine and headed straight for Salt Rock. The wind was cold against my face, and the spray of the water stung my skin, but I didn’t stop. The jagged rocks loomed ahead, their sharp edges rising out of the sea.
I gripped the wheel tighter and steered toward the dark horizon. It didn’t take long to reach Salt Rock, but every minute felt like an eternity. The waves were rough, the wind howling like it wanted to tear me from the wheel.
With wax pressed firmly in my ears, I scanned the waters around the rocks. The rocks jutted out like spears, dark and sharp, and the wrecked boats clinging to them looked like skeletons. I called his name, over and over, my voice raw against the roaring sea.
The crashing waves were deafening, even with the wax dulling the sound. I yelled as loud as I could, hoping he’d hear me and call back. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I caught a flicker of movement.
Something in the water—a tail, maybe a wing. It was there for a heartbeat, then gone. And then I remembered my father’s words.
He’d told me, long ago, that if you wanted something back from the sea—something it had already taken—you had to offer it something in return. “The sea doesn’t give for free. ” He’d told me once.
I’d always thought it was just one of his stories, but now those words felt like my only hope. I stopped shouting and stood at the edge of the boat, staring into the dark waves. “I know you have him.
Give him back. He’s just a kid. ” I said.
The sea didn’t answer. The waves kept crashing, the wind kept screaming. My father said the sea might listen—but only if you gave it something in return.
I took a breath, steadying myself against the rocking of the boat, and spoke again. “What do you want? What will it take to give him back?
” The waves didn’t stop, but something changed. It wasn’t anything I could see or hear, just a shift in the air, like the sea was considering my words. Then, with a soft thud, something bumped against the side of the boat.
I leaned down and saw it: a piece of driftwood, worn smooth and pale from years in the water. It bobbed there, gently tapping the hull, as if waiting for me. Cautiously, I pulled it up and turned it over in my hand.
That’s when I saw it—scratched into the surface, in jagged letters that looked carved by something sharp, was a single word: HAND. I stared at it for a moment, the weight of what it meant settling over me like a lead anchor. Sirens are greedy creatures.
They don’t bargain lightly, and once they’ve asked for something, they don’t accept substitutes. I knew there was no point trying to offer anything else. It was my hand or nothing.
I looked out at the dark water, imagining the boy’s pale face beneath it, his lungs filling with seawater, his life slipping further away with every second. I didn’t have time to think about it. There was no time to argue, no time to hesitate.
I looked down at my right hand, resting on the edge of the boat, my forefinger curled slightly from gripping the wheel. And in that moment, I knew what I had to do. I reached for the knife strapped to my belt.
The blade was sharp—I kept it that way for cutting ropes—and it gleamed faintly in the gray light. I clenched my teeth and placed the blade just above my wrist, steadying myself with a deep breath. The pain was instant and blinding, but I didn’t stop.
I cut through and watched as my hand fell into the water. The sea swallowed it immediately, the waves pulling it down as if it had never existed. My left hand worked on instinct, grabbing a rope and tying it tight around the stump to stop the bleeding.
The knot was strong. And then, everything went still. The waves, the wind, even the air itself seemed to pause, holding its breath.
Then I heard it—a faint, dull thud against the side of my boat. And there he was. The boy.
His face was pale, his hair stuck to his head, but he was alive. He was pounding his fist against the hull, his other hand clawing at the edge, trying to hold on. I grabbed him with my left arm and hauled him onto the deck with every ounce of strength I had left.
He collapsed, coughing for air, seawater pouring from his mouth. I fell to my knees beside him, relief washing over me even as the pain in my arm throbbed. He was alive.
Somehow, against all odds, he was alive. I forced myself to my feet and stumbled back to the wheel. Steering the boat with one hand wasn’t easy, but I managed to do it.
I aimed us towards the shore and pushed the engine as hard as it would go. The waves fought me every step of the way, but I held on. The boy’s breathing was shallow, and I knew he wasn’t safe yet.
His lungs were full of water, and his body was weak. I had to get him back quickly. When we reached the dock, the other fishermen were waiting.
They pulled the boy out and carried him to his parents, who were sobbing with relief. His mom held him tightly, tears soaking his shirt, while his dad stood with one hand on his shoulder. The boy and I were rushed to the hospital, miles away.
He survived—barely. The doctors said if I’d been even a minute later, he wouldn’t have made it. As for me, they did what they could with what was left of my arm.
The knot I tied had stopped the bleeding, but I knew I’d never be the same. The boy’s parents thanked me over and over, their words pouring out in a flood of gratitude. I didn’t say much in return.
There wasn’t much to say. I’d done what I had to do, and I’d paid the price. That’s how it works with the sea.
You don’t get something for nothing. Well… some time has passed since then. The kids call me Captain Hook now.
I don’t mind. It’s kind of cute, in a childish way. I let them call me that—sometimes, I even play along.
I do look a bit like a pirate, I’ll admit. My long hair is braided on one side, though it’s mostly gray now. I smoke a pipe when I’m out on the docks, the smell of tobacco mixing with the salty air.
My jacket is old and patched in places, and my face looks the same—worn and rough, like driftwood washed up by the tide. And, of course, there’s the hook. It’s nothing fancy, just a simple metal curve where my hand used to be, but it’s well-shined and gets the job done.
I learned quickly how to work with it. I can tie knots, haul nets, steer the boat, even carve wood like before. Life doesn’t stop because you lose a part of yourself.
You adapt. You keep going. Things have gone back to normal since that day.
The boy lived, though I never saw him or his family again after I left the hospital. He sent me a postcard once when he graduated college. Good kid.
The sea hasn’t changed much, and neither has the town. The rain still falls, the clouds still hang low, and the air still smells like salt. The mold creeps up the walls like it’s trying to take the town back, piece by piece.
The fishermen still head out every day, and tourists still wander in, drawn by the same old stories. The dead lights, the salt line, Salt Rock, and the lighthouse—they’re all still here, waiting for someone to forget the rules. I still warn every tourist who comes through town.
Some listen, some don’t. It’s not my job to make them believe, just to tell them what they need to know. I share my stories wherever I can—on the boat, around a fire, or over drinks at the bar.
Stories keep people alive here. They teach the rules in a way that sticks, even if folks don’t realize it at the time. They make you think twice before stepping into danger, before taking a risk you don’t understand.
Life goes on. It always does, quiet and unyielding. The sea doesn’t care about the things we’ve lost or the scars we carry.
It just keeps moving, wave after wave, tide after tide. All we can do is move with it. So, if you ever find yourself in a little coastal town called the swamp—though it’s not really a swamp—you’d do well to follow the rules.
They’re simple, but they’re unforgiving. Don’t swim where the dead lights are. Don’t cross the salt line.
Always carry wax, and don’t go to The Lighthouse. Most of all, never go near Salt Rock. The sea has its ways, and it doesn’t care if you understand them.
But if you respect them, if you follow the rules, you might just live long enough to tell the tale.
