The Forgotten Depths of Quay’s End

"The Smell of the Sea"

A salty fragrance carried on the breeze whipped past the mist that becalmed the world in damp silence. The town by the shore called Quay's End was deserted these days: wind-swept houses stood along the edge of the cliff, leaning over as if they too wanted to fall into the deep, dark water that lay below.

No one had lived there for more than fifty years; the coastline, after all, had been eroding away, bit by bit, stealing homes with it. The lighthouse stood, however, alone and rusting, and tonight Hannah had taken it in her mind to see for herself.

Hannah had an odd attraction to abandoned places, an odd hobby she'd dub "urban archaeology" if someone ever inquired. No one ever did. She was attracted to silence. To histories suspended in brick and mortar, left untouched, forgotten. She yearned for something in Quay's End to scar her memory. And maybe, a bit more than she would admit, she wanted it to dig up in herself something long buried.

And from the first moment she entered town, this strange feeling gnawed at her. The odor of salt was penetratingly sharp, almost fetid, like fish going bad on a blistering dock. Hannah pinched her nose shut and drew her scarf closer around her neck, but the smell grew heavier as she walked, seeping through the fabric. Her skin pricked with a dampness that was neither rain nor mist—just cold, prickling wetness that seemed to settle into her bones.

House after house stood dark and imposing, like sentinels out of the fog, their windows blank, their curtains swaying a little as if waving. She tried to ignore them, walking over debris, until the faint scratching of something broke the silence. She froze and held her breath. The scratching came from a house on her left-a once-cheery blue cottage.

The noise was so soft, so finicky, like somebody was whittling careful attention to the wood. She listened, expecting it to stop, but it continued, rhythmic and unhurried. For a fleeting second, she thought that that is the sound of someone … breathing.

She quickened her pace, shaking off her mood. The lighthouse was close. Its dark shape cut out of the fog towered above the cliff, blacker than the sky itself. The door stood slightly ajar. She slid inside, stepped into an empty room. The air seemed thick with secrets, heavy with unspoken rules.

Inside, the air was stale, dry, almost antiseptic-the opposite of the pungent air outside. The silence was oppressive, thick against her eardrums. She sighed relief-if only to break that choking quiet-and climbed the winding staircase to the top.

As she climbed, the lighthouse seemed to groan under her feet, then she felt the walls, where years of rust striped them, warm as though with life under her fingertips. She shivered but walked on until, at last, she came to the top of a small circular room with glass windows that looked out over the blackness of the water below.

She stood, silent, looking down at the ink sea beneath the fog. The ocean's smell was gone and she was glad for that because some other sweet smell had replaced it, a smell like dried flowers. Smell or don't smell pleasant really but familiar, Hannah couldn't say why so she felt suddenly, achingly nostalgic and breathless, even. She didn't know why she could whisper, "I'm sorry."

A rustle broke her trance. She whipped around, looked wildly about the empty room, a sound pounding in her chest. But there was nothing there—-at least, that's all she could see: an old, tarnished mirror on the far wall, streaked with grime. She walked toward it slowly, her reflection coming into view, and looking at herself made something twist inside her belly.

Her reflection looked… tired. Gaunt. There were hollows beneath her eyes that hadn't been there before and her lips looked dry, cracked. She reached up, leaned in closer, to touch her face and the smell of the ocean, all decaying, briny rot hit her, surged back into her nose.

Her reflection's eyes twitched.

Hannah took a step back, her heart pounding. She made herself look again, telling herself it was an illusion of the light. But as she watched, her reflection smiled, and a slow, exhausted curve of her lips sent an icy dread slithering down her spine. She didn't return the smile. The grin of the reflection faded away to be replaced by an expression she could only describe as pity.

The figure in the mirror raised a hand—her hand—and pointed past her, toward the lighthouse window.

She swallowed hard and turned to take a look outside. There, under the murky waves, she could make out the faint outlines of houses and streets, an entire town buried beneath the water, stretching far and wide, with some of them still having lights left, flickered feebly on, while others were snatched in darkness.

The shapes of people drifted just below the surface. Their faces were slack, and lifeless. And they were watching her. Their eyes were open. Their mouths were open. Their hands were reaching up, light touches against the glass of the lighthouse window on the other side.

A realization came to her, cold and brutal: They'd never left.

Hannah staggered backward, gagging on the scent that seemed to throb through the walls themselves. She turned back to the mirror, and her reflection looked back at her, its face contorted with something almost. amused. Her reflection mouthed two words, silently, patiently.

"Come down.".

The lighthouse was shaking, as if it were sinking into the earth. The stairs behind her seemed to warp and stretch into impossible angles. She could hear the faint lapping of waves, closer, closer, pressing in upon her from all sides. The walls had a damp, slick film, glistening in that dim light. The salt smell became overpowering, now clogging her throat, stinging her eyes.

She ran. She flew down the twisty staircase, feeling the walls breathe around her and the floor sinking beneath her feet. The echo of each step reverberated deep, like a heartbeat, growing faster and insistent, as the walls shut in around her, before she pushed open the door and spilled out into the night.

But Quay's End was gone.

It had risen; she saw nothing but the limitless vast ocean stretching out before her. Her feet sank into the wet sand, sliding downward with every desperate step. She was turning, heart thudding; the lighthouse was gone, too. The houses, the streets—everything disappeared into the waves.

She stood alone, knee-deep in freezing water, surrounded by silence.

And then she heard it-the scratching, slow and rhythmic, as if something clawed its way up from the bottom of the pit. Downward, she looked to see a pale translucent hand reaching up for her, wrapping around her ankle. More hands, without hesitation, immediately joined in, starting to pull her down with a relentless, patient strength.

As her head slipped below the icy water, Hannah saw faces in the filthy water - watching her, their eyes wide and blank. They were smiling.

And, as Hannah took her last breath, she came to understand the silent invitation she had unwittingly accepted.

Quay's End was never abandoned. It was only waiting for someone new.