Ungrateful

I never knew my Uncle John well. After the sea took him, my teacher Miss Delaney had said he had drunk "too many beers to be steering that boat right." Mr. Dunn said, "he should never have been out there in that storm." But Mrs. Jepsen, from over there on First Street, told me it was because he was not grateful enough for the sea; he never gave it the respect it deserved. "If you don't give thanks for what the sea gives you, all the lost spirits come back for ya," she used to whisper in my ear when I finished raking her leaves, as I sipped warm cider from a mug that read 'Mondays are for the Birds."

Mrs. Jepsen had lived in the Ferry for eighty years; she had been born in that old house on First Street. When I was little, my momma told me I better do nice things for the older people of our village, or I would "never get a good Christmas." So one day, because I had really wanted a new scooter, I started a leaf-raking business. I made pretty good money for the time, fifty cents per bag of leaves. But really, I just wanted that scooter, and I knew momma was happy that I was helping people out.

But sometimes, I remember I got a weird feeling when I went over to Mrs. Jepsen's house. She always had meetings with all the old people of our village. At least, I thought they were meetings. I would knock on her door, polite-like after I finished tying up her bag of leaves, hoping for my fifty cents and my mug of cider, and when the door opened, I could see a whole mess of gray-haired heads gathered around a table in the dark, dank living room. The conversation would continue, but always at a lower volume, as I strained to hear what they were saying.

"John started to smell it right before, he told me."

"You know, Michael used to tell me he could smell it every morning when he woke up."

"Billy-Ray gave sacrifices to the sea every week, but he still got taken."

"Yeah, but Billy-Ray was crazy, and he was giving the wrong sacrifices. The sea don't want ladies every week; it wants respect."

I knew all of these names, and for the most part, I remembered their faces. Men from the shrimp-boats, men from the docks. Men who, all their lives, gave themselves to the sea until the sea finally took them home. At least, that's what momma used to tell me. Miss Delaney told us they were "a bunch of drunkards," and Roy from the grocery had said, "there ain't enough money in shrimping no more, so all them boats just fall apart."

But that's not what Mrs. Jepsen told me. She said these men never even went out on the water the day they disappeared. When Uncle John was taken, he had told momma that he didn't feel well and was not going shrimping. When Michael from down the road didn't show up the next day at the docks, all they found was some seawater and sand on his kitchen floor. Billy-Ray was always losing things; he never had any money and could not keep a girl. He had a new lady friend every week; he said he met them from over in the city and brought them home, but then they tired of him (or the other way around), and a new one replaced them. I never knew any different until the day momma said Billy-Ray had disappeared. Most say that Billy-Ray got what was coming to him.

One day, I remember going to Mrs. Jepsen's to do her yard, just as all the gray-heads were arriving. "I smelled the sea in the kitchen when I woke up this morning," Mr. Martin was telling Mrs. Jepsen as she walked him inside. Mrs. Jepsen had tears in her eyes, and Mr. Martin's face was dark with fear. A chill ran through the group, and I felt it, too. The crowd started hugging each other, murmurs between them. I should have picked up the rake and completed my work, but instead, I crept around the side of the house and listened under the open window.

"I came downstairs and smelled it... algae, and faint old fish... there was seawater on the floor," Mr. Martin was saying. A voice asked if it was the first time, and Mr. Martin replied, "Yes."

"Unless it is getting angrier, you still have time," a shaky, elderly voice said.

"I hope so. I want to see my grandchildren again," Mr. Martin sobbed.

I dropped the rake with a clatter and looked up to see a gray-head appear at the window. It was Mrs. Jepsen. She motioned for me to come in. I didn't want to; I really didn't, I didn't want to hear any of that. But I did as I was told and took a seat between two gray-heads I recognized from the Sunday fish-fry.

I then heard the true story of the Ferry. A story passed down through generations of fishermen and told over beers at the bar late at night. If respects are not paid to the sea, in the form of whatever the fishermen got from selling their catch, they are taken from their homes and drowned. Billy-Ray, who never made any money, allegedly threw his girlfriends off the rocks as his form of payment. But no one knew how it happened; all they knew was the person began to wake to seawater in their house, strands of kelp on the floor, and the faint stench of sea creatures.

Mr. Martin never came back to the gray-head meetings. The next day, his son had visited so he could meet his new grandbaby, and all he found were puddles of seawater on the floor and a strange fishy smell.

I tied off my boat to the dock, thinking about those old tales. I had not thought about them in years, and truth be told, I don't hold much stock in the stories. No one had disappeared for a long time in the village, and shrimping had not been a lucrative business for a while. Mrs. Jepsen was gone; my momma and I had gone to her funeral one cold December day a couple of years ago. But for some reason, today I started remembering the stories. I was lucky today; I had caught plenty of fish that would be dinners all week. I fished most days now, it was a cheap and easy way to eat when you lived by the water.

After work, I ate the fish I fried up on the stove. The following day, I woke early. I lay in bed, trying to figure out what I was smelling. I sniffed the air... it smelled like the sea was in my house. Confused, I got out of bed and put on my slippers against the cold, wood floors. I walked into the kitchen and damn near slipped on some water.

"What the hell," I thought to myself as I leaned down to clean it up.

Then I remembered. I looked outside; through the early morning fog I could see the waves rolling, pounding the rocky shore. I believed the stories when I was a child; Mrs. Jepsen was awful convincing. But now that I was older, I chalked it up to superstition. At least, until this morning.

Nervously, I dressed for work. The day was strange, and I felt out of place, like I was waiting for something to happen. Like I was crawling out of my skin. The feeling got worse throughout the day.

It was cold and dark when I finally made it home. Mr. Jones from next door waved as he brought his dogs back inside, and Ms. Murphy from across the street yelled at her kids to get inside for supper.

As I walked inside, I felt a fear that I have never known before. I flipped on lights as I went, and each time light flooded the room, small puddles of seawater shone on the floor. The smell was intense and nauseating, like dirty fish and rotting kelp, invading my nostrils and gagging me. Wind rattled the plastic siding, and I heard the first shards of rain batter the roof. The light seemed to dim the closer I got to the kitchen and I heard a strange squishing sound. I was desperate to run away, to leave, to run next door and yell for Mr. Jones.

I walked into the kitchen, and lying on the floor, in a pile of brownish-green seaweed and sand, was a mass of flesh and bone. I screamed, just as the pile took shape and stood up, grabbing me around my neck, cutting off my breath. I felt myself pulled out into the cold rain, powerless to move, unable to breathe.

I heard the waves before I saw them, and soon after felt nothing but cold and wet, pulled down deep into the sea. I felt the fingers let go, but it was too late. I was too cold. Too deep. Too scared. The sea had been quiet for so long, but I had taken too much.