You drag yourself over the seawall and accept its donation of warmth. The sun siphons the moisture from you and by late afternoon a fog encroaches, leaching the light. Without further comfort to take, you examine the shipyard—one vessel remains. You can barely see it; the shadow of the mast bobs through the thick mist that has fallen on this place.
Waves crash into the wall. It's unnatural to you. Waves should wash over beaches, slosh over rocks. The force of the rolling waters slapping against something flat bothers you. How long had it been since you heard such a thing?
You amble to the far dock and it extends into the swirling fog. The expanse of concrete flooring supports square buildings and rectangular signs with edges rusted from years of the seas accompaniment. You pass without consideration.
Almost now, you almost set foot on the slick planks when a gust of wind whips through the shipyard and a bang rebounds against every surface. The fog doesn't move but a sign near the dock sways from frayed twine.
You turn it over and read the words, carved in haphazard strokes with some tool not meant for carving.
"Should one day you choose to follow me, take the only ship. Steer your bow from the mountain and sail in any direction until you lose sight of this place. From there it shall not be easy, but it shall be possible."
The words pierce your heart, for you've met their author. You think back to the last time you saw them floating away from the mainland docks. The mist thickens around you. You squint to trace the carved writing—once drawn by a trembling hand—and read it again. But it is not the message that sinks your soul: it is the sign itself.
Moss grows from its edges, the rain and wind and sun have stripped its corners of their luster. As you lean closer, you realize the crevices of the carved letters once yielded black paint. There is no such paint on this island.
The familiar moments climbing the mountains, pacing the beaches, fleeing; how many times had you escaped only to crash again upon these shores? Only years could warp the wood on that sign—a sign that only could have been written after a trip to the mainland. Your love, whom you sought to find here, had long since left, returned, and left again.
Still, the most haunting sight is a single word on that sign. One word damns everything to you:
"Choose."
In childhood they told you of the devil, that he corrupts you, tricks you, turns you to evil. And only now, as you examine your throbbing hand, do you understand that half-truth. There is a devil, but it is yours. One made only for you, one made only by you.
You dig into the festering boil on your palm, from when those two hands snapped your oars and sank your rowboat—when those two hands doomed you to stay here. Nerves protest your burrowing fingertips, sending flashes of agony up your forearm. From the wound you withdraw the poison, the seed, the shard of wood—from the oars you destroyed by hand.
A shadow looms behind you and you turn to face it. The void swirls and pours a puddle of black rain atop the concrete. From the bottomless dark pool, a figure rises, solidifies, and becomes a reflection of you, and only you, with two yellow piercing eyes.
You feel a sob rise from your chest, but the futility of it buries your heart and any emotion under a blank, even stare. The reflection strides toward you and clasps your wrist. You allow it to lead you without resistance back to the water—back to the island. There is no reason to flee; it has you. You have no motive to fight; you have neither a god you've called upon nor a single friend left in the world—
YOU ARE READING
The Second Stage
HorrorA world unseen dies over and over. It shrieks at a pitch that you cannot hear. It rots with a stench that you will never quite know. It isn't a place meant for you and I, it is merely a bank for the dead and dying; a vault of visceral agony. I...
