"Sigh… I shouldn't have said those things…" Ethan said — sitting at cliff with knees drawn up, his arms wrapped loosely around them. The cliff beneath him was cold, crumbling at the edges. Below, nestled in the valley his village Hahko.
He sighed and let his head tip back against the trunk of the twisted pine that leaned just over the cliff's edge. Stars were peeking through the shroud of cloud in the sky. The sea in front of him shimmered like glass under the moon.
Ethan picked at the edge of his coat sleeve, staring down at the lights.
'They're right in some ways. It's not like I've lived any real hardship…'
"But gods, it's suffocating. Like this place forgets people ever lived here.'
He glanced to the right. A weather-worn wooden post jutted out from the cliff's edge—a forgotten border marker or an old fence fragment. A faded rope hung off it, leading down the slope toward the edge of the lower valley trail.
He stood, brushing dirt from his trousers.
"I'll go back. Apologize. Help with something. They'll forget about it in the morning."
He turned to walk down the ridge, boots crunching softly against the gravel path.
Then he froze.
Out across the sea—maybe a kilometer or more from the shore—something shifted.
A long, hunched silhouette breached the surface of the moonlit water.
Too large for a boat. Far too slow for a wave.
It rose, dripping, black and glistening in the moonlight. Limbs—or tendrils?—dragged behind it in the water. It was humanoid in outline, but not in movement.
Ethan's breath caught in his throat.
He took a step forward, eyes narrowing. The shape wasn't alone.
Another emerged beside it. Then another. Three figures—tall, spindly, wrong—pulling themselves from the surf like drowned corpses learning to stand. The tide around them frothed black. He could hear nothing from this distance, but the way they moved…
And they were coming ashore.
"What… in the name of—"
His voice died in his throat.
He blinked rapidly, heart thudding.
Then one of them lifted its face.
Or something like a face.
It glinted, pale and stony, and looked directly toward the cliff.
A chill stabbed through Ethan's spine. He stumbled back, boot scuffing against loose stone.
"No. No, no, no—this isn't—this isn't real."
He spun on his heel and ran, the wind suddenly roaring in his ears. His breath came in sharp gasps, hands clenched into fists.
Downhill. Through grass and thorn. Toward the village.
"Mom. Eshika. Father—"
The path twisted, and his foot slid on a patch of wet moss. He barely caught himself, scraping his hands raw on the dirt. A sharp stone bit into his palm.
He didn't stop.
But he could feel it—something was closer.
The village came into view again. The little lights. The bakery chimney. The slanted roof of the only tavern.
"Please, gods, don't let them get there first…"
He sprinted down the narrow slope, heart screaming in his chest.
Ethan's feet pounded the slope, lungs burning with every breath. Gravel skidded under his boots, but he didn't slow. The wind clawed at his clothes, turning cold.
"Faster. Just a little faster."
He leapt over a fallen fence post, then cut through the narrow goat path between two low stone walls. The scent of hearthfire and damp hay hit him like a slap—it was comforting for half a second.
He was at village.
And something awful was coming right behind him.
The first cottage came into view—Mrs. Tyne's. Her oil lamp still burned in the window, flickering behind thick, yellowed glass. The shadows of her canary cages swayed slightly on the curtains.
Ethan stumbled past her door.
"Someone! Please! They're coming from the shore! "
He shouted.
He tore through the side lane, past stacked crates of firewood, skidding into the narrow dirt road that split the village center. The tavern's sign creaked above—The Drowned Horse, paint flaking from years of sea wind.
"Run away! Please! They're coming from the shore!"
He shouted again.
The square was nearly empty—most windows shuttered, shops long closed. A lone dog barked somewhere in the distance.
"Damn it—listen to me!" he yelled again.
A drunk old man by the tavern steps looked up in confusion, bottle dangling from one hand.
"Boy, what's the racket—?"
"Monsters!" Ethan yelled. "From the water! They're coming right now!"
The man squinted at him, then squinted toward the cliffs. But the sea was hidden by fog.
"You drunk, lad?" he muttered, taking another swig.
Ethan didn't waste another breath on him.
He sprinted past the market cart, past the shoemaker's shop, up the last narrow trail toward their cottage.
The moment he saw the light in their window—he exhaled.
He threw the door open with a loud bang.
His mother jerked upright at the table. His sister, Esheka, had a piece of dried fruit halfway to her mouth. His father, Aldric, looked up from oiling a boot.
"Ethan?" his mother frowned.
"Son, what is it?" Aldric asked, setting down the cloth.
Ethan staggered forward, chest heaving. His hands trembled at his sides.
"They're… they're coming. From the sea—"
"What are?" his father rose.
"I don't know—monsters. People—no, not people—they stood like people, but their skin, their faces—gods, they were wrong." His voice cracked. "They're coming this way. I saw them—three of them, maybe more."
There was silence.
Even Esheka had frozen.
His mother's expression darkened, flicking to Aldric.
"He's serious," she said quietly.
Aldric stared at Ethan for a beat longer.
Then he moved. Fast.
"Get your coats. Now."
"Father—"
"Now, Ethan. We're leaving."
"Where? The whole village—"
"I'll wake the Tanners and Hilds. Esheka, get your boots. We don't have time."