When He Died
EIDER ISLAND, MAINE – 29 OCT 1947
CASE LOG No. 1 – DET. FRANK MARR
The keys clacked with tired precision, barely audible beneath the rain pounding the shack’s sagging roof.There wasn't much to report. He hadn't even seen the body yet, but Frank never could pass up a case that didn't line up with procedure.Outside, the Atlantic roared in frantic dissonance, its waves like hungry, dark fingers reaching toward the shore. The storm wasn’t merely weather, it was as though the ocean itself was protesting, something long forgotten roiling beneath its depths.Frank sat hunched on an old oak chair; scratched, dented, weathered by time. A cigarette clung to the edge of his lip, its orange glow lighting the worn keys as his fingers, stiff with age and salt, tapped their rhythm into the machine.He paused, then resumed typing.
RECEIVED DISPATCH FROM ROCKLAND STATION.
TWO OFFICERS SENT TO EIDER BY BOAT IN MORNING; BOTH RETURNED BEFORE SUNDOWN.
RESIGNED SAME DAY. NO STATEMENTS GIVEN.
INITIAL ASSESSMENT: HESITATION BORDERING ON FEAR.
POSSIBLE DISTURBANCE OF PREMISES DUE TO EARLY WITHDRAWAL.
Frank paused again, fingers hovering over the keys.
He took a long drag on the cigarette, its flare casting a ghostly shimmer in his eyes.
He held the breath a moment, then exhaled slowly through his nose, smoke drifting into the dim, damp air.
Then he kept typing.
CONDITIONS OF CROSSING ROUGH. REASON FOR CALL-UP NOW CLEAR:
NO ONE ELSE WOULD RISK THE STORM.
I WILL REMAIN THROUGH THE NIGHT—HOPE THE WEATHER BREAKS BY MORNING.
AT FIRST LIGHT, WILL PROCEED TO THE MANSION TO DETERMINE WHAT OCCURRED.WHEN I ARRIVED, FISHING TRAWLER CAPTAIN REFUSED TO STAY AND LEFT IMMEDIATELY.
APPEARED OF SOUND MIND UNTIL WE REACHED ISLAND WATERS; THEN FIXATED ON A SINGLE PHRASE REPEATED QUIETLY UNDER HIS BREATH:
“THE SEAS WILL RUN RED.”
WHEN QUESTIONED, HE REFUSED COMMENT.
Frank glanced toward the window. The howling wind lashed against the small shack, but it was the ocean that haunted him. An eerie, sentient force lurking just beyond the reach of his perception. Something had awakened on this island. Something old, buried, and dark. Something tied to the sea itself.And Frank knew, somewhere deep down, it was already too late.He let out a deep sigh, eyes drifting to the worn rubber boots by the door. Beside them, an olive-green raincoat hung limp, left for him along with a small oil lantern and a set of threadbare grey linens.Rising slowly, his spine refused to straighten all at once, cold and tight from hours hunched. He stretched with a quiet grunt, the stiffness gave way, but never eased.With an uneven gait, he moved through the shack. He turned the lantern down, its glow swallowed by the deep shadows of the cabin, and continued to the bed.He stubbed out his cigarette on the side table, then lay down on the hard mattress and pulled the coarse linen over him.The oil flame flickered... and died.Something in the finality of it felt inescapable.Outside, the rain thundered on the tin roof like distant artillery. Inside, Frank closed his eyes, and tried not to listen.The drone of the storm began to fade. Had he stayed awake a moment longer, he might've heard it; quiet laughter, drifting through the rain.
When he died: report due soon