The sun had long since disappeared below the horizon, after painting the sky in shades of orange and purple. In his humble cabin, set apart from the last houses of the village, the old fisherman woke at midnight, startled and drenched in cold sweat. His heart pounded, and his hands trembled as he recalled the dream he had just had.
—It can't be...— he muttered to himself, climbing out of bed and lighting a candle. —That curse... it can't be real. Something like this can't happen.
The next day, his heart heavy with unease, the old fisherman made his way to the port's tavern. Amid the murmur of conversations and the scent of salt and alcohol, he decided to tell those present about his dream. With a shaky voice and eyes full of worry, he spoke of something terrible.
—Listen to me, please!— he shouted over the tavern's clamor. —A great disaster will befall us if we don’t leave this place!
Some of the patrons fell silent to listen as he repeated the dream from the night before:
—In ancient times, using dark arts and forbidden sorcery, men tried to dominate the fury of the sea, to bend it to their will and force it to obey their desires. But their spells and incantations only succeeded in unleashing an unspeakable entity trapped in the ocean’s depths.
The crowd, skeptical and amused, responded with murmurs and mocking glances, dismissing his warning as the fantasy of an old fisherman whose mind had been dulled by age.
"Old man, maybe you're just tired... Get some rest. The ocean is calm—there’s nothing to fear.
"You don’t understand!" the fisherman shouted in desperation. —The ocean isn’t calm—it’s waiting! If you don’t believe me, come to the beach tonight! I’ll show you the truth of what’s coming!
Among the sailors who heard him, there were bursts of laughter and derisive comments. Some chuckled, others muttered, but no one offered to join him.
Heart heavy with sorrow, the fisherman fell silent and looked at them with sadness, feeling the weight of loneliness and misunderstanding. Without another word, he downed his drink in one gulp, slammed the empty mug onto the counter with a sharp thud, and turned to leave the tavern, heading back to his shack.
That evening, as dusk fell, the old man took an oil lamp and walked down to the beach. The full moon bathed the sand in pale light, and the sound of the waves seemed louder than ever. He trudged slowly toward a secluded spot, far from the village’s noise, where his fading memory recalled seeing something strange years ago. It was a lonely place, surrounded by tall, jagged rocks that seemed to stand guard over the ocean. With effort, he climbed onto the rocks, seeking a vantage point from which he could scan the horizon for any sign of change.
The salty wind whipped his face as he searched the waters, waiting for some confirmation of his nightmare. Would those strange phenomena he had envisioned appear on the horizon. His heart pounded as he prepared to learn whether his fears were justified—or if it had all been nothing more than a bad dream. But exhaustion overtook him, and he fell asleep peacefully, leaning against a sun-warmed rock.
The waves crashed against the breakwater with unnatural fury, their foam and spray exploding like gunshots. Each assault of the tide roared like a deep warning, as if the ocean itself was trying to tell the people that something terrible approached. The wind howled through the ship masts, carrying a bone-chilling cold, and the air reeked of salt and decay.
Suddenly, the waters began to stir ominously, as if something massive moved beneath the surface. The chaotic waves twisted into a swirling vortex of foam and shadow. Then, with impossible slowness, the tide began to recede, dragging seaweed and fish with it—farther than anyone had ever seen. The ocean pulled back, revealing the seabed: a surreal, alien landscape.
Under the moon’s silver glow, the ocean floor lay exposed—an ancient world of fissures and jagged rocks leading into the earth’s heart. Sea creatures writhed helplessly, stranded in the open air. The wet sand shimmered faintly, reflecting the moonlight in a spectacle both beautiful and terrifying.
By morning, the villagers emerged from their homes, drawn by curiosity and awe. They gathered at the harbor, staring at the vast stretch of greenish seaweed that now reached to the horizon. An oppressive silence hung in the air, broken only by the drip of water from the rocks and the crunch of shells underfoot. Children ran laughing among the stranded starfish and fleeing crabs, as if the ocean had chosen to reveal its oldest face.
—I’ve never seen anything like this—, a woman whispered, clutching her daughter’s hand. "Why is the ocean showing us its secrets?
Among the crowd, a child pointed toward the horizon, where the remains of an ancient wooden ship—long lost to the depths—now stood exposed. Driven by curiosity, a few villagers cautiously approached. The vessel’s salt-eaten beams, draped in seaweed and sediment, still bore traces of strange, forgotten carvings, hinting at a time when it had sailed with pride and mystery.
Three fishermen, well-known in the village, dared to enter the wreck. Helping each other through gaps in the hull, they stepped into the ship’s flooded interior. A damp, frigid darkness enveloped them, heavy with time. The walls were crusted with salt, their shadows stretching unnaturally in the dim light. The air was thick with brine, pressing down like a living thing.
As they moved deeper, their footsteps echoed through the silence. The ship groaned under their weight, its waterlogged planks slippery beneath their feet. One of them suddenly stopped, raising a hand in warning. Ahead, half-buried in sediment, lay scattered bones—brittle and bleached white.
Then, something moved in the shadows.
A long, dark shape thrashed in the water, sending them stumbling back in terror. The stench of rot and saltwater hit them like a physical blow. For a heartbeat, they were frozen—until one man grabbed a rusted sword from among the bones and struck. The creature—a massive, ugly conger eel—twisted violently before going still.
Relief was short-lived. The ship’s secret still loomed over them.
Pressing forward, they reached a heavy wooden door at the stern. Its rusted hinges shrieked as they forced it open, revealing the captain’s quarters. The room was thick with the smell of mildew and decay. Tattered curtains swayed like ghosts, barely letting in light. At the center stood an ancient desk, its surface littered with disintegrating parchments.
And beside them—a locked chest.
The men exchanged glances. This was it.
The lid refused to budge, sealed by decades of salt and rot. Two of them strained against it uselessly, until the third remembered the rusted sword. He wedged its chipped blade into the seam, levering with all his strength. Wood splintered. The chest creaked open—and from within poured a thick, living darkness.
On the shore, the villagers watched in horror as the seaweed began to writhe unnaturally, as if alive. The air grew heavy, reeking of salt and something far older. Before they could react, the ground trembled. The seaweed twisted violently, as if trying to flee the water. Then came the sound—a deep, resonant roar, vibrating in their bones.
Rising from the horizon, just as the old fisherman had feared, was a monstrous wall of black water. A scar upon the ocean, growing, surging toward them with impossible speed.
There was no time to run.
The wave swallowed everything—houses, boats, lives—in seconds. It was as if the ocean had reclaimed in an instant all it had given the village over the years.
When night fell, the moon rose calmly. The breeze turned warm again, the sea serene as if nothing had happened. But as the waters receded, only ruins remained—scattered debris, seaweed-choked streets, and the silent, creeping things of the deep, now the sole inhabitants of a place soon forgotten by time.
mvf