The river stretched out before me, an inky black ribbon slicing through the void. The air stank of brine and something older—something like regret, thick enough to taste. It stuck to your skin, like it never really washed off. Just another night on the Styx—or whatever the kids were calling it these days. For me? Just the river. My river.

  The oar groaned in its grooves as I pushed the ferry forward, the mist curling around the edges threatening to swallow us whole. The passenger sat quiet in the stern, cloaked, hooded. Nobody said much on the crossing. Not until I asked. And I always asked.

  “Got a name?” I muttered, not bothering to look back.

  Silence.

  “Look, pal,” I said, leaning on the oar, feeling the weight of the night settling in. “You’re dead, and this ride ain’t free. So unless you’ve got some coin—and I’m guessing you don’t—you’ll have to pay the toll with a story. That’s how this works.”

  Still nothing. I sighed and turned, ready to give him a piece of my mind. That’s when I saw him. The hood shifted just enough to reveal a face—wrong. Not wrong like a scar or decay, but wrong like it didn’t belong here.

  His eyes met mine, and I froze. They weren’t the usual vacant, glassy orbs of the dead. They were sharp, like blades, cutting through the fog between us. Alive, but not the way a person should be. It made my stomach twitch, the kind of discomfort you get when something doesn’t add up and you’re too far in to walk away.

  “You’re the ferryman,” he said, his voice low and rough, like gravel scraping against stone.

  “That’s the rumour,” I muttered. I leaned on the oar, giving him my best bored, world-weary stare. “And you’re the guy who’s supposed to spill his guts so I can clock out before the century’s over.”

  He didn’t smile. No surprise there. The dead don’t laugh much.

  “My name’s Aric,” he said finally. “And my story isn’t for you.”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  “You think you’re the first tough guy to sit in that seat and play it cool? Trust me, you’re not special. So why don’t you start talking before I start getting creative with the toll?”

  Aric didn’t blink. He just stared out into the mist, like he was listening for something. Then he shook his head.

  “My story’s dangerous,” he said, voice dropping even lower. “Once I speak, there’s no taking it back, and you’ll wish I hadn’t.”

  “Oh, really? Sounds terrifying. Look, pal, I’ve been doing this job longer than you’ve been in the ground. I’ve heard it all—murder, betrayal, the whole apocalypse package. You think your little ghost story’s gonna shake me? Keep dreaming.”

  His gaze flicked to mine, sharp and unblinking. For a split second, I wondered if I’d gone too far.

  “It’s not just dangerous for you,” he said. “It’s dangerous for everyone. For the living, the dead, the ones who don’t even know they’re caught in between. And if you push me, ferryman, you’ll regret it more than anyone.”

  The boat groaned as it sliced through the water, a sound like an old man’s bones creaking in protest. The silence thickened, hanging heavy in the air, pressing down like it was waiting for something. I stared at him, weighing my options. Trouble. Big trouble. The kind that didn’t just sink a boat—it dragged you under with it.

  But I was Kaelith, the ferryman of the damned. I didn’t scare easy.

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  “All right, Aric,” I said, pushing myself back into the creaking seat. “You don’t want to talk? Fine. But you’re not getting off this boat until you do. And trust me—you’ve got all the time in the world.”

  He didn’t respond, just pulled his hood back up and turned his face toward the mist, like he was ready to fade out of existence. I gritted my teeth, my hand tightening around the oar. I’d seen plenty of dead souls, but this one? He was going to be trouble.

  The river wasn’t supposed to fight me. It was a rule, unwritten but absolute. The waters were mine to command, smooth as glass if I willed it, rough as a storm if I wanted to scare a soul straight. But that night, the river had other plans.

  The oar bit into the black surface and shuddered in my hands like it had hit something solid. I grunted, steadying myself against the jolt. Aric didn’t so much as flinch. He just sat there, silent as a grave, hood pulled low, like the river’s tantrum didn’t concern him.

  It concerned me.

  I leaned into the oar, pushing harder this time. The current pushed back.

  “What did you bring with you?” I snapped, narrowing my eyes at him.

  He didn’t answer. Big surprise.

  “Don’t play dumb,” I said, jabbing the oar in his direction. “You’re not the first soul to drag baggage onto my boat, but whatever this is? It’s different. And I don’t like different.”

  Aric finally turned to face me, a flicker of amusement in his eyes.

  “You’re blaming me for the river?”

  “I don’t see anyone else in that seat,” I shot back, the words betraying more than I intended.

  The mist thickened, rising in ghostly tendrils that clung to the boat’s edges. It wasn’t the usual fog that covered the riverbanks.

  “Here’s how this works,” I said, resting the oar on the side of the boat. “Dead men tell the best tales. Always have, always will. And you’re dead, aren’t you? So why don’t you stop wasting my time and start talking?”

  His lips curled into the faintest smirk.

  “And if I don’t?”

  “Then we sit here until the river decides to swallow you whole,” I said flatly. “Trust me, it’s not a pleasant way to go.”

  The boat groaned as it cut through the water, the only sound in the thick silence. Aric remained still, his face hidden beneath the hood, unreadable.

  “You don’t want to tell your story?” I pressed. “Fine. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned ferrying souls like you, it’s that the ones who hold their tongues have the most to hide. And secrets? They always find their way out.”

  He tilted his head slightly, like he might actually listen. But then he shook his head.

  “My story isn’t for you,” he said simply.

  The growl came then, low and guttural, rumbling beneath the river’s surface like the murmur of an approaching storm. A cold shiver ran through me, and my fingers instinctively gripped the oar tighter.

  I glanced at Aric, who didn’t seem fazed by the sound. If anything, he looked… resigned.

  “It’s too late,” he said softly, barely audible over the growl.

  “Too late for what?” I demanded.

  He looked at me then, his eyes sharp and bright in the dim light.

  “For you. For me. For everyone. They’re coming.”

  The mist surged inward, swallowing the boat in an instant. The oar was yanked from my hands as the river surged, spinning the boat like a toy caught in a whirlpool. Through the chaos, I heard it again—the low, guttural growl, louder this time, closer.

  “What did you bring with you?” I shouted, struggling to keep my balance as the boat rocked violently beneath me.

  Aric stayed calm, almost unnervingly so, as shadows began to form in the mist around us.

  “It’s not what I brought,” he said quietly. “It’s what’s been hunting me.”

  I turned to face the mist, my chest tightening as the shadows grew darker, sharper, more defined. For the first time in a long, long while, I felt the creeping edge of fear.

  Dead men tell the best tales—but some tales are better left untold.