At The End (first draft)

There it was again. He lifted his face to the cold morning mist and looked out along the dock. Grey waves lapped at the barnacle-encrusted pylons that anchored the pier. The end of the dock was shrouded in fog. He’d heard something down there. A strange, distant howl, like a large boat. He stood, a heavy coil of wet rope in his arms, and he listened. Only the rhythm of the waves came back to him.

He turned sharply as a gull cried out just above his head. It looked down at him from atop his boathouse.

He scowled at it. “Damned thing.” He shook the coil in his arms. “Git.”

The gull cocked its head, watching him. He grumbled and threw the rope over his shoulder. He stepped into the boathouse and pulled a chain that hang from the ceiling. After a cold moment, the fluorescent lights flickered into life with their familiar ringing. A small boat occupied most of the shack. Barnacles and seaweed clung to its underside, an unsightly reminder of the hard days he’d had. In his younger days he would have cleaned the boat every week, but now his body was too bent and worn for such work. Fishing was all he had the energy for anymore. Anything else was beyond his capacity. Besides, no one paid him to clean the underside of boats. He could put off cleaning the boat as long as he damn well pleased. He didn’t answer to anyone, not even entropy.

Firm in this resolution, he hefted the wet bundle of rope into the boat. His back creaked with the effort. Today was going to be a long day. He couldn’t sleep the night before, and if his back was any indication then tonight would be very similar. He needed to rest. He worked himself too hard, he knew that. Maybe he’d only stay out for a few hours today. Call it off early and take a well-deserved nap. 

A deep, almost subsonic bellowing came from outside.  He turned in alarm to the open door. The sound lingered, like a fog horn. It was closer this time. After it quieted, he stood staring at the doorway. Cold wind seeped through and caressed his wrinkled face.

What was that? There hadn’t been any barges in the area for many decades, and certainly not this close to shore. And besides, the sound was far too throaty. He licked his dry lips and stepped out the door and back onto the dock. The thick fog surrounded him, blinding him to everything in the world aside from twenty feet of dock and shoreline around him. Another cold, silent wind rushed at him from the water.

His eyes focused on the unseen end of the dock. He waited.

And it came again: a raspy, desperate howl that he heard more in his bones than his ears. It gargled like a drowning man, and faded out like a hissing scream. The sound was definitely coming from the end of the dock, he was sure of it. He suddenly felt very alone, more than he ever had. There was nothing except the fog, and the strange howl.

The gull cried again above his head. He ducked as if he’d heard a gunshot. “Christ,” he whispered. He looked up to the bird. It cawed again. He frowned. He hated the things. Always had. But the seabird’s calling brought his mind back into focus, and grounded him in reality. He sighed and scratched his grey beard before walking towards the end of the dock.

Within a few strides the boathouse began to vanish into the fog behind him. To his surprise, the continuing call of the gull comforted him. It told his subconscious that the boathouse, and the shore, were not far behind him. As he moved forward the shed was gone.

All he saw was grey waves, the wet dock, and the fog.

The cry of the gull accompanied him as he reached the end of the dock. He stopped, a little perplexed. He wasn’t sure what, but he had expected to find something. Instead the wooden planks and pylons just stopped. The vast sea spread out somewhere ahead of him, into the infinite greyness. He saw nothing in the water. Just waves and seaweed. He grunted in discontent and turned around.

He walked a couple yards into the fog and came to the end of the dock again. He stopped short of it. He blinked in the mist. Was his mind this addled with age? Had he not realized he’d turned around twice? The idea of senility frightened him, and he pushed it down, refusing to think about it. He paused for a moment, glancing over his shoulder to see that the edge was indeed behind him, and marched forward.

He was suddenly aware that the gull was no longer calling.

In a few steps he came again to the edge of the dock.

His heart began to race. His eyes flew across the wood at his feet, seeing the same pylons and the same planks he had before. Everywhere around him the fog watched him, silently, patiently. He snorted out a raspy curse and turned around.

And he was at the edge again.

He spun around and saw the dock extending the opposite way. His limbs shook. His breath was heavy. He ran forward through the fog and, to his horror, came to the edge again. The same lapping waves. The same endless sea. Fear wrapped its tendrils around his heart, telling him Yes, Grover. You Are Mad.

In a panic he turned and ran the other way without looking.

His right foot stepped into the air, and suddenly he fell. The cold waves enveloped him hungrily.