Anchored by Olivia Bradbury Finalist

Anchored

There is a dead man anchored at the bottom of the sea.

  My name is Luther. Due to my parents’…incompetence, I was raised by my grandfather, a retired sailor who lives in and mans a lighthouse. Some may have viewed such a life with distaste; a lighthouse on a rocky beach, fish for every meal, somewhat isolated from the rest of town. On the contrary, it is a satisfying, peaceful way of life.

  I was strolling along the beach one night when I saw something bobbing in the ocean several yards from shore. The moonlight illuminated a man, young and seemingly naked, with dark hair and ghostly pale skin. He stared at the sky, looking sorrowful, and I felt sympathy without reason. He didn’t answer when I called to him, but he did lower his head. Our eyes locked, and I could tell even from such a distance that his were the same dark blue as the sea. A breeze blew by, words carried on it, but not spoken by him. They seemed to be uttered by the wind itself.

  “Years ago,” it whispered, “in a small town, a well-liked ship captain found love letters written to his wife from another man. The skipper demanded his wife reveal the writer’s identity. Fearing for her lover’s safety, she lied and answered with the first name that came to mind: that of a young boy who’d just began working on the captain’s boat.

  “The captain gathered some of his fishermen companions and told them of the treason he’d discovered. That evening the captain called on the boy, who was oblivious to the wife’s falsehoods. The boy obediently followed, and when he reached the ship was ambushed by fury and blunt weapons. They knocked the poor soul unconscious, then put his body in the boat’s furnace, barbarically burning him to death.

  “They put his ashes in a metal box and tossed it into the sea. As long as the ashes are trapped, the boy will never be able to move on. He will never be free.”

  When the voices ceased, I found tears streaming down my face. An overwhelming urge to help filled me. I determinedly waded into the water, swimming towards the man, my clothes weighing me down to some degree. I was confident I could hold my breath long enough to find the box. Even if I couldn’t, I had to try. For the anchored ghost boy, knowing how badly he’d been hurt.

  I stopped, floating a few feet away. He stared at me, a small smile on his face, unreadable. For a brief moment, I glanced around, marveling at how calm the night was. Like the calm before the storm…

  Suddenly, he was in front of me, face contorted unspeakably. He was the storm the calm had warned me of. Then…there was darkness.

  There is indeed a dead man anchored at the bottom of the sea. But there is no box of ashes - the dead man is me.