The coastal village of Whittler’s Cove lay draped in a shroud of mist that rolled in from the sea each evening, swallowing the roofs of thatch and timbre homes. It was a charming place by day, full of laughter and the scent of salt carried on the breeze, but as twilight descended, something sinister stirred in the murky depths of the waters beyond the rocky shore. For centuries, tales of a monstrous entity lurking beneath the surface had been whispered among the townsfolk. They referred to it as the Wraith of the Tides—a creature said to rise with the full moon, bringing terror to any who dared venture too close to the sea.
The villagers spoke of old Mrs Everley, the local lore keeper, who was known for her uncanny knowledge of the Cove’s history. With her hunched frame and wispy silver hair, she would sit by the rickety wooden pier weaving baskets and sharing tales with wide-eyed children. “Listen well, my dears,” she would say, her voice cracked like the brittle shells on the shore. “The sea is alive, and not all beings beneath the surface wear gentle faces. The Wraith claims those who seek its depths at the wrong time, so heed the warnings of your elders.”
Each year on the night of the Harvest Moon, a gathering took place on the beach, where families would come together to celebrate the abundance of their catch. Despite their routines, whispers of dread were never far from the surface, particularly as the moon waxed full and the tides swelled ominously. The townsfolk could sense it then—the air thickening with unspoken fears, the creaking of boats still tethered to the docks lulled slightly off-key, as though lamenting for those lost years ago.
This year, however, the celebration was marred by mischief from a newcomer: a young man named Alistair. Tall and brazen, with a penchant for daring heresies, Alistair scoffed at the legends surrounding Whittler’s Cove. He considered himself a brave soul, too prudent to be swayed by the superstitions of simpleton folk. “It’s only a story,” he declared to the gathering crowd, his laughter ringing through the air. “I shall prove it tonight. I will dive into the waters and bring back proof that the Wraith is nothing but an idle tale.”
Mrs Everley’s eyes widened with concern, but the crowd stirred with excitement at Alistair’s bravado. “Who will join me?” he called out, puffing his chest like a peacock. A few hardy spirits, too drunk on mirth and fuelled by a sense of adventure, rallied to his side. Together they descended the rocky path towards the beach, the distant crash of waves against stone echoing their impetuousness.
As the night grew darker and the Harvest Moon cast silver light upon the tide, Alistair turned to face his companions. “We should do this properly. If we are to hunt for the terrible Wraith, we must summon it, mustn’t we?” The words fell easily from his lips, the challenge igniting their spirits as they began to chant, a garbled rhythm picking up like an incantation, taunting the depths below.
With swirling eddies of bravado, Alistair stripped to his waist and leaped into the dark waters, his laughter caught in the wind. The others followed, splashing and shrieking, their sounds mixing with the symphony of the tide. For a moment, the world became pure joy—a dance with abandon under the glow of the moonlight.
But in the distance, an ominous tremor rippled through the water, as though something stirred in response to their revelry. The atmosphere shifted, and the earlier laughter turned hollow, a sudden weight pulling down on their buoyant spirits. Alistair, feeling a sudden unease coursing through him, looked back at his friends. Their faces were pale, their joy replaced by a creeping realisation that the stories might hold more weight than they had believed.
The water churned at Alistair’s feet, pulling him further from the shore. He fought against the tide, splashing towards his companions as urgency replaced their revelry. “Did you feel that?” he shouted, an edge of panic in his voice. But even as he spoke, the dark waters deepened and darkened, swirling with a slick, chilling embrace that sent a shudder through his spine.
Then, from the depths emerged a figure so grand and terrible that the air seemed to choke in the presence of its majesty. With elongated limbs glimmering like slick obsidian, the Wraith rose, its form shifting and twisting in human-like shapes that twisted the very fabric of fear. Its eyes gleamed with an unearthly light, twin orbs of indigo deeper than any ocean, fixating on Alistair with an intelligence that suggested centuries of memories and a thirst unquenchable.
“TRESPASSERS!” it boomed, the sound rolling through the water and reverberating in their bones. Alistair squinted, attempting to discern whether this was an illusion, a cruel jest played by the sea. But no, the monstrous visage loomed closer as the gales howled with the Wraith’s fury. The other villagers began to thrash against the force of the currents, their shrieks barely breaking the surface of the din.
“Swim!” he screamed, his voice drowning in the chaos. Alistair felt panic seize him, his lungs burning as he fought to breathe against the crushing weight of the waves. But the creature was relentless, dragging them under as easily as a child snatches a feather.
In that moment, perhaps realising the folly of their arrogance, Alistair saw flashes of desperation in his friends’ eyes as they struggled against the inevitable terror rising from the depths. One by one, they were drawn into the churning abyss. He reached for them, but the tide had grown wild, a relentless maelstrom of sorrow swallowing all around him.
“Let go! You cannot fight it!” came the panicked cry of his companion, Izzy. She clawed at the water, her eyes wide with terror. Alistair’s heart pounded in his chest as he watched her slip beneath the waves. He could feel the raw sense of dread seizing him, dragging him deeper into shadows where the light no longer existed.
As the moon glared down, its light refracting in the depths, Alistair braced against the darkness. The Wraith hovered now, an ethereal presence amongst the crashing waves. Its voice reverberated through him, echoing like thunder in a storm. “Your hubris has led you into my domain. The tides claim those who refuse to respect their boundaries.”
He surrendered himself to instinct, diving deeper, pushing against the currents. Amidst the swirling shadows, he saw driftwood, wracked bones—fragments of countless souls who had presumed to challenge the sea’s might. The enormity of what he faced struck him with profound realisation. They had come not as conquerors, but as fools.
In that suffocating darkness, guilt engulfed him like the tendrils of the Wraith. It was then, a flicker of resolve ignited within him; if he was to be claimed, he would not fade into the shadows without resistance. He summoned the strength that remained and shot for the surface, hoping against hope to reach the light.
With lungs screaming for air and vision fading, Alistair emerged from the depths as a solitary figure, breaking the surface in a frenzy of bubbles and foam. He gasped for breath, the air a balm against his tortured body. But as he searched for those bright faces, their laughter now a distant memory, a wave crashed over him—somewhere beneath, the Wraith lingered, waiting, watching, and brooding.
The midnight clouds broke as the moon began to wane on the horizon, the anguish of lost souls echoing in the nooks of Whittler’s Cove. From that night forth, the tales of the Wraith became a matter of reverence. Alistair remained—scarred and haunted, the sole survivor of naive pride. The villagers admitted their fears, weaving myths of a spectre that roamed their waters, reminding each other to respect the tides, lest they be lured too close to the abyss.
And as the mist rolled in, with every Harvest Moon that graced the village, the villagers would gather on the shore—not to sing and jest, but to remember the Wraith of the Tides that lurked silently beneath, forever a guardian of the deep, an echo of terror that taught humility beneath the silver glow of the moon.
