Where The Dead Water Runs

The heavy rain tapped on the windows, the sound filling the quiet study in the old, musty house. The dark sky made the house seem even more somber. A chill seeped in from the rain, creeping through the walls and settling uncomfortably in the air, leaving the room cold. The damp, earthy smell of wet ground and decaying leaves drifted in, mingling with the lingering scent of old paper and dust. It had been raining for over a week, with no sign of stopping. Puddles gathered around the house, leaving the ground slippery and muddy.

Outside, the wind picked up, causing the trees that surrounded the house to sway restlessly. Their branches moved like long, searching tentacles, stretching and curling through the air as though grasping desperately for something just out of reach. The wind howled, sending the branches swinging back and forth, always empty-handed, like silent figures trying to hold onto something in the night. Shadows flickered across the windows, crawling up the walls inside like wary creatures. A sudden creak echoed through the house, a floorboard’s lament, or perhaps the old walls mourning secrets best left undisturbed. The rain lashed against the glass, tapping a frantic rhythm, as if the storm itself was impatient, urging something to be revealed before dawn.

A memory flashed through Ethan’s mind, taking him back to when he was a kid watching a scary movie for the first time. He remembered sneaking down the hall, the TV buzzing softly and the blue glow peeking under the door. The scent of his mother’s lavender perfume hung in the air as she tried to talk him out of it, her voice full of worry. He could still hear her warnings, but his curiosity won out. For a moment, he stood in the doorway, caught between feeling guilty and excited, before slipping into the dark living room. The old carpet scratched at his feet, and every tiny sound seemed way louder than usual, making his heart race. When the movie started and the cold, flickering light danced on the walls, he was hooked. The suspense and creepiness of the film pulled him in and stuck with him. After that, he watched scary movies all the time. They became one of his favourite things and fueled his love for all things horror.

Ethan had arrived a week ago, travelling through the rain after the call about his father’s death. Eight years had passed since he’d seen Edward. For most of that time he had told himself the distance was necessary. Now there was no one left to keep his distance from.

The funeral replayed in his mind as if he were watching it from a distance. He remembered how the rain tapped steadily against the chapel windows, the sound echoing the heaviness in his chest as he sat among strangers. Most of the people there had been his father’s colleagues or clients. Ethan, the only family member, had felt like an outsider. Everything about the service had been handled by his father’s legal team, making the event feel even more impersonal and lonely.

Remembering the service, Ethan couldn’t help but wonder if his father ever regretted their last conversation. The thought haunted him, mixing sadness, guilt, and a longing for answers he knew would never come, as their last argument returned to him.

At the chapel, when the minister had said Edward’s name, Ethan had waited for the anger to come. It had come, but so had something else. He’d looked towards the front pew as though his father might be sitting there, ready to correct the order of service or complain about the flowers. The empty seat had frightened him more than the coffin.

He had not cried until he got back to the house. Then, standing in the hall with his wet coat in his hands, he’d heard himself say, ‘Dad?’ It had slipped out before he could stop it. No answer had come from upstairs. He had stayed there for a long time, furious with himself for listening.

Their last argument kept returning in fragments: Edward telling him he was throwing his life away; Ethan saying he would rather fail on his own than become his father’s copy. There had been other words, uglier ones, but the memory never arrived in the same order twice. What stayed clear was the door shutting behind him and his certainty, at nineteen, that Edward would be the one to call first. Ethan had kept that certainty for eight years.

Earlier, after returning from the service, Ethan had entered the study and removed his jacket. He had still been wearing his black suit. Water droplets glistened in his black, wavy hair, slightly too long to look neat but short enough to be manageable. His father would have disliked it. At six feet tall, his athletic build, shaped by years of canoeing, made the stiff fabric of his shirt feel even more constricting. His untidy appearance stood in sharp contrast to the polished demeanour of his father’s upper-class friends and acquaintances, falling far short of their standards of decorum. He grimaced, picturing their disdainful expressions. Running his fingers through his hair, it stubbornly fell back into place, rebellious just like him. With a deep exhale, he carefully draped his jacket over the back of the chair behind the desk.

Ethan’s father always cared a lot about how people looked. He often gave Ethan lectures, saying things like, “You never know who you might meet,” as he fixed his tie and glanced at Ethan’s messy shoes and untucked shirt. For Ethan, getting dressed each morning was a small act of rebellion. Pulling on his old jeans, worn leather jacket, and scuffed black boots, he felt relief at avoiding the stiff shirts his father liked, along with a stubborn defiance. Wearing comfortable clothes made Ethan feel more like himself, even when it cost him his father’s approval.

He remembered a time when he was about to leave the house, standing at the bottom of the stairs. His father stood nearby and frowned. “Are you really going out dressed like that?” he asked, his tone sharp as he looked at Ethan’s boots. Ethan shrugged and looked down, not meeting his father’s eyes. “It’s just clothes, Dad.” The silence that followed was uncomfortable. Ethan felt a tightness in his chest, wanting his father’s approval but not wanting to change for him. That memory stuck with him and shaped how he dressed and acted.

His father believed in polished shoes and neat shirts, where every move and word mattered. Ethan, on the other hand, preferred being around people who didn’t care about brands or accents. He noticed that his choices made him different, not just from his father but also from his father’s friends, who looked at him as if he didn’t belong. Sometimes, his laid-back style meant he wasn’t included in events or felt the sting of disapproval from important people in his father’s world. Still, being true to himself felt more important. Every day, he quietly decided not to let others judge his worth by his clothing. This ongoing struggle between being himself and fitting in left Ethan feeling both free and, at times, alone.

Now the study smelled of old paper and dust, the air thick with the sense of a life filled with too many unanswered questions. As Ethan scanned the room, he noticed details that revealed so much about its owner. To his right, shelves heavy with collectable books stood in silent testament to eras long past, many appearing to be first editions. This was a reminder of his father’s uncompromising nature. The walls were covered in dark green wallpaper, neatly divided by wood panelling and adorned with various art pieces that added character to the space. Large windows dominated one side of the room, offering a view of the garden stretching to the edge of the property where the woods began. At this late hour, however, the darkness outside rendered the landscape invisible, leaving only shapes and shifting shadows within the study to observe.

His father’s expression came back to him without warning: the set jaw, the look that might have been disappointment or worry. Ethan had spent years assuming the worst of it. Standing here, he could no longer ask what Edward had meant. He pressed a hand to the edge of the desk until the sharp wood hurt his palm.

Ethan stood still among his father’s cluttered possessions. The dim light from the lamp cast long shadows on the dark walls. Edward Sinclair, his father, had gained a lot of money and power through dealing with important clients and collecting valuable art. Now, his once-strong empire was only piles of paperwork, unopened mail, and an inheritance overshadowed by a mysterious debt.

Ethan looked at the legal notice for the third time, feeling his jaw tighten. The letter hadn’t come by regular mail; it had been delivered by a courier, making the message feel even more unsettling. It clearly stated that he couldn’t receive his father’s estate until a certain debt was paid. Yet it gave no amount and included no contract, only the name of a place unfamiliar to him: Blackwater Bay.

Ethan was more troubled by the solicitor’s silence than by the letter itself. He had called many times but never got past the receptionist. She took his messages and promised that someone would call back, but they never did. Her voice always sounded a bit unsure, and their last conversation had an awkward pause before she abruptly hung up. It seemed deliberate.

After several unanswered calls, Ethan had gone to the solicitor’s office and found the receptionist’s desk empty. When he finally spoke to someone, they told him the solicitor was unavailable. They offered no explanation and no indication of when the solicitor might return. They dismissed him with an impassive expression. Remembering their impassive dismissal now, he could not shake the feeling that he was being kept away deliberately.

Of course Edward had managed to leave instructions without an explanation. Ethan felt the old anger flare as he read the notice again. He almost welcomed it. Anger was familiar; it gave him something to do with his hands and his voice. The grief that followed it was harder to hold.

At the age of twenty-seven, he found himself back in the house he had left at nineteen with a vow never to return. Yet, here he was, standing in his father’s study, feeling the overpowering influence of his father, and still playing his father’s controlling games.

“Well, Dad, looks like you won,” Ethan said softly to himself.

The words sounded childish in the empty room. He wanted his father to contradict him. He wanted Edward to look up from his paperwork and say, for once, that Ethan could do whatever he thought best. Even an argument would have been a conversation.

He had imagined making peace more than once, though he had never admitted it to anyone. In one version, Edward turned up at a reading and stayed to the end. In another, Ethan came here for dinner and they managed an hour without mentioning work. He had never imagined an apology, exactly. He had imagined time enough to find out whether one was possible.

The call announcing Edward’s death had ended that quiet bargain. Ethan had stared at his phone afterwards, searching their old messages. There was a short birthday greeting from years ago, formal enough to have been written to a client. At the time, Ethan had typed a reply and deleted it. Now he could remember the deletion more vividly than the greeting.

Yet there had been afternoons when he had not needed to imagine a different father. One came back to him now, so clearly that he could almost feel the bicycle grips beneath his palms. He had been small enough that his feet only just reached the pedals. Edward had taken him onto the drive, away from the loose gravel, and crouched beside him to straighten the front wheel.

Ethan had fallen twice already. His knee stung beneath his trousers, and he was trying not to cry because he thought his father would call him a baby. Instead, Edward brushed the grit from his palms and waited while he caught his breath. ‘We can stop if you want,’ he said. Ethan shook his head, although he wanted desperately to stop and just as desperately to be able to do it.

‘Then look ahead. I’ve got the saddle.’ Edward put one hand behind the seat and the other on the handlebars until Ethan found his balance. For once, there was no impatience in his voice. Ethan pushed down on the pedals, wobbling so badly that he expected to fall again, but his father jogged alongside him, steadying the bicycle whenever it tilted.

He remembered the noise of the tyres, the little clicks from the chain, his own breath coming too fast. When the bicycle stopped swaying, Edward took his hand from the handlebars. A few seconds later, Ethan looked back and saw him several paces behind, still running, his jacket flapping open. He was smiling. Ethan had been so surprised by the smile that he nearly steered into the hedge.

’Eyes in front, Ethan,’ his father called, laughing as he caught up. At the end of the drive, Edward held the handlebars while Ethan climbed off. His father was breathless, with a damp patch spreading at the collar of his shirt. He squeezed Ethan’s shoulder and said, ’There you are. You’ve done it.’ Ethan remembered wanting to go straight back and do it again, just to keep him there a little longer.

At the desk, he pressed his fingers against his eyes. He had not thought about that afternoon in years. He wanted to ask Edward whether he remembered it, whether he had enjoyed it too. The question formed with such ordinary ease that for a moment he forgot why he could not ask. Then the room came back around him, the empty chair, the papers, the rain against the glass, and he could hardly bear to lower his hands.

That afternoon did not change what had happened later. His mother had still been left alone. He had still walked out at nineteen. But he could no longer tell himself there had been nothing worth missing. He had known how it felt to have his father beside him, patient and pleased, and some part of him had spent the rest of his childhood waiting for that man to come back.

Ethan stretched, grimacing as the ache in his shoulders and neck made itself known. He rubbed his face, trying to ease the tension that had built up during his search, but the discomfort lingered, a physical reminder of the stress he was under. Already, the papers and everything they brought back had left him weary and sore.

Did he even want the inheritance? He had spent years trying to escape everything attached to the Sinclair name. But refusing it now would not bring his father back, and accepting it felt too much like agreeing with him. Ethan set the notice down, then picked it up again.

He had always blamed his father, not just for their broken relationship, but also for his mother’s death. Cancer had killed her, but that had never been the whole of it for Ethan. Ethan’s thoughts turned bitter as he remembered the way his father had treated his mother. Edward Sinclair had always been distant and unkind, refusing to offer any support when she was at her most vulnerable. That coldness had left a deep mark on Ethan, one he could never forgive. In her final days, his mother was left alone, her husband too absorbed in his relentless pursuit of wealth and influence to show her any care or affection. She had remained faithful, standing by him through everything, yet she received nothing in return but indifference. She had remained devoted, yet seemed unloved and unwanted even as she lay on her deathbed.

He could still defend the boy who had walked out. His mother had been ill, and Edward’s absence had left Ethan to sit beside her bed listening for footsteps that rarely came. Ethan had needed his father then, too. He hated the small, persistent wish that Edward might come home and take charge, might turn out to know how to make things less frightening. He had mistaken that wish for weakness and buried it under resentment.

After she died, neither of them had known how to speak about her. Edward asked whether Ethan had made arrangements for university. Ethan heard indifference in the question. Perhaps that was exactly what it was. Perhaps Edward had been afraid to say her name. Ethan had no way of knowing now, and the possibility did nothing to erase the nights his father had left them alone.

Had Edward ever forgiven him for leaving? Ethan stopped at the thought. He had always framed forgiveness as something his father owed him. Now he found himself wanting it as well, wanting to know whether Edward had missed him and been too proud to say so. Wanting that felt like a betrayal of the reasons he had gone. He could not make the wanting disappear.

Thinking of her brought back the words she had spoken in a quiet voice: “This is your responsibility, Ethan. Ensure it does not end up with the wrong people.”

A lump formed in his throat as he remembered his mother’s final days. He hadn’t understood her before, but now, with everything unravelling, he began to question it. Did she fear that he would refuse his inheritance due to his dislike for his father? Was she aware that his father would leave behind more than just money and property, perhaps something dangerous?

He tried to dismiss the notion. As a writer, he knew how easily his imagination could take hold, and he shook his head to dispel the thought. This was typical of his father; nothing was ever straightforward, not even his passing.

Determined to uncover the truth, he turned away from the window and walked back to his father’s desk. He opened the drawers and sorted through the orderly stacks of papers, hoping to find something about this mysterious debt. He discovered deeds, auction records, and client letters, but there was still no information about Blackwater Bay.

Frustrated by the lack of clues, he searched for Blackwater Bay online but found nothing. The map showed only an empty patch of ocean near the Western Cape of South Africa.

What the hell kind of place is this?

He returned to the desk, continuing his search by feeling along the drawers for hidden latches. His fingers eventually encountered something cool and metallic. He drew out a small iron key, old and intricately worked. He tried the key in the desk’s locks, but none of them matched.

His heart began to race. He was dealing with a secret, something meant to stay hidden forever.

“Alright, Dad, you got me. I’ll play along with your little game,” he said, placing the key into his pocket.

With the key in his pocket, he continued searching through the items and uncovered a stack of old letters tied with string. On the very top was a leather-bound journal, with pages that had turned yellow with age. Carefully, he untied the string and opened one of the letters, letting his eyes move over the handwritten words.

’Edward,

Your time is running out. The debt remains unpaid, and I am not a patient man. If you do not return what is owed, I will take it from you in another way, your fortune, your legacy, even your family. Blackwater Bay remembers. I remember.

Do not make me come for you.’

The signature was missing. There was no name, just a single, ominous mark. A black ink blot that had bled through the fragile parchment, as if the very weight of the words had seeped into the paper and stained it with menace. Ethan stared at it, unease crawling down his spine. It was a mark of warning, or perhaps a curse, one that defied identification and refused to be forgotten.

Ethan’s breath caught in his throat. His father had been threatened. But by whom, and for what?

He looked again at the strange symbol where a signature should have been. A spiral enclosed in a triangle, with a faint inked slash through the centre. His brows furrowed as he studied it more closely. It looked almost like something ancient, a glyph or crest. He reached out and gently traced it with his finger. The ink had dried long ago, but there was a chill to the paper, as if the threat embedded in those words still lingered, watching and waiting.