"What was that?" you might wonder. The wind slashed through the salty wood of the cliffside hut, pushed in by the black sea below and beyond. In the now charred house, all candlelight had gone to slow rising smoke. A fisherman who has been knocked to his knees and elbows stares out his window at the huge expanse of ocean. He remains still, waiting for an explanation for what has terrorized him in his own home. The fisherman's eyes sweep the horizon as he peers through his window facing the ocean. Because the moon was the only source of light, he could only see so far.
The fisherman moved his hand deliberately to open the window and listen intently. Sea seasoned air surged through the gap as I slid it up just enough to slip a book underneath to keep it from closing. The ocean's constant war with the stony shores below was the only sound audible. Because the two elements were nearly equal in intensity and perseverance, the sea's sieges on land were always more savage at night. It wasn't a conflict that could be won in time for any human to see. For the time being, the fisherman could only hear the thunder of the ocean's charge and the beach's defense. As awful as it was, it was nothing compared to the terror that had gripped him during his lifetime of stoic dumb fortitude.
He mustered a little amount of his pirate-like bravado to equip himself after quietly scratching his twisted beard. He crawled to his desk nearby and pulled out the bottom drawer, which he sat on his lap to rummage through. Inside was a well-kept revolver and holster, which he quickly slid into his belt. He started walking towards the door after putting the drawer back into the desk. He comes to a halt and hurries back to the desk, where he lifts the bottom drawer out once more. Taking out letters, clippings, and a jumble of navy medals reveals a removable plank in the drawer's bottom. The fisherman removed an elegant flask loosely filled with highly given whiskey from the compartment.
The fisherman headed out into the night, well equipped. Atop the cliff, foredune grass can be heard dancing in the wind, veiled in the darkness. Each stone step chiseled out of the cliff was done with care, the pale moon illuminating the path to the jagged coastlines below. The fisherman must find his footing on the sea polished rocks dimly exposed by the moon's light playing with their gloss of salt water as he approaches the shore. Looking out to sea, a thick fog had crept across the horizon and was approaching the coast. Not wishing to be caught in such a dreadful cloak, the fisherman moved quickly and silently towards the docks and a tavern that was still open.
He rushes off the shore, almost losing his footing with each step, in search of warmth, light, and possibly answers. A gas lamp lit the half-way point of the steps leading up to the pier, and a notice was placed directly below the hissing flame in its casing. "Spirits, boarding, and the Oyster Shell." As he climbs the drenched wooden steps, the fisherman comes to a halt beneath the lantern, unable to ignore the sensation. Eyes from all around the fog converged on him. The lower steps were splashed by the waves, leaving them drenched and covered in foam.
Raindrops tap on the fisherman's shoulder, and he gently turns to look at the water's edge as it meets the shore. Though the rain continued to tap on the rocks and dock above, the waves had died down. Soon after racing through the fog and into the hug of land's threshold, a sea bird called distantly. The fisherman was rushed up the stairs and out of sight of what was beyond a thin grey plain by heavy globs of rain.
The Oyster Shell had earned a reputation for withstanding the relentless assault of the raging seas that would crash against its cliff foundation. He made his way inside the pub, stumbling through the entrance, a soaking mess from the weather outside. As he sat down on a stool, his clothes crumpled under him. Water dribbles down the stool and onto the floor, ringing loudly. The tavern's customary bustle continued, and the sight of a soaking visitor in the middle of the night was nothing new. "Care for something wet while you dry off?" the bartender asked the fisherman.
Outside the tavern, he halted to consider whether he should return home above the cliff, away from the water and uncertain road. He took out the flask, which was now sparkling in the rain and tavern light, and drank a large swallow in honor of his risky decision to travel by sea. He gazed out to sea frequently as he navigated his irregular road home, wary of the horizon and what he knew threatened him. Behind the raging storm, something remained faceless, but its gaze was not on him for the time being. The fact that he was able to tell when such a thing was happening to him made him doubt his own abilities.
When he opened his eyes, he was engulfed by the darkness that lay before of him. It was a close call. He was able to detect it. He could only attribute the foul odor to a decomposing body he was forced to be near many years ago while serving. This stench, on the other hand, reeked of numerous rotting bodies. It was becoming more powerful. Something, whatever it was that caused that dreadful sound, was on its way. The same devils who had burned his house down with such glee and ceremony gathered atop the cliff and began to chant those twisted noises, most likely from the tavern. The stink grew stronger, and he could now hear the waves splitting in preparation for something approaching swiftly. He sat down and took a sip, swallowing the moon that had swum in his bourbon.
