Have you ever just sat on a beach watching the waves crashing into the shore and retreating back out to sea? Have you noticed driftwood or shells being dragged back out, not knowing where they would end up next?
Every morning I sit here, looking out into the ocean where the grey sky meets the dark water on the horizon. I wait. Wait to see one of them wash in with the tide, drifting up onto the hard packed sand. As soon as I see them I run from my position, grabbing them and dragging their limp bodies further up the beach, laying them to rest in the soft sand near the brush-filled dunes.
That's when I set to work. It's a ritual I've performed since I was a child, being trained by my father, just like his father did for him. I look down at the naked body, always different. Sometimes a man, sometimes a woman, ranging from a younger adult to decrepit and old. Some have been thin, some obese. Once the drifter was missing a leg, making the ritual difficult to perform in its entirety. I make due, though.
I lay them on their backs, feet facing land and head to the water. Their arms stretched out to their sides in a crucifix position. I know I have to work quickly, before they wake up. I've never had the misfortune of seeing it before, but have been told the stories of what happens if they wake before the ritual is complete. The entire island could be erased in the blink of an eye. Generations of work, my bloodline, all for naught.
I'm getting distracted, sorry. The ritual. While in the crucifix position I start the runes. Beginning with each hand and foot, I carve the same sequence going inward towards the body, from the tips of the fingers and toes, moving counter-clockwise from the left hand, to the feet, and finishing with the right hand. The work is methodical. My knife moves with a determined precision, honed with twenty years of practice. Their blood flows blue, staining the sands with an almost neon hue. A scent of ammonia lingers with it.
When every limb has been carved I start at the top of the head, moving from the small bump in the middle of their forehead, down toward the chest. They bleed much more when I get to the neck, as one of the runes must cut right across the jugular. Their blood sprays, leaving a shower on the surrounding sand. Some days it mixes with the drizzle of rain, creating a bluish mist that floats across the beach.
Finally, the runes are finished. The ritual is almost complete. I lay my knife down, and wipe my hand across the drifter's throat, making sure I have enough blood to finish. I swipe their blood across my own forehead, leaving a horizontal line above my eyes, then drawing a vertical line under each of my eyes. This is my warpaint. I alone stand against these terrors, protecting my island community, and by extension, the world.
The preparations are done. I pick up the knife once more, and walk to meet the crashing waves. The final step. My hand dips under the saltwater, opening with my palm up. The waves crash in, and as soon as they begin to be pulled back to the sea, I swipe the knife across, letting my own blood flow freely and mix with the water. This is the final offering, the plea to whatever gods rule over the sea, to end this monstrosity and keep us safe.
The saltwater stings as I bring my hand back up, the cold air adding to the pain. My feet slide across the sand as I walk back to the drifter. Lifting the knife, still dripping with the mix of my blood and saltwater, I plunge it into the middle of the drifter's chest, into the diaphragm.
The same reaction every time. Their eyes snap open. A final, desperate gasp for air. All in vain. I've severed the muscle that allows them to draw breath. They slowly drown as whatever blood is left in them fills their lungs, screaming curses in a language I don't understand.
When the ritual is done and the last spasms go through their bodies, I grab the can of gasoline and the herbs I keep in a small shack on the beach. I douse the body, setting it alight and throwing the herbs on top. Like sage for cleansing spirits, the bundle of lavender and catnip smolders, sending wisps of their scent through the air. With this, the drifter is cleansed and the island safe once more.
I head back to the village, taking the beaten path carved into the brush by the generations before me. I exchange nice pleasantries with others as I pass by. They thank me for what I do, protecting us from the drifters. I simply nod, telling them it's my duty, nothing more.
I make my way to the village square, heading into the courthouse at the other end. Briggs, our mayor, is waiting for my daily report. He looks up from the papers he's signing as I walk into the room.
"Raleigh, how are you today? Any happenings at the shore?" He shuffles the papers aside and leans back in his seat, motioning to the chair across from him. I sit down in the stiff leather chair, hearing it squeak under me.
"There was one. Older, male. They're coming more often these days. This is the third this week. When I started twenty years ago we got one every two weeks or so. Should we be worried, Sir?"
His brow furrowed with worry. He was an older man, at least sixty. He had lived on the mainland for a while before coming back to the island in his younger years, world weary and in disbelief at what we had to worry about compared to the outside world. They knew nothing of the drifters. The dangers they posed to our world. The heretic god they served.
"We'll certainly need to keep an eye on it. The records show that more show up preceding times of trouble. The earliest we have on record preceded the black plague. They were at an average of two drifters per day, with the highest number being five washing up at once. Your post was manned by five watchers around the clock, making sure none went uncleansed. We must be vigilant, make sure this doesn't become a problem like then."
"Do you think there could be something terrible on the horizon?" I asked. I was the only one trained in the ritual. My father had me to help when he was my age, and his father and brothers before him, but I was alone. I had taken no wife, had no living children, and my only brother was killed as a child. If they began washing up more often, I was the only defense.
"As of yet, there's no way to tell. We simply must pay attention. Find someone from the village that shows promise, take them to be trained. You may need help." He answered, waving me off. I got up to walk out. "Raleigh?"
I turned back, giving him a questioning look. He dug around in his desk drawer before withdrawing a long, thin blade in a black scabbard. He pulled the blade out of the sheath by a few inches, showing me a startlingly pristine edge with the runes I use inscribed on it. He sheathed it again and handed it over to me.
"This has been handed down from elder to elder. If the time comes when there are too many, use this. It allows the ritual to be bypassed."
I bowed and thanked him as I took the saber. In all my research and learning about my position, I had never heard of this. We had always been told the ritual was the only way. I headed out and back to my house, lost in thought as I walked. I was shaken from my daydreaming by screaming coming from down the path, the direction of the shore.
"Raleigh! Raleigh!" Vale, one of the village teenagers. She was shouting for me in a panicked voice, fear rising to overtake any other emotion. "Quick! You have to go to the shore!"
"What's going on?" I stopped her as she ran up, panting for breath. She leaned over and grabbed her knees, gasping.
"Another one.... a drifter... some of the kids were playing in the water and it washed up." she wheezed.
"Shit." I didn't even wait for her to finish. When she said "drifter" I took off, sprinting with all the energy I had. They never washed up past noon, rarely ever after daybreak even. Two in one day... this is bad. If one wakes up while I'm not there... ruin would follow.
Thankfully it wasn't far to the shore. As I passed over the dunes I saw the children gathered around it. The drifter this time appeared to be a woman, old and covered in wrinkles. One of the children had a stick of driftwood they were using to poke at it, nudging it as the waves lapped around.
"Stop!" I shouted, waving my arms as the children continued poking. They looked toward me, a quizzical glint in their eyes. "Get the fuck away from it!"
It happened in slow motion. The drifte'rs eyes opened. Their unearthly green hue, like emeralds reflecting a blue sea, shined through the haze. I saw the sharp teeth bare themselves and the hands reach for the nearest child. Long claws tore skin and red blood mixed with ocean spray. I heard the boy scream in pain before turning to a low gurgle as blood filled his throat instead.
I wasn't thinking. Instinct took over and I drew the blade I had just been given. The runes reflected the grey sky, the sharp edge of the blade shining like the sea. I jumped at the drifter and plunged the blade between its neck and shoulder, stabbing downward through the chest and into the gut. It let out a high screech and the wind around picked up, intense howling echoing the drifter's cry. The ocean churned in response, sea foam churning into madness where calm, small waves were before.
"Fucking die!" I screamed. I plunged my hand down into the wound, covering it in blood and painting my face with it. I withdrew the sword, quickly slicing my palm and dipping it into an incoming wave. The drifter screamed again. Clouds moved in, erasing any light that was left. The weather turned from a grey morning to a small hurricane in moments. I knew this had to end quickly.
In one deft movement I stabbed upward, bringing the blade out of the water and impaling the creature. Right in target. The screams died out along with the wind. Peace had returned to the shoreline.
I sat there for a moment collecting myself before turning to look at the gore mixed with ocean. The poor boy, his throat torn out, had passed. I took him in my arms and carried him up to dry sand before going back and gathering the drifter's body. I covered the boy with my coat, and the creature with gasoline. I wanted it to feel the flames of hell.
I sat and watched it burn for a while. Long after the local doctor had come and taken the boy, his mother screaming in grief as she watched. I couldn't come up with words to say I was sorry. I was supposed to protect these people. I was the one that should be dead.
When the last ashes had fizzled out I still remained. Thinking to myself what could be done to prevent this from happening again.
I didn't know that it would only get worse from there.
Posted by u/googlyeyes93