Outside, the Drifters turned and walked back into the fog, dissolving into the mist.
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There was a single, folded piece of oilskin paper. He unwrapped it. Inside was a list of names, written in cramped, old-fashioned handwriting. He read the first name. Henry Whittaker, 1892. Then the second. Sarah Jenkins, 1924. Then the third. Elias Thorne, 2024.
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For three weeks, it was wild and wet—midnight swims, salt on skin, promises carved into driftwood. He thought he’d found someone who saw him. Someone real .
He learned her patterns. Watched from the dunes. Collected receipts she left at the gas station. Memorized the way she tilted her head before lying.
Elias looked back at the book. He realized then the nature of the "Unwanted." It wasn't about the house being unwanted. It was about the people. This was a place for those who had fallen out of the world. The bay didn't hate them. It collected them. Outside, the Drifters turned and walked back into
She stood at the end of the old pier—windswept hair, a laugh that cut through the fog like a blade. They called her Mira. The locals called the inlet Baycrazy for a reason: the tides shifted without warning, and so did she.
Elias was dozing when he heard the sound. Not the creak of settling wood, but a scrape . Heavy. Rhythmic.
Elias didn't sleep. He packed his truck. He was done. He was crazy, yes, but not suicidal. He unwrapped it
Then she vanished.
She turned. Smiled. The smile didn’t reach her eyes.
Then one night—rain coming down sideways—he saw her on the pier again. Not alone. Another man. Same laugh. Same fog-knife.
Then, it turned and walked straight into the bay. It didn't swim. It just walked, the water rising to its waist, then its chest, until it vanished beneath the surface.