Who agreed to do this? 

Oh, right. Me.

Damp winds swirled around Claire’s trembling body. Coastal Maine weather was always unpleasant, but it was especially dreadful that September evening.

Claire checked her watch. 10:56 P.M. Just over eight hours to go until her initiation ritual was over.

She looked out onto the mildewy pier she was to spend the night on, and noticed a faux-gold plate on the edge, five feet away from her. Bernard McDade, fisherman and friend to all, it read, but the f-r-i in “friend” had been rubbed off. Near the memorial plate, a blue-and-formerly-white skiff sat in the water below, secured to the pier with a simple hitch.

That’s quite the omen, huh? End to all. 

Claire shivered once again, able to see her breath. It was markedly colder than it should have been—just below forty degrees compared to the seventy-five it had been during the height of the day. Despite temperatures being near-freezing, the rotting wood was still unnervingly pungent. She figured she’d be more comfortable in the boat than on the pier, even just to get respite from the stench.

It had only been two minutes since Claire sat down on the damp floor of the boat when she felt a forceful touch on her right shoulder. She turned around, only to find there was nothing there. 

I knew I shouldn’t have forgotten, she thought. Over the past few years, Claire had experienced bouts of psychosis, for which she was prescribed medication. She had been missing doses the past few days. In Claire’s mind, the hand-on-the-shoulder was nothing more than a hallucination.

But it happened again. This time, two large hands—one on each of Claire’s petite shoulders. She opened her mouth to scream, to no avail. Her hands were violently twitching, which she soon dug into her scalp as a futile attempt to calm herself down.

Girls initiated into Claire’s sorority usually go in groups of five, and come back more or less just damp and tired, and without a scary story to tell. They had never been antagonized by the undead.

She was here all alone, at least, she thought she would be.

There’s a ghost, an honest-to-God ghost on the boat. 

The tide began to pick up, slate-gray waves crashing against the pier like cymbals. The boat was rocking back and forth rendering Claire severely nauseous. Collapsing onto the floor, she clutched her stomach and gagged. She was paralyzed with the exception of her heart, beating faster than ever before.

Claire felt the cold, clammy hands again, yet still couldn’t make a sound. 

When she tried to open her mouth, the invisible hands gripped her throat, tightening when she resisted as if there were a noose around her neck. The shadowy outline of a tall man appeared in front of her, holding a large fishing pole. She tried to stand up, but the line then coiled itself around her neck and face.

This time, Claire did scream.