"Frolic in brine
Goblins be thine"
by Ringu
FUKAMI.
The city was flooded with sunlight, as it was at the end of every summer. Hundreds of streets lined with countless buildings, occasionally interrupted only by trees, squares, or larger parks. The asphalt, no longer as sticky as in August, but still soft, trampled by millions of footsteps; the thick, muggy air heralding an imminent change in the weather. Trees, swept by the warm, southern wind, were immersed in a whisper understood only by themselves. People crowded the narrow sidewalks and pedestrian crossings. The sky, though clear and intensely blue, was already entwined on the horizon with a wreath of darker clouds. The end of summer.
* * *
The lecture hall was slowly filling up. As at the beginning of each year, students flocked to the first lectures and classes, only to slowly trickle out, disappear, and return only around the exam period. New faces kept appearing in the space – some familiar, some almost forgotten, and some unfamiliar. The room was somewhat quiet, despite being almost full. The last people were quietly slipping through the entrance doors and looking for empty seats.
Marta leaned back in her seat and stared alternately at the ceiling and the entrance. A warm feeling slowly settled in her stomach as she searched for Marcin among the emerging faces. He caught a glimpse of her, she smiled immediately, and waved his hand. He noticed this and raised his hand slightly, taking a seat in the last row and turning to a friend.
No one noticed her at first when she entered. However, within minutes, the first curious glances were directed at her, interested. She sat somewhere in the back row, close to the wall, propped her head on her hand, and calmly gazed out the window. Her long black hair was loose and flowing down her back, catching the buttons of her white blouse. She felt eyes focusing on her, and for a moment she looked away from the window, her fair, almost pale, elongated face with a small, shapely nose. Her eyes were dark, almost coal-black, slightly slanted. She smiled to herself, as if sensing the gazes undressing her, and turned to the glass. Finally, the lecturer appeared in the room, an older, dry man in a rumpled suit. He pushed his way through the narrow passage between the wall and the desks, climbed onto the lectern, and began to speak, softly at first, then a little louder as the room fell silent. A new semester had begun for everyone
.
The lecture dragged on like an ambitious European film. Marta propped her head on her hands and stared blankly ahead, searching for ever-new stains and creases on the lecturer's suit, occasionally glancing at the people sitting a row or two ahead of her. After a few minutes, she had memorized every prominent shoulder blade of the hunched students, the pimples on each girl's back, and the occasional greasy hair, regardless of gender. Occasionally, she glanced out the window, but she sat too far from the glass to have a reasonably large image to observe. Bored, she occasionally gazed at the birds nesting on the roof of a nearby shopping center. Finally, she decided to change her focus and turned for a moment to find Marcin. Something suddenly gave her an unpleasant twinge in her chest. He sat in the back, sometimes lost in his notebook, but every now and then he would glance at the dark-haired girl at the end of the row of desks. For a moment, Marta felt the distinct feeling that people often verbalize as "my blood is boiling," and her first thought was of exceptionally cruel images of torture and sadism. She quickly calmed down and tried to avoid looking in that direction, simultaneously planning a conversation with Marcin, a serious conversation. They hadn't seen each other practically the entire summer—she had been here, only occasionally venturing out with friends into the city's backwoods, frequenting clubs and countless cafes, while he had left the city—as he did every summer, somewhere far beyond its borders, if that were even possible. She tried not to think about how many women he'd met on his trips, because it gave her a sharp pain in her chest. She only knew one thing: they had to have another tiring and serious conversation before their relationship—as had happened several times before—hung on a particularly thin thread. Lost in thought, she returned to watching the pigeons on the roof. The lecture continued, seemingly beside all that
.
The smoking room. Like everything at the beginning of the year, bustling with life, shrouded in the smoke of dozens of cigarettes, the stench of ashtrays strewn with butts, trampled by dozens of heels, a constant stream of people rushing through it, rushing before their next classes. However, when breaks ended, it emptied out; only the curls of smoke swirling in the air were the only trace of human presence. Marcin opened the door and entered, settling on the farthest bench, right by the building's exit. He began slowly rummaging through his bag, searching for a lost pack of cigarettes. He finally took it out, put a cigarette to his mouth, and for a moment, wearily, stared at the wall. He lit it slowly, savoring the smoke. Empty. Silence. He fell into a moment of contemplation. Like most of the male population of the year, he noticed a new woman in the room. And like many, she probably haunted him too, images, fragments of thoughts, snippets of images lingered in his mind. As soon as he glanced at her furtively, so that Marta, eternally jealous of every new girl she met, wouldn't notice, he felt something strange. An unidentified, indescribable feeling, a feeling that circulated somewhere beneath his skin, coiling around his spine, sending shivers down his spine, sending strange, yet somewhat pleasant, shivers down his spine. He glanced out the window for a moment—somewhere far away, driven by the wind, dark clouds were moving. They were almost invisible, dozens of kilometers away, yet at the same time, they seemed ready to drift in at any moment.
"They'll come here."
He turned, startled. Standing before him was the dark-haired girl he'd been watching during the lecture. He hadn't even heard her appear in the smoking room. Now he could see her fully – dressed in a rather tight, breast-enhancing white blouse, a dark skirt that hugged her shapely thighs just as tightly, and black boots that reached almost to her knees. Without taking his eyes off her, he asked quietly,
"What?
" "Clouds. Clouds will come. If you hadn't been staring at me like that, you'd understand immediately.
" "Sorry," he muttered, embarrassed.
"Apology accepted, I'm used to that look," she replied, seemingly
casually, blowing smoke around her.
They fell silent. For a moment, he didn't know how to speak; his mind raced – as it did every time he met a new woman – with a rush of thoughts. He always had a few quick words ready, just to distract a potential candidate for weekend sex, but this time nothing came to mind. Finally, with difficulty, he managed to choke out, instinctively gesturing to a seat on the bench:
"Would you like to sit down?"
"Thank you, I prefer standing, it's a better view," she muttered quietly. "
I didn't introduce myself at all, sorry." Marcin, he extended his hand and immediately
He regretted it, realizing how artificial the greeting had come off. She stood and looked at him strangely. She walked over to the ashtray, slowly stubbed out her cigarette, and extended a slender hand.
"Amaya."
"You're not from here? Did you move? I've never seen you here before."
She pulled another cigarette from the bag slung loosely over her shoulder, lit it, and looked at him briefly with a sigh.
"No, I'm only starting this year; before that, I studied somewhere else. And no, I'm not from here. Not from the City.
" "Where from?"
She leaned toward him, and for a moment, a playful light flickered in her black eyes.
"From far away. Very far away.
" "I understand." He didn't want to stop talking and began to speak, half to himself. "I'm from here. Almost from here. I live outside the City, but I have a room here. I only go home for the holidays, to where the forests are. Real ones, you know?" Not those few trees scattered across the street, or some tiny, smoky little squares filled with exhaust fumes. Real forests. Old, primeval, unpermeated by the stench of cars, factories, and shopping complexes. Without people, cars, or technology.
"Do you like this?" she interrupted him.
"Yes... I guess so."
"I guess?"
"You know, if you go to the City even once, it grows into you, takes root, and becomes like a muddy swamp. Once you're in, you can't get out." "
I understand," she said quietly. "I wasn't born here either. And not in this place. But it's a long story." "
I have time.
" "Not today," she smiled faintly, a bit wickedly. "You'll make it. Besides, someone's waiting for you."
He looked away from her and swallowed a little harder. Marta stood behind the glass window, shooting out flaming lightning bolts here and there. Marcin slowly rose from the bench, took a few steps, and quickly turned to Amaya.
"Will we meet again?"
"Oh, I don't doubt that," she gave him a somewhat mysterious smile and turned
her face to the exit.
* * * "
I knew it. I knew it would be like this. I just wonder how many similar girls you've landed over the summer. "
"None," Marcin said, making one of his disarming faces, but it didn't make much of
an impression on Marta. "Really. You're not planning on being jealous of every girl I talk to, are you?"
"I'm not," she grimaced. "But I can recognize that look even from a few kilometers away. Where did she come from? Some third-world country?"
"I don't know," he replied, surprisingly serious. " From a distance.
" "I saw you staring at her. I saw her at the lecture," she repeated emphatically.
"I wasn't staring, I was looking. I looked."
"You were staring!" she shouted. Marcin looked at her with mock reproach. One thing had to be
admitted: Marta looked more beautiful when she was angry than she usually did. She didn't blush or shed tears of rage, but her eyes became piercing, sharp, and filled with fiery sparks. Sometimes he irritated her just to see the effect, as was happening now. He considered his next step for a moment, but having made up his mind, he approached her and gently took her face in his hands and looked into her eyes.
"I love you, and only you. When will you finally understand that?" He mentally cursed himself
for this blatant lie, of course, but his thoughts were his own, and thank the gods, Marta had no access to his mind. At first, she pulled away slightly, but then sighed in resignation and snuggled into him, muttering only,
"You say that every time." She lifted her head and looked into his eyes, but
she couldn't detect any lie. She kissed him quickly and murmured,
"Let's go somewhere. We have three months to catch up on.
" * * *
The sun slowly set over the City, bathing the buildings in blood-red. People disappeared from the streets, cars began to flash their headlights, streetlights woke up to nightlife with flickers of pale yellow light. The clouds that had stayed away during the day now rolled in with great force, and the evening wind picked up, dry and cool. The first leaves, already yellowish or bright red, were breaking from the surrounding trees and drifting over the streets, buffeted by gusts of wind. More and more dark clouds were appearing from the distance, until finally, in the middle of the night, the first drop fell on the dry sidewalks. A second and a third followed immediately after. And then the City slowly sank into the night's rain. And so it would remain for the next few days. Autumn arrived quietly, suddenly.
* * *
The next few days dragged on relentlessly, like expired chewing gum. Marcin quickly settled into student life – more classes and lectures, interspersed with occasional drinks at his dorm, either at his or his friends', daily visits with Marta, evenings spent in bed – all of this plunged him back into a routine – from morning to night, every day. Almost a month had passed since his first meeting with Amaya, and since then he hadn't had a chance to catch her alone. Only the first time they spoke, they were completely alone. After that, she seemed to settle in and was constantly surrounded by other people. In the corridors, she was pursued by the dissatisfying glances of the male students and the jealous gazes of the women. Wherever he encountered her, she was always surrounded by people, never alone. Although, every time they saw each other, she caught his eye and nodded in greeting, he hadn't had a single opportunity to chat tête-à-tête. He also noticed that Marta, though she didn't show it, almost constantly accompanied him during breaks between classes, spying on him. Her jealousy was amusing to him, though unfortunately completely justified. From the first glance he gave Amaya, he couldn't stop thinking about her. At first, his thoughts took the form of extremely licentious sexual fantasies, but over time, he found himself simply thinking about her—without specific situations, simply seeing her as if in front of him, with her hair loose and that vacant, empty gaze, staring off into space. Then she began to appear in his dreams. Just as in reality, he had dreams in the form of erotic play, but then another vision completely took over his mind. At first, it was a dark image, almost black—incredibly black. Then the surroundings brightened slightly, and what had seemed darkness at first became a rhythmically rippling ocean. Black. The water wasn't clear, blue, like in distant lands, but dark and murky. The ocean spread out everywhere, in every direction. After a while, a shape emerged, oblong and rounded. As the dream became clearer, the shape revealed itself to be an ordinary fishing boat with two oars in worn rowlocks. Amaya stood at the bow, arms at her sides, in a light dress. An elderly man sat at the oars, wearing a fishing hat pulled low over his forehead. He rowed steadily, and the only sound besides the roar of the ocean were the oars, systematically plowing through the water. And then something strange happened. The figure that was Amaya turned toward Marcin and stared at him with that blank, undefined gaze. Then, as if in slow motion, it sank with a splash into the ocean. He screamed and tried to help her, but as she disappeared into the water, he woke up suddenly, drenched in sweat. This dream haunted him for almost two weeks, and each time it ended the same way. With each passing day,When he dreamed the same thing over and over again, he became increasingly tired and melancholic. He struggled to get out of bed, struggled to attend classes, and looked at people with a sad gaze, framed by dark circles under his eyes, almost purple. This didn't escape Marta's notice, and—whether sincerely or not—she began to worry about him, asking for details, which, of course, he couldn't reveal. It bothered him, however, and finally, one day, he gave in and told her about the recurring dream. She took it very calmly and started saying something about keeping himself occupied with more things to help him forget about it, but she didn't sound very convincing. He could see her insides practically boiling with rage, but she tried not to show it. Days passed.
* * *
"And this is how it ends. What am I supposed to think about this?" Marta asked, almost rhetorically. Daria
sipped her coffee and reached for a cigarette.
"Nothing. What are you supposed to think? Haven't you ever dreamed about guys he didn't know? It's probably no wonder he dreamed about some girl from college. At least that's how I see it."
"Thanks for being on my side," Marta grimaced. "
I'm on your side, but honestly, you're taking it a bit too far. I understand that you care about Marcin, I also understand that sometimes you can't handle that feeling, and I even understand that you can be pathologically possessive. Let me finish," she trailed off, seeing Marta shift nervously in her chair. "You're possessive, there's no point hiding it. And Marcin is who he is," Daria smiled to herself, "but you can't ruin your relationship, whatever it is, just because he dreamed about a woman he didn't know."
"Not a stranger at all, they talked." "
How many times? Once? Twice? Do they meet every day?"
"Once," Marta admitted painfully, "but that's not the point. I see how he looks at her. She's taken him in—I don't know how or when, but it happened. Even when I talk to him, I feel like he's not even there. Like he's somewhere else... Not with me. And what's worse, the last time it happened... You know when." "
I understand," she thought for a moment. "Listen, let's do this. I'm starting to get curious about this case. You take care of him, I don't know, do what you usually do in these situations, and I'll dig around and try to find out something about this girl. Maybe it'll help us. She didn't just appear out of nowhere." "
Thanks, Daria. You're wonderful.
" "The pleasure is all mine," she smiled and slowly drank the last of her coffee. "Let's get going, classes are starting soon."
* * *
The room, or rather, considering the dimensions, the little room, was plunged into semi-darkness. The pale blue television screen partially illuminated it and reflected in Marcin's eyes as he finished his late-night cigarette. He sat, or rather almost lay, sprawled in his armchair, dispassionately staring at the nocturnal, erotic film. He would have fallen asleep long ago if it weren't for the fact that his headphones were a bit too large and slid against his forehead. He sometimes wondered why he used headphones when he lived alone, but he never found an answer. It was one of those things, those obsessions that you can't shake, that after a while no longer bother you, become an inseparable part of life. Marcin was falling asleep. Despite his overwhelming effort to make it to the end of the film in one piece, he began to fall apart, scattering around the room, and disappearing. Finally, in an instant, with a terrible creak, his eyelids drooped, and he fell asleep.
And then the ocean appeared. A black ocean. It rose and fell gently, in a measured motion dictated by the waves. Everywhere you looked, there was only dark water, opaque and carrying a strange feeling of fragility in the face of their power. This time, there was no horizon in sight—the ocean was shrouded in mist, visibility reaching only a few meters. A small boat emerged from the mist with a creak. An old man, seated at the oars, moved them rhythmically, cutting through successive layers of dark water. Only his eyes glinted grimly from beneath a hat pulled tight over his forehead. At the stern, on a small plank, in a light shirt that reached almost to her ankles, stood a dark-haired woman. A light breeze ruffled her hair and fluttered the ruffles of the flowing silk. The woman spread her arms and opened her mouth in a silent scream. Then, slowly, she leaned back and sank into the ocean's darkness. The water engulfed her body with a loud splash. The man at the oars glanced back for a moment, then continued on his way. The boat sank into the mist.
A loud cry escaped his lips as he awoke. He glanced at his watch—it was well after two o'clock. He wiped his sweat-beaded forehead and absently looked around the room. He fell asleep in his clothes, just as he had been sitting, his headphones slipping from his head and resting around his neck, filling the space with the static from the television. He buried his face in his hands for a moment and sighed loudly. This had to end. And as soon as possible. He undressed slowly and, stepping quietly, shuffled to the bathroom.
* * *
The city had turned gray. The trees, almost completely stripped of their leaves, swayed with their bare branches, succumbing to the cool autumn wind. Black birds nested among the branches and, in the evenings, began their frolics and chases; every evening their cries echoed wherever trees were planted. The rain, which had arrived some time ago, except for brief pauses, continued to fall. Although initially confined to the night, it now bathed the city, every corner of it, during the day as well. Days were becoming little more than a substitute for the name, dark clouds completely occupied the sky, and the world was plunged into a semi-dark gray. The sun had not appeared for a long time, and over time, people were slowly forgetting what it looked like. The loudest sound in the city's alleys and streets was now the roar of the incessant rain. The sidewalks were filled with blurred figures adorned with umbrellas, cars roared through the streets, their windshield wipers steadily wiping away the streams of rain that drenched their windows. Everything and everyone had fallen into that peculiar state—a state of semi-sleep and stagnation. And the rain continued to play its melody.
* * *
He spent several days waiting for an opportunity, for a moment when he could talk to her, even for a few minutes in private. He waited patiently for people to disengage and for him to meet her alone, somewhere, anywhere, as long as it was away from anyone. And finally, he succeeded. He was walking home—on foot, as his bus had left. Besides, he'd never been a fan of public transportation, the crowds, and the presence of so many people in one place at once. He was a bit nervous because, in his haste, he'd forgotten his umbrella and was now quickly getting soaked in the rain. However, this didn't force him to take refuge in the bus; he sometimes exhibited a slight form of masochism, not to mention that he simply enjoyed the rain. And as he crossed the street, he saw her at the bus stop. She was standing a little apart from the other people huddled under the shelter. She held a small, black umbrella in her hand. For a moment, he stood still, but then he gathered himself and moved toward her. She spotted him halfway there, and for a fleeting moment, a small smile seemed to grace her face. He finally approached her and felt a strange warmth spread across his body. Her face wore no trace of makeup. Her slightly thin lips curved into a faint smile at the sight of him, and her dark, slanted eyes looked off into space, momentarily lost in his. He was about to open his mouth to say something when she spoke first:
"Would you like to come over? You're soaked."
He was about to reply that nothing would harm him, but he quickly reconsidered and moved closer, under her umbrella. He felt a strange tingle on his back; their faces were now only centimeters apart. They stood there for a moment, just staring at each other, until he finally managed to speak, slowly grinding his words:
"Listen... Is it possible we could talk sometime? Calmly?
" "Why?" She shot him a questioning look.
"The thing is..." he searched for the right words for a moment, "I've been having a dream for a while now. A strange and terrifying one. And you appear in it. Every time." He stopped, seeing the expression on her face. She stood there with slightly wide eyes, drawing in a sharp breath. After a moment, she calmed down, though she might have been calm before, and only he seemed to think that what he had said had unsettled her. "
I understand," she replied quietly. "We can talk. But not here and not now.
" "Of course," he smiled. "What are you suggesting?"
"Wait," she bit her lower lip. "Here." She handed him the umbrella and began rummaging.
in her purse. After a moment, she pulled out a small piece of paper and a pen. "Turn around," he did as she told him, and immediately felt her hands on his back as she wrote something down on the note. "This is my phone number. Call me tomorrow, we'll arrange something." She handed him the note. He immediately put it in his pocket and breathed a sigh of relief. Amaya looked over his shoulder and sighed,
"My bus is coming. I have to go. Call me." With that, she folded her umbrella and tucked it under
her arm. Then she quickly cupped his face in her hands and kissed him. Her cool kiss was soaked with rain, yet Marcin felt something boil in his stomach. She finally pulled away from him and looked into his eyes.
"See you," she said, and slipped quietly onto the bus at the stop.
Marcin stood frozen, letting the cold drops fall down his collar.
* * *
In the evening of the next day, Marta called him. He immediately detected the bitterness in her voice, and for a moment the thought flashed through his mind that she might have spotted him with Amaya at the bus stop. As it turned out later, this thought was entirely justified. Her friend had seen them and had seen fit to inform Marta. Surprisingly, he felt no embarrassment; in fact, he felt a surge of relief when she told him, in a calm but slightly cracking voice, that they should take a break from each other and think things over. He had no desire to argue and immediately agreed, driving the final nail into the coffin that had long been their relationship. When, in the middle of his speech, he heard the tone of his phone signaling unavailability, he smiled to himself. Marta and her insane jealousy were no longer his problem. He hung up the phone and went to his room to smoke the first cigarette of his new life. He stood by the window, watching it become covered with new layers of rain streaming down the glass, until he decided it was time to call Amaya. He was surprised when his hands shook as he dialed the number. He waited a moment until he heard her voice:
"Yes?
" "Hi... It's Marcin.
" "I know."
"You said I could call.
" "I remember." He could have sworn her voice was slightly amused. "
Shall we meet? Today?" There was only silence for a moment, but then
she spoke:
"Okay. Where?
" "Maybe at my place? I live alone, in a roommate.
" "At your place..." she thought for a moment. "Okay, just give me the address and I'll be there in a while.
" * * * "
He left me. That stupid prick just left me," Marta practically shouted.
Daria instinctively pulled the phone away from her ear.
"But from what you told me, he took it calmly... Maybe it's not what you think?"
"What do you mean? He didn't react at all to what I told him. For me, it's simple. This whole time was just a fabrication. Why was I so stupid?"
"You weren't stupid," Daria grumbled, mentally cursing herself for the artificial comfort. "
I was. All this time, I believed she wasn't some new love interest of his. And now, when I was talking to him, I could already sense the indifference in his voice. He didn't care about what I was telling him. Completely. He took it as if he'd changed the butter on a sandwich.
"I understand," Daria said quietly. "But let me change the subject a bit. I was digging around, looking for information about her, and I came across something. Something very strange.
" "What?" Tell me.
"I can't. Not like that. This isn't a phone conversation. Believe me, I have to think about it myself, because I feel strange even now when I mention it to you.
" "So when will we meet again? I want to know..."
"Soon." Not tomorrow or the day after – I have to take care of a few things, including those related to this. Let's meet on Saturday, okay? Then there'll be no more school, and I'll have a little free time.
"That's only in four days..." Marta paused briefly. "But okay, maybe I'll calm down a bit," she added self-critically. "See you on Saturday, then."
* * *
A knock on the door interrupted his rhythmic pacing around the apartment. He lunged for the doorknob and opened it with a slight bang. Her slightly ironic smile greeted him, as if she'd expected such an entrance. He stepped aside and invited her in. He silently watched her take off her shoes and place her handbag on the nightstand. He helped her, somewhat awkwardly, hang up her coat and ushered her into the room.
"Would you like something to drink? Tea?
" "I'd love to," she gave him a thoughtful look. "Can I smoke here?"
"Of course." He stopped halfway to the kitchen, watching her light a cigarette. He felt a strange twinge in his stomach, and while making tea, he nervously reached into his pocket for a packet. He lit it, taking a deep drag. After two minutes spent poring over the kettle, he finally poured the tea and headed for the room. She was sitting in an armchair, slightly crossed-legged, staring out at the rain. "
Here," he handed her a cup. "
Thanks. "
They were silent for a moment, slowly sipping the scalding brew. Suddenly, she looked at him, put down the cup, and leaned back in her chair.
"You wanted to talk to me. About what?"
"Remember when we met at the bus stop? Last time?
" "Yes."
"You see... The thing is... I have a dream. It's silly, I know..."
"Spare yourself the comments," she interrupted him, a little firmly. He looked flustered for a moment, but then continued:
"Okay. In this dream, I see the sea. Or rather, an ocean. Endless. And then a boat appears, steered by some older man. And you're standing on it, probably in a nightgown. You look at me—even though I'm not there, I'm sure you're looking at me—you open your mouth as if to scream, and then..." his voice broke slightly, "and then you sink into the water. Maybe it would be normal, if it weren't for the fact that I've been having this dream every night for over two weeks. I don't know what to think.
" "So it's you," she murmured quietly.
"What?
" "Never mind. Remember at the beginning of the year when we were sitting in the smoking room and you wanted to hear my story? But there was no time?"
He smiled to himself,
"Of course I remember."
"Do you want to hear it now? "
"I do.
"
"I was born far from the city. It was one of those lonely farmhouses, completely cut off from civilization. We lived far from the others, almost right by the ocean. The farm wasn't very big, just a house, a stable, and a few small plots at the edge of the forest. I'd played in that forest since I was a child, although my parents had often warned me against venturing too deep into its depths. I had no siblings, no brother or sister, so I always played alone. In fact, I only had two places where I spent hours. The first was the forest. A huge one, almost endless for me, almost always shrouded in fog and damp. I didn't walk very far because it was dense, and I got lost a few times, which caused further arguments at home. So I only went to some clearings closer to the house and sat there for hours, staring into the depths of the forest. And it was silent. I thought it was normal, but later, when I was older, I saw animals, birds, squirrels, but nothing here. A gloomy silence reigned there, broken only by the sound of twigs cracking under my feet. Over time, as I spent more and more time in the forest, alone, for some reason my parents became concerned and forbade me from going there. Maybe it was because I sometimes got lost, maybe because of the stories circulating about people going there, I don't know. In any case, the forest was already a forbidden place for me. I can't say I particularly liked it, but on the other hand, I wasn't particularly thrilled about being there either—perhaps because there was always this unnatural silence. So I left, perhaps even with a sense of relief, and started looking for other places to play, or even sit. All the other houses were too far from ours, or they were childless families, so contact with anyone my own age was out of the question. So I moved to the shore, to the ocean. The first time I sat there for more than half an hour, it terrified me. It terrified me the first time, the second time, the hundredth time, every time I sat there for more than a few moments. But there was a magnetism to it all; on the one hand, I was afraid of it, and on the other, I was drawn to it by some unknown force. I didn't make sand cakes, splash on the shore, or anything like that. I simply sat on the beach, sometimes on a larger rock, and watched it. Over time, I came to sense its rhythm, its life, the way it lived, breathed, and spoke to me. I could sit in one place for hours, gazing at the billowing waves in the distance, the rhythmically moving dark masses of water. Sometimes I wondered what it would be like to be there, in those depths. Alone with the endless Abyss. I never brought myself to ask my father to take me there. Because he knew what it was like; he'd been there, fishing, and I'd seen him take his boat out into the ocean. How he'd slowly, crunchingly push it into the waves, push it off from the shore, and set out to fish.He usually stayed there for a few hours and then returned. However, one day he didn't return for the night. He set out as usual – early in the morning, with his nets, and around noon, the tiny shape of his boat could still be seen in the distance, bobbing in the waves. And then he disappeared, and by evening, there was no sign of the boat. I remember my mother pacing nervously throughout the house; even as I was falling asleep, I could hear her heavy footsteps upstairs. The next day at noon, while I was sitting on the beach as usual, a boat appeared in the distance. It was already relatively close, as the ocean that day was shrouded in fog, which had appeared during the night and subsided slightly in the morning. I watched calmly as the boat struggled with the waves and approached the shore. Finally, it hit the sand, and my father, sitting on a bench, got up and climbed out to pull it onto the beach. I ran to him, seeing my mother rush out of the house, probably with the same questions as I. As I approached him, I noticed a strange odor emanating from him—not the usual smell of the ocean or fish in a boat, but something strange, reminiscent of the depths and a musty basement. He gave me a long look and began to pull out the nets to spread them on the beach. I noticed he hadn't caught anything, so I quickly asked him about it, but he ignored me. My mother soon appeared and began to reproach him, but even though he listened and nodded, he seemed far away—not with us. That evening, after dinner, he went out to the beach and sat there, alone. I crept up quietly and tried to talk to him, but I noticed he was talking, clearly to himself.He went out onto the beach and sat there, alone. I quietly crept up to him and tried to talk to him, but I noticed he was talking, clearly to himself.He went out onto the beach and sat there, alone. I quietly crept up to him and tried to talk to him, but I noticed he was talking, clearly to himself.
"I know... I know. I'll find her, it's her. I understand. I will find her," he repeated over and over to
some unknown figure, listening only to the roar of the ocean and staring at the black waters of the abyss.
* * *
The rain outside the window pattered steadily, beating out a rhythm known only to him on the windowsills. Marcin sat, literally rooted to his seat. His mouth had been dry for some time, but he didn't want to interrupt the story Amaya was telling. Finally, he sensed the right moment and stood up.
"Shall I make you some more tea?" he asked weakly.
"Yes, that would be nice."
After a few minutes, he brought her a cup of hot liquid and sat down in the armchair. Amaya drank a little and rose. She walked slowly across the room and sat on his lap, slumping slightly in the armchair.
"Doesn't that bother you?"
"No," he replied, surprised. "It doesn't."
"That's good. I need a little warmth; it was too cold for me there. Should I continue?
" "Yes."
She leaned on his shoulder. Unconsciously
, he embraced her gently and nuzzled her hair, taking in its scent. Amaya, ignoring this, continued her story.
The next few days passed quietly. My father didn't say much, only occasionally mumbling to himself, and spent more and more time on the rock, staring out at the ocean. He seemed to be losing touch—not just with me or my mother, but with everything—with reality. He'd sailed off somewhere in his boat, into his own worlds, never to return. Sometimes my mother would try to snap him out of it and start arguments, but he wasn't the same as before—he didn't argue with her, he didn't shout, he simply stared out the window at the ocean, nodding occasionally. Until finally, the day came when I woke up alone. At first, I thought they'd simply gone somewhere to stock up on supplies, as it was already autumn, but when I went down to the kitchen, I saw that nothing was in its place. The floor was littered with broken plates, the table was tilted so that it was almost against the wall, and a broken pane of glass was visible in one of the windows, letting in the cool morning air. I didn't know what had happened, but fear gripped me. I searched the entire house, but to no avail—my parents had disappeared without a word. I ran out of the house to the beach. The boat was gone. The nets, spread out on poles, rested on the sand. I stared at the ocean for a long time, until evening, and then the next morning I went back to the beach, as if subconsciously sensing they would return. I waited for two days until the boat finally emerged from the light mist. I paced impatiently along the beach, watching its shape become more distinct with each passing minute. Finally, I spotted my father. He was sitting there, wearing a long waterproof coat and a hat pulled low over his forehead. Alone. There was no sign of my mother. I didn't know then if she was with him or if she'd disappeared somewhere on her own—at that moment, I didn't particularly care, as I was just waiting for an explanation—what had happened and why they'd suddenly vanished from my life. My father finally got out and pulled the boat ashore. I jumped up to him, but immediately stepped back. At the bottom of the boat lay a rag, which, upon closer inspection, turned out to be the coverlet my mother often wore around her back. I felt myself getting weak and slumped to the ground. Immediately afterward, I lost consciousness. In the distance, I heard my father's hoarse voice: "It wasn't her... It wasn't her... I'm sorry."
When I regained consciousness, the first sound I heard was a hum. Steady, monotonous, almost hypnotic. I opened my eyes painfully. I lay on the bottom of the boat, behind me I could see my father's broad back rowing calmly. I jerked, but I couldn't move – my legs and arms were bound with a strong rope. I tried to scream, but only a soft gurgle and a squeak escaped my lips. My father stopped rowing and turned for a moment. He looked at me with a gaze that froze my bones and froze my blood. I saw the Abyss in him. He continued rowing; I didn't know where we were, only the feeling that we were already a long way from shore. At one point, he stopped and stood up. He turned to me and began tying something to my bound legs. I leaned forward with a soft groan, too terrified to scream – it was a large rock, tied with rope. And then a shriek escaped my lips. Quiet at first, then louder and louder, until it turned into a cry of fear. I began to speak to him, begging him to let me go, swallowing back the tears that streamed down my cheeks, but he didn't seem to hear me, mumbling incomprehensible words to himself. Finally, he leaned down and grabbed me around the waist. I felt myself being lifted, higher and higher, until finally, he gasped loudly and threw me overboard. In an instant, the rock pulled me down, and the endless waters closed in above me. I fell, down into the blackness, into the cold, into an endless abyss. Schools of fish and sea creatures swam above me, but then they too vanished, and I was plunged forever into darkness.
Marcin sat, unable to utter a word. Finally, he gathered himself, looked into her eyes, and choked out, "
How did you get out?"
"I didn't get out. Never." – she smiled, and a sudden darkness appeared in her eyes.
“Who…Who are you?”
She leaned toward him, her face calm, kissed him, and said,
“I am the rain washing over your soul.”
* * *
Daria, as soon as she entered the university grounds, knew something was wrong. Usually, she was greeted by the loud noise of laughing students; now she saw only furtive glances and quiet conversations, interrupted by sobs from a few people. She also saw Marta, her face flushed and eyes darkened. She was sobbing alone in the corner, swaying slightly.
“Hi…What happened?” she asked, looking around.
“Marcin…Marcin…
” “Yes, what about him?
” “He’s dead,” she burst into tears. Daria unconsciously sank onto the bench.
“What do you mean he’s dead?
” “He’s dead—they found him last night. He was lying in the bathtub. He was just lying there.” They said... They said he must have fallen asleep or somehow lost consciousness because his lungs were full of water.
"Oh God..." she moaned and sat down next to her. Somehow, instinctively, she put her arm around her and hugged her,
Sobbing desperately. They sat in complete silence for a moment, until Marta slowly began to calm down. Daria suddenly remembered something and muttered shyly,
"Listen, maybe we should go for tea somewhere? There are a few things I'd like to tell you.
" "But... I can't think about anything right now except him.
" "That's good, because it concerns Marcin and that unknown woman of his. Please...
" "Okay," she agreed with a little reluctance. "Let's go.
" * * *
"Okay, now I'll tell you what I found. I've been digging around on the internet, looking for any information about this Amaya, and at first I couldn't find anything. It was only by chance that I stumbled upon something strange. Forty years ago, at exactly the same time, two people died. Interestingly, they were students, a boy and a girl. They both drowned – in their homes, and were found the next day. It was as if they had simply fallen asleep in the bathtub and never woken up. No signs of a struggle, no scratches, nothing. Everything would be fine if it weren't for this," Marta suggested, a reprint from an old newspaper, where, between the columns of the article, there was a small photo of a young blond man and a dark-haired woman.
"But...
" "Yes. It's her. She, you know? I don't know how, but she's exactly like two peas in a pod to that friend of Marcin's. They only mentioned that she was involved with that boy, and after the whole incident, she sank like a stone into the water.
" "What... What does that mean?"
"I don't know. But that's nothing." This piqued my interest, and I dug deeper. And then I began to discover something that still sends shivers down my spine. At regular intervals, the same cases occurred in the City—each time, two people died, and I came across mentions of a mysterious woman. Every time, you know? She was always involved—I don't know how, maybe I've watched too many horror movies, but I'm convinced it's the same person. And now the same thing is happening – she showed up here, and now Marcin has died. I don't know how it happened, but no one noticed the similarities. Maybe people forget too quickly.
"Jesus... When did this start?"
"I don't know. A long time ago. A very long time ago, because I found the last newspaper mentions of these cases almost a hundred years ago.
" "So what should we do? What?" Marta asked blankly.
"I don't know. We have to ambush her and corner her. Maybe then we'll learn something – only through confrontation."
"Okay," she sighed, "we'll try to find her tomorrow. Thanks for the information."
"I'm glad I could help. Marta...?
" "Yes?"
"Be careful. Just be careful. This case is suspicious." "
I'll try." A faint smile crossed her face for the first time. "I'll be careful.
"
Evening was approaching. Marta, soaked and exhausted by the day's events, reluctantly stumbled into her apartment. She threw her keys on the dresser and quickly undressed. She went to the bathroom, and immediately the faucet began to hum, filling the bathtub. Meanwhile, she went out onto the balcony and lit a cigarette. It was all so strange. And it was happening so fast, too fast for her. First, what had happened to Marcin—the mere memory brought a stabbing pain to her chest, and tears welled in her eyes. Then Daria and her incredible news. Marta had been a lifelong skeptic and hadn't believed such stories. Until then. It was all too crazy and unbelievable. She stubbed out her cigarette and went to the bathroom. She slowly climbed into the tub with a sigh of relief. The hot water made her feel a little drowsy. She closed her eyes contentedly and began to breathe calmly. When she opened her eyes, she thrashed in the bathtub, splashing water everywhere. Amaya stood in the middle of the bathroom, dressed in light clothes, watching her calmly.
"What are you doing here?" Marta screamed, and suddenly felt her head submerged. In
an instant, a slender hand grabbed her by the neck and forced her into the tub. At first, she gagged, but then closed her mouth and jerked, spilling water. She grabbed Amaya's hand and, struggling, tried to free herself from her grip. For a moment, the grip loosened as if she had managed to lift her head above the water. She inhaled sharply and gasped,
"Why?"
But there was no answer. Perhaps there never had been one. Amaya stood calmly over her and pushed her head under the water. Marta only had time to look into her eyes, black and impenetrable. And in them, she saw the Abyss. And then the waters closed over it, and darkness fell.
* * *
The rain, in which the city had been immersed for weeks, suddenly eased, thinned, and finally stopped. Single drops fell only from nearby trees and windowsills, the remnants of rainwater crowded the gutters and flowed down the sewer grates. The dark clouds thinned, then finally disappeared, giving way to the sun that warmed the city. Umbrellas disappeared from the streets, the sidewalks dried quickly, and once again filled with people. The sky was cloudless and blue again.
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