Alice, between my teeth, tugs north. Her picks, swollen with water, turn in the wind and settle like a poor man’s compass. When my things have dried, stretched out in a field of unnamed boulders, I count my money and head west, feeling the thin wood grow splintery on my tongue in disagreement.

Alice is used to death in a way that I’m not. I don’t know what she sees from where she is, or what she feels about the man left behind in ‘The Watery Grave,’ but I am not inclined to join the Wayside just yet, to be a source of fear or confusion for those who encounter me. Toward that end, we ride west, in pursuit of ‘The Traveling Night Market,” which was last reported crossing into Iowa.

‘Appearing, unannounced, in gray-haired twilight, ‘The Traveling Night Market’ spells detriment for the passage of quiet evenings. It is a cause for temporary school closures in no less than fourteen districts, where well-behaved children have become skewed with strange ideals. It has formed and disbanded cults, uncountable, and it chews up unwelcomed followers like so much gristle, leaving a trail of meat and mangled destinies.

‘The Market’s’ legal head, Marlin Zed, serves as its harbinger, appearing in the offices of local town officials to produce labyrinthine systems of zoning permits, receipts, and fee waivers. Chaos sown, Zed will consume one hundred dollars worth of vodka-tonics at the nearest watering hole, wander drunkenly to the proposed site of ‘The Market,’ and pass out like some great, lumpy egg, waking only to pull crumpled legal documents from his coat as required.

‘The Traveling Night Market’ arrives within a day of these events and, there, you can buy scraps of the very darkness from which it emerges.’

A small group of concerned people have formed across from the fair grounds to protest ‘The Traveling Night Market’ in its most recent incarnation. I keep a parking lot’s distance between us while I wait for admittance to begin. Around four in the afternoon the group begins to struggle under the force of a wind that arrives to wreak havoc on their amateur signage and disperses them by five. I’m approached by a man who emerges from the ‘Market’ shortly after that.

“Strange thing, that wind, eh?” he asks, and I nod. “By strange I mean about how it only seemed focused on them folks causin’ trouble for the ‘Market’ and didn’t but rustle a single leaf a’these trees or whip at your hair or nothing.”

I nod again and the man sniffs.

“Not for nothing,” he says, “But I go by the moniker ‘Gale George’ at the ‘Market.’”

“You’re saying you caused the wind?” I ask, and the man puts his hands up in carefully exaggerated denial.

“No man can control the wind, my friend,” he laughs, “Why, that would be… that would be magic.”

I nod again and check the time.

“You’re a hard one to please,” he says, “What brings you to the ‘Market?’”

“A book I read says you can buy darkness there.”

“Emily’s the one you want, then,” he shrugs, “I’ll take you to her.”

“Is it open?”

“Might as well be,” he says, and we begin to walk, “Mr. Zed says we’ve got to keep the place quiet till sunset. Adds to the mystique. Meanwhile, we’re all bored as hell. Broke, too. Em’s cash only, by the way. Not cheap, neither.”

“Does she trade?”

The man smiles.

“What’s a fella like you got to trade to someone who can cut up the night?”

“A radio,” I say, “Previously haunted.”

“Don’t know that Em’s got use for that.”

“A few human teeth.”

“Got a full set herself, she does.”

“The gratitude of a shadowless man.”

“Was gonna ask about that,” he says, “Seemed rude until you mentioned it. And who’s the lady you’ve got traveling with you?”

“Alice,” I tell him and, sensing my surprise he says:

“A ghost ain’t nothing but wind.”

Gale George leaves me outside a tent with a sign that reads ‘Emily Nosferatu, the Black Tailor.’ He declines entering, himself, citing a history of personal clashes and ‘general claustrophobia,’ but hands me his card, insisting that wind and storm related business can be conducted by phone as necessary.

Inside the tent is a skeleton of a woman, her eyes glinting and bulged in the light from the open flap, which disappears quickly with a slap of leather- the tent resealing itself. There, invisibly, we bargain, trading dollars and favors and items of interest. She circles me all the while, her voice here and there between exchanges.

She wants the picks, Alice’s picks, or an outrageous amount of money and I guiltily bargain away just two pieces of the coffin before I hear the sharp whip of measuring tape and feel her bony fingers tapping the places where my body folds in.

In the deep black of the tent there is the sound of heavy scissors, a scrape and a click before the brush of metal along my neck. The Black Tailor cuts close and carefully. She cautions me against moving, though I stand very still. I do not hear her breathe, though I sense her face close to me.

Having fully traced my silhouette, I hear the woman step backward. The scissors close and she demands payment.

“It will always be behind you,” she says, “And it will drag for a while before you break it in. Sew it to your socks if a leg comes lose- black thread or you’ll get funny looks from children and dogs.”

“Dry-clean only?” I ask, and she ejects me from the tent.

The new shadow moves slowly and it sometimes makes mistakes, holding out the wrong arm or standing in profile, but I think it’s learning and it seems to appreciate the challenge. I praise it, occasionally, though it’s given me no reason to think it can hear.

Maybe it does the same for me.

-traveler

I am well enough, after a week in ‘The Watery Grave,’ to know that I am unwell. At the arrival of the man, the sane puppeteer inside me begins to put on a show, knowing that it will only have to be a civil 24 hours before I escape or die in escaping. My hand-strings tug and a voice comes from inside me:

“Hello,” it says, and it laughs lightly.

No stranger, this is, nevertheless, a strange man. He strips down to his sagging body and joins me in donning only underwear. I make room for him, for his things, and watch as he rolls out a blanket. The descent has left him entirely unscathed and, as though sensing my thoughts, he eyes me and says:

“Rough waters on your way down?”

My scabbed wounds crack quietly as I shift.

“It was narrower than I thought.”

“How long have you been down here.”

“Just a couple days,” I say.

I’m not sure why I lie.

The man hums a moment, the same tune.

“When are you thinking of going?”

“The next time,” I tell him, “Tomorrow.”

He nods and I add, “Not because of you.”

He nods again and he pulls out a harmonica.

“You play?” he asks, “Sing?”

“Neither.”

“Mind if I do?”

The sound of the harmonica in ‘The Watery Grave’ is maddening and inescapable but I listen, politely, sick on the inside like a rotten fruit. I stop him in between breaths.

“How did you get down so easily?” I ask.

“I’m a ghost,” he hums, “Come down to haunt the ‘Grave’ after perishing here myself.”

“Really?” I ask, because it’s hard to know what’s possible anymore.

“Nope,” he says, “But I’ve been down here a few times. Was worse off than you, I think.”

We’ve been avoiding direct eye contact, given the closeness of our quarters, but he turns to see me now with a look that it knowing, at first, and then, suddenly, concerned.

“How are you doing that?” he asks.

He leans forward, to look behind me, and then shifts back to dig in his bag. Before I can answer, he shines the beam of a little flashlight over my body and I cover myself, suddenly shy.

“You’re not casting a shadow,” he says, and though he chuckles as he says it, I see his frown hanging above the light.

“Yeah…” I say, “Weird, huh? Just, uh, happens.”

I wait for him to ask me about it but he doesn’t. He just nods and puts away his light. He pretends to read for a while, staring closely at the pages but rarely turning them. We exchange few words.

The man tries to escape while I sleep, leaving behind his bag and his harmonica, counting on his experience to guide him through the dark, waterlogged tunnel. I find him floating in the pool, one more hurdle to my exit.

-traveler

‘The Watery Grave’ is slick, at first, with blood from my various clam-wounds and with a half-stomachful of sea water. It is a difficult place to stand in, looking like some volcanic bubble, some still-born fart from the early, gassy days of the earth when things were still quiet and clean and smooth. I dreaded finding a body- I was sure I would, if not in the tunnel then certainly in the cavern itself, but there are no signs of life except my own. There is the sound of rushing water and sucking air as I watch the tunnel disappear under the black water. Then, the tunnel and the noise are gone, and I am left in absolute stillness.

I have packed well and learned the wisdom of catching my breath. I bandage my wounds and set up a modest camp, laying out blankets on the ground and making a table of my deflated pack. I eat a handful of a bland trail-mix that I make myself for times of lying low. It’s cheap mixture, caloric. Most importantly, it makes me want to not eat, it eventually becomes less desirable than going without.

Later, I am squatting awkwardly over a plastic bag, unable to find the proper balance for anything like a satisfying shit. My thighs ache terribly, my toes clenching and unclenching, shifting like worms in the dim light of my lantern. The only flat place in ‘The Watery Grave’ is the pool of water at the center, the flooded exit. At its fullest it is almost indiscernible from the stone- the potential for a twisted ankle in the short term, maybe a cause for madness over time.

Later, I have removed a marble from my pack, a thick, cat-eyed shooter. I roll it up the walls so that it rolls back. I am launching it in full circles by the time the water has drained halfway again, the marble spinning round and round the room and whizzing like a toy car and rattling at the stone’s invisible imperfections.

Later, the marble drops into the pool in the center and is swallowed, immediately, by the stillness there. I wade in, naked, the water rising to my stomach, and I grope with my feet.

Nothing.

I am startled by a sudden gasping, a sputter that sprays the unprepared stretches of skin across my upper half. I leap out of the water and see that the tunnel is reemerging, now. I watch it, a naked, suspicious man in a dark place. I realize I have not slept and that I am not tired.

There is a noise each time I turn off the light. Before, it was like the low hum of a distant lawn mower. Now it is the ghost of the marble, buzzing in constant circles. I try to sleep, but I wake often to the sound. The tunnel empties and refills in the dark interludes. I lie awake and grow claustrophobic, checking, often, that the pool is still there, that it has not moved. I dream of the sunrise and wake in the dark.

At its fullest, the pool in the center pushes just past the brim, a thin, black jell-o. I watch it and imagine its moving, or, it moves and I chock it up to my imagination. Claustrophobia gives way to boredom as several days pass. I write out song lyrics in dust- in the dust that must be shaking off of me. I forget to put on clothes and lose hours staring at the water.

Even though it’s dark.

Even though the water makes no sound, except for the awful sputtering that wakes me each time I start to doze.

When the shit-bag starts to outweigh the trail-mix, I consider emerging. A week has passed, according to my phone, and, though I have achieved a meditative calm, I recognize that it is being pressed and that it is fragile. To leave ‘The Watery Grave’ in a panic would be disastrous.

I give myself one more day and I start to pack and as I pack I hum a tune that I eventually hear, that I have been hearing and parroting for nearly half an hour. It is a man’s voice and it grows louder as I listen, louder and louder, though still very quiet. Louder relative to itself, and to everything else in the past week. I lean in close to the pool, which will begin its desperate coughing any moment, and I realize too late what is about to happen.

A man emerges with a massive splash, tossing a bag up onto the stone and twisting his shoulder-length hair into a pony-tail. He sees me, crouching in my underwear like some haunted goblin, and he smiles.

“Looks like we’re roomin’ for the night!”

The tunnel disappears below the water and the man begins to hum.

-traveler

I arrive at ‘The Watery Grave’ well before low tide and wait, for some time, for the water to ebb and slough off the rocks below the surface. It has been a scattered few weeks, with my shadow and the stranger (a shadow, of sorts, himself) a potential in any dark corner or unchecked crevice. Neither manifest and I wonder if I am lighter for all that the stranger is weighed down- able to move through the world with greater ease.

I don’t doubt that they are following, though, so I park the bike in a storage facility, in a room my family has rented but forgotten. There are pictures of me there, as a child, as a young, healthy man. I spend longer than I should, and then I set a course for a destination I have avoided many times, for having often been in the area.

‘As the sea pulls away from Clementine Rock, one might stop to marvel at the life left scurrying in the tide pools, this round’s losers of the reincarnation cycle. Marvel carefully, reader, for among those pools is a dark, lifeless place: ‘The Watery Grave,’ one of the world’s many dead-ends.

‘The Watery Grave’ is among the most literally named entries in this humble tome, having taken dozens of lives over the course of the last decade despite guards, warnings, and razored deterrents. It has developed twin reputations- one being that it is a spiritual place and the other being that is a challenge to survive. Those combined aspects are a catnip for a certain type of mid-twenties white college-goer, the kind of person looking to add to their repertoire of hostel stories or personally meaningful tattoos.

The spiritual stories describe the main cavern as a natural sanctuary, a wide, smooth room, cut off from the world by the ocean itself and totally still. Totally dark. Some, who have stayed a while in those depths, hear the ‘The Watery Song,’ an aural hallucination or a blessing, depending on who you ask. The challenge, assuming one has packed for their stay, is surviving the entry and exit, a trial that involves wading into the failing tide and riding the sinking water as it lowers you to its terminus, where a winding tunnel, sometimes just 3’ wide, leads to the sanctuary. This is the difficulty, a race against the water as it begins to rise again, faster than many think, cold, dark, and unrelenting.’

I step out to Clementine early as well, hefting my water-proofed bag over my head and slipping into the sea’s potholes, ending life there with sharp crunches. ‘The Watery Grave’ is easy enough to find- the ranger’s latest deterrent, an iron cage, has rusted and pulled away, standing like an apocalyptic tree in the waves.

I begin the descent, slowly, treading water and sputtering. The way down is narrow and sharp, lined with clams that click and clatter, that cut my arms and my feet until I am churning a pink froth. I consider going back, finding some other way to throw the stranger, but by the time I lose my nerve I see that I have sunk too low, that the only means of escape would be rescue.

The descent further narrows, a place where the clams have clambered over each other to squeeze off access. My bag will not fit as it is. I try to strip things out but the water drains quickly, it drains so that I am hanging by the bag itself for a moment. Something gives way and I fall, shredding the skin from my shoulders.

In time, I feel the bottom.

I start in the tunnel as soon as there is an inch of water to breathe, away from the sunlight, to a place where shadows cannot be cast.

-traveler