Tales from Torren Ferry"

The mist rose thick over the river each morning in Torren Ferry, curling like breath from the earth’s lungs. To newcomers, it was unnerving—how the fog never quite lifted until noon, how it clung to the cottages, wrapping everything in damp silence. But to those who belonged to the village, the mist was simply part of life, just as much as the ferry ropes and the cry of gulls that circled above the river’s slow pulse.

Eliott Merrow had lived in Torren Ferry all his life, just like his father and grandfather before him. He ran the old ferry now, guiding the creaking wooden vessel across the river day after day, pulling on the thick chain that ran like a spine through the water. Most mornings, he barely spoke a word—just nodded to the villagers, accepted their coins or grateful glances, and let the river speak instead.

But that year, the river started whispering in a different way.

It began the day a stranger arrived on the early ferry—unusual in itself, for tourists rarely came before midsummer. She wore a long dark coat and carried a canvas satchel, worn but sturdy. Her name, she said, was Clara Fen. She had an old map tucked into her bag and asked Eliott a strange question as she stepped off the ferry: “Do the ruins still stand?”

“Ruins?” he repeated, brow furrowed.

Clara nodded. “An old house, they say, that once stood near the riverbank before it slipped into the mud.”

Eliott hesitated. He’d heard stories, of course—every child in Torren Ferry grew up with tales of the Silt House, the manor that had supposedly sunk into the river during a storm a hundred years ago. But no one had seen it. No one living, at least.

“You’d best speak with Mira Ashwell,” he said. “She keeps the stories.”

Clara found Mira in her cottage overlooking the ferry landing, surrounded by herbs, riverstones, and dusty books. Mira was nearly eighty, sharp-eyed and wry. She studied Clara like a hawk before offering her tea and sitting her down by the hearth.

“I know who you are,” Mira said after a moment. “Fen. That name’s rooted here, though not many would remember.”

Clara’s fingers trembled slightly as she sipped her tea. “My grandmother was born here. She left during the flood of ‘39. She used to tell me stories… about a house that sang in the mist.”

Mira nodded slowly. “The Silt House. It belonged to the Wren family, long before your kin. They say the house was cursed—sank into the river after the youngest daughter vanished. Folks thought she drowned. Some think she left on the ferry and never looked back.”

“I think she left something behind,” Clara whispered.

That night, Clara stayed at the inn, but sleep wouldn’t come. The river seemed to call to her from her window, a low hum rising through the floorboards. At dawn, she walked the southern path through the reeds, her boots squelching in the mud, until she reached the bend where the river curled like a sleeping serpent.

There, in the mist, something shimmered.

It was only for a moment—but she saw it. The outline of a grand house, its roof sloped and broken, ivy clinging to its stone bones. The windows glowed faintly, as if remembering candlelight. Then it was gone.

She ran to Eliott the next day, wild-eyed and breathless.

“I saw it,” she gasped. “The house—it’s still there.”

Eliott looked at her with quiet seriousness. “You saw the river’s memory. It shows itself to those who remember what others forget.”

They returned to the bend together that evening, ferry lantern in hand. The fog curled thick again, but Clara saw it once more—clearer now. The door of the house was ajar, and for the first time, she heard the faintest melody… a lullaby her grandmother used to hum.

Inside the ruined house, buried beneath mud and root, they found a rusted tin box. Clara opened it with shaking hands. Inside was a bundle of letters—written in ink faded by time, signed by a woman named Liora Wren. Each letter told a story of heartbreak, of escape, of love lost to the river.

“She didn’t drown,” Clara whispered. “She ran. She left these for someone to find.”

Mira helped Clara piece together the story: Liora had fallen in love with a ferryman, but her family disapproved. One stormy night, she fled, leaving letters hidden in the cellar. The flood swept away the house soon after, and the river kept its secret.

Until now.

Clara stayed in Torren Ferry for the summer. She and Eliott restored the letters, recording them in a small book—“Tales from Torren Ferry”—and placed it in the village library. Tourists came and went, drawn by the mystery, but to the villagers, it wasn’t about ghosts or treasure.

It was about remembering.

Sometimes, Clara would walk to the river’s edge at dawn, just as the mist rose, and hum the lullaby her grandmother once sang. And now and then, if the air was still enough, the faint shape of the Silt House would appear—its memory tethered to the living by the simplest things:

A song. A story. A name spoken aloud.

And the river, forever watching.