The Ghost of the Ferryman

The campfire crackled, spitting defiant sparks into the encroaching darkness. Three shadows danced wildly against the trees that ringed their makeshift campsite, mimicking the unease that was slowly tightening its grip on the friends. Jimmy took another swig of beer, the lukewarm liquid doing little to soothe the sudden chill that had permeated the air.

"Maybe it's the ghost of an old ferryman coming to get us and take us along with the dead onboard to the underworld," he’d said, a playful tremor attempting to mask the prickle of genuine fear he felt crawling up his spine. The words hung in the air, amplified by the growing silence between them.

Jack, ever the pragmatist, snorted. "Yeah, right. You've been watching too many horror flicks, Jimmy. It's probably just the fog playing tricks on our eyes." He punctuated his statement with a forced laugh, a sound that seemed to dissipate into the thickening mist.

Tim, usually the most jovial of the trio, remained uncharacteristically silent, his gaze fixed on the river. The low fog, which had been a distant, almost ethereal presence earlier, was now a tangible entity, swirling and creeping towards them like a suffocating blanket. It obscured the opposite bank, swallowing the trees whole and muting the sounds of the night.

"Maybe it is something else in the fog," Tim finally said, his voice barely a whisper. The laughter that followed was strained, hollow, lacking the conviction it desperately tried to convey.

Jimmy shivered, pulling his jacket tighter around him. He felt a growing sense of dread, a premonition that was far too real to ignore. He glanced at the others, their faces illuminated by the flickering firelight, their expressions a mixture of amusement and… apprehension? He wasn't the only one feeling it.

The image of the ferry, barely discernible in the fog, swam back into his mind. It had looked ancient, weathered, its wooden planks warped and groaning even from this distance. An unnatural darkness seemed to cling to it, a void that swallowed the surrounding light. And the figure standing at the helm… a shadowy silhouette, unmoving, impossibly still.

He’d dismissed it as a trick of the light, a figment of his overactive imagination fueled by beer and ghost stories. But now… Now, the fog seemed to press closer, thicker than before. And the faint sound, a low, mournful drone, was growing steadily louder.

"Did you guys hear that?" Jimmy asked, his voice tight.

Jack frowned, tilting his head. "Hear what? Just the river, man."

“No, there's something else. A… a humming. Or a chanting, maybe."

Tim swallowed hard, his eyes wide. "I... I think I hear it too."

Jack, ever the skeptic, finally conceded. "Okay, yeah, I hear something. Creepy, but probably just some weird animal call. Relax, guys."

But they couldn't relax. The sound was intensifying, resonating deep within their chests. And as the fog coiled around them, they saw it again. The ferry. Closer now. Much closer.

The shape was clearer, sharper, etched against the oppressive fog. It was undeniably a ferry, but unlike any they had ever seen. Its hull was long and narrow, crafted from dark, almost petrified wood. Lanterns, or what appeared to be lanterns, flickered with an unnatural green luminescence, casting eerie shadows that danced and writhed across the deck. And at the helm, the figure remained, a silent, watchful sentinel.

"Okay," Jack said, his voice trembling slightly, "that's… that's not normal."

"No shit, Sherlock," Jimmy muttered, his heart hammering against his ribs.

Tim was pale, his eyes fixed on the approaching vessel. "What do we do?"

Jimmy racked his brain, trying to find a logical explanation, a way to dismiss what they were seeing. But deep down, he knew. This wasn't a trick of the light. This wasn't some weird animal call. This was something… else. Something ancient and malevolent.