Obada Plunges into the Abyss

It was not the howling of the northerlies, those winds that habitually lacerated the silence of Salt Creek, which dragged Silas from the depths of his fitful sleep. It was the sound: a wet, heavy, and revolting moan emanating from the cedar planks directly above his head. The rhythm was monotonous, mimicking the friction of a sodden carcass being hauled across rotting timber. A viscous substance scraped against the dry wood, leaving behind a faint hiss like the crackle of salt crystals oxidizing in a furnace. Silas opened his eyes to the suffocating stillness of the village—that heavy, metallic silence that preceded the Night of the Great Ebb, when the sea retreated to distances unknown, exposing secrets the sun was never meant to witness. His fingers twitched toward the oil lamp on the bedside table, seeking a sliver of light to dissolve the waking nightmare. The moment his pads brushed the brass base, his movement stalled. The metal was no longer smooth. It was encrusted in a coarse, white layer; jagged salt scales had erupted from the vacuum of the night as if the room itself had begun to sweat brine. He rose, his movements calculated, feeling a stinging chill crawl up from t…