Midnight Remarks

Patrick Dudley sensed her stare before his rowboat reached the shore. The hairs on the back of his sunburnt neck stood stiffer than the paddle in his hands, in a jolt that spread as far as the toes he hadn’t felt in weeks. Painedly, he swallowed the sour taste in his mouth and – when that didn’t catch in his throat and nick his ability to breathe – elevated his gaze to meet his wife’s.

Wilona Dudley stood still – unnervingly so for someone whose hair and dress flailed so diligently in the sea breeze. She appeared stiller than even the cliff face she was stood atop; an ancient monolith diverting rapids of greying brown and muted maroon. She was paler than Dudley remembered. The colour in her cheeks appeared to have been leached away, as if – in the sailor’s time abroad – his wife had forgotten the warmth of the sun.

Dudley clambered out of the rowboat, allowing himself a second to focus on something other than his wife. One foot met shallow water and then sea floor. As the boat gave beneath him, his weight shifted smoothly, automatically, and he was reminded that he didn’t need think about something so routine. Wilona’s ashen complexion sprung back up in its place, and where his thoughts ventured his eyes were quick to follow.

But no one stood atop the cliff.

Dudley’s heart thumped against his ribcage. The blood fled from his now-elevated foot, which caught on something hard behind him. He lurched. With a splash he caught himself, but not a moment was spared to register what had happened; his eyes flickered frantically across the shore, only ceasing when he found Wilona descending the cliff, travelling so smoothly he could have sworn she was floating.

Dudley exhaled. A heavy heat filled his lungs in the air’s place, though he could not decide whether it was the warmth of the sun or the blazing remains of an assailed ship. So he returned his attention to the rowboat, which he hauled ashore, ignoring the groans of the wood as it strained against sand. Then he trudged over to where his wife had stopped. She was as still as she had been on the cliff.

That sour taste returned to Dudley’s mouth. But, gazing into eyes that seemed to reflect too much light, he smirked. “It’s been a while, darlin’.”

Wilona stepped forward. Dudley clenched his jaw, preparing for the sting of a slap that never came. Instead, Wilona’s arms, bony and frail, landed on his shoulders like autumn leaves and tugged the sailor towards her. Dudley stiffened at first, until the familiar musky scent of Wilona’s perfume enveloped him in a second embrace, and he sagged against his lover. For the first time in months, his heart wasn’t racing.

Then Wilona’s nails pierced the peeling skin on Dudley’s back.

The sailor’s groan was cut short when the side of his head was shoved closer to Wilona’s mouth. She whispered something – so quiet he could have dreamt it.

But the shivers down his spine proved he hadn’t.

“You’re a dead man, Dudley.”

This is another old piece I wrote for a uni course. It’s flash fiction I wrote in 2025, but have since edited.