“Do you believe in God?” asked the girl once again. “Yes, I do, I guess. Perhaps more so when I am in trouble. Especially when I am flying in an airplane.”

― Abhaidev, That Thing About You

Victor Henley had always prided himself on his ability to read the water---twenty years of flying seaplanes across remote coastlines had taught him to spot trouble from miles away. But the fog rolling in that October morning carried something different, something that made his hands tremble as he performed the pre-flight inspection of the Goose.

His three passengers seemed ordinary enough: a mining engineer heading to survey a remote island, an anthropologist clutching a weathered journal, and a businessman whose eyes never seemed to focus on anything for long. They spoke little during boarding, each lost in private thoughts that seemed to weigh heavier than their luggage.

The flight began smoothly, the twin engines humming their familiar song as they climbed above the choppy waters. But twenty minutes in, Victor noticed the compass spinning wildly, the needle dancing between directions as if pulled by some invisible force. The radio crackled with static that almost sounded like whispers in a language he couldn’t recognize.

“There,” the anthropologist suddenly spoke, pointing toward a smudge of land that shouldn’t have existed on any chart Victor knew. The island rose from the water like a broken tooth, its rocky shores gleaming with an oily, iridescent sheen that hurt to look at directly. Against his better judgment, Victor found himself adjusting course toward it.

As they descended, the water below began to churn with movement---not waves, but something vast and purposeful sliding just beneath the surface. The businessman started laughing, a sound that grew more hysterical with each passing second, while the mining engineer pressed his face to the window and began muttering calculations that made no mathematical sense.

The last thing Victor remembered clearly was the moment the floats touched the strange, viscous water. The liquid seemed to pull at the aircraft, drawing it down with eager tendrils that caressed the hull like seeking fingers. His passengers were no longer in their seats---they stood at the cabin door, their forms somehow different, elongated, as they beckoned him to follow them into the depths.

Search and rescue found the Goose three days later, floating empty and pristine on calm waters fifty miles from where it should have been. The only trace of its occupants was a series of wet footprints leading from the cabin to the water’s edge, prints that seemed to multiply and change shape as they neared the sea.

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