Squalls Out on the Gulf Stream

Squalls Out on the Gulf Stream

The storm approached swiftly, black clouds rolling in from the west, heavy with rain and wind. Clara sat on the porch, watching the horizon as the first distant rumbles of thunder stirred the air. The house—an old cottage her great-uncle Henry had left her—sat low and lonely on Big Pine Key. The sea grape trees swayed nervously in the rising gusts.

Uncle Henry had been a fisherman, a complex man weathered by the sun and salt, but he was also quiet. Clara remembered his strong and scarred hands gripping the wheel of his boat or a glass of whiskey, always steady. He used to talk about storms and how they suddenly and sharply emerged from the Gulf Stream. “Not all squalls are the same,” he’d say, his eyes fixed on the water. Some bring more than rain.”

Three days ago, Clara had stumbled upon a box buried under a pile of rusted fishing tackle and old charts in the attic. She found a map marked with a circle far out in the Gulf. Next to it, Henry’s cramped handwriting read: “For God’s sake, never go back.” The mystery of the map and Henry’s warning only deepened the enigma of her family’s history.

The storm hit after dark. The wind lashed at the trees while the rain pounded the roof. Clara lit a kerosene lamp and sat at the table; the map was before her. She traced the circle with her finger, thinking of Henry and the stories he never told. Outside, the Gulf roared like a wild beast. She could hear the waves crashing harder than they should, even in a storm.

Lightning lit up the sky, and for a moment, Clara thought she saw something in the water. It wasn’t a wave, it wasn’t debris, it was something moving.

The power went out just before midnight. Clara sat in the dark, the lamp flickering. The wind howled, and the old house creaked ominously. Then she heard it—a knock at the door. The fear that gripped her felt intense, and the storm outside only added to the sense of dread.

It was soft at first, almost drowned out by the storm. Clara remained still, listening. The knock came again, louder this time. She didn’t move. No one would be out in this weather. The suspense was unbearable, leaving her wondering who or what could be knocking at the door.

The third knock was insistent. Reluctantly, she stood and approached the door, the map still in her hand. The rain lashed against her as she cracked it open.

No one was there.

But something lay on the porch. It was a worn wooden ship’s figurehead. The paint was cracked and faded, and a woman’s face stared up at her, hollow-eyed and lifeless. The figurehead was slick with rain, the wood dark and wet.

Clara stared at it, her breath caught in her throat. The wind howled, and she thought she heard something in it—a faint, thin voice.

“Return what was taken.”

She slammed the door and bolted it shut. The wind pressed against the house, and the rain lashed against the windows, but inside, it was eerily quiet. Too quiet.

When dawn came, the storm had passed. The sky was pale, and the water was calm. The figurehead was gone, too, though she had no recollection of moving it. She stepped onto the porch, the boards creaking beneath her feet, and gazed at the Gulf.

She thought about Henry, his warnings, and the haunted look he sometimes wore when discussing his life on the water. She didn’t know what he had done, why the map was marked, or what had emerged from the storm. However, she understood now what he meant.

Not all squalls are the same, and some storms never truly pass.