Arthur walked the familiar path to the beach, his boots crunching lightly over the sand-dusted boardwalk. He expected gulls, waves, maybe a few early swimmers. What he found instead made him stop cold.
The waterline was crowded—not with people, but with shapes. Dozens of them. Jet black, oval, and slick like oil-drenched stones. They bobbed in the shallow surf, motionless at first. Then one of them shuddered. A ripple spread. Another pulsed faintly, like something breathing beneath a membrane. The air felt suddenly too quiet.
Arthur didn’t scream. He couldn’t. Not when dozens of those things bobbed just beyond the surf—black, glistening, and pulsing. The beach had been full of laughter minutes ago. Now it was shrieks, scrambling feet, dropped toys, and terrified parents dragging their children away from the water.
Arthur Finch woke up just before sunrise, like he always did. A faint glow was starting to show in the east, visible through the salt-streaked window of his small bedroom. He could hear the soft sound of waves hitting the shingle beach outside—steady and familiar.
He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, feet landing on the cool, worn floorboards. The cottage still smelled faintly of last night’s fire and the salty sea air—both scents he’d grown used to over the years.
In the kitchen, he filled his old kettle and set it on the gas stove. While it heated up, he stepped out onto the porch. The air was cool and damp with early morning moisture. He looked out at the sea—something he did every day without thinking.
The water was calm and glassy, the tide on its way in. “Good tide for fishing,” he mumbled. He glanced at the windsock tied to the railing. It barely moved. Back inside, he poured his tea and flipped open the small radio on the windowsill.
For the past week, a series of undersea tremors had rolled up the coast, followed by warnings about sudden tidal surges. He hadn’t dared take the Sea Spray out—not with talk of “colossal tide risks” and shifting sandbars.
But this morning, the update was clear: no seismic activity recorded overnight, all advisories lifted. Arthur let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Finally, things had calmed. It was safe again.
His boat, the Sea Spray, was a solid sixteen-foot open boat painted a fading blue. It wasn’t fancy, but it was reliable. He’d had it for twenty years and knew it inside and out. He took off the tarpaulin cover, folded it, and packed it away.
Then, using rollers and a practiced technique, he pushed the boat down to the water. The boat hit the shallows with a soft splash. He stepped in with his rubber boots and secured everything. One last check—anchor, backup oars, life vest under the seat.
The sun was up now, climbing steadily. Its light reflected off the water, making him squint. He noticed it was quieter than usual. Normally there would be gulls overhead, but today, just a few birds circled in the distance. Something about the stillness felt off.
He thought back to previous seasons. The fishing had dropped off. Maybe it was overfishing, or maybe the fish had moved farther out. He also pulled in more plastic these days—bags, wrappers. It was discouraging.
He cut the engine. The sudden quiet was broken only by the water slapping gently against the hull. He hooked a wriggling lugworm, feeling the familiar texture as he baited the line. Before casting, he paused to take in the air and the silence.
He scanned the horizon one more time—an old habit—and got ready to fish. Arthur cast his line, watching the bobber settle. He exhaled slowly, letting the silence wrap around him. But then, something in the corner of his eye tugged his attention away.
Out on the hazy horizon, three—no, four—dark shapes floated on the surface of the water. All of them roughly the same size, evenly spaced apart. They looked like massive, matte-black eggs, bobbing gently with the swell. He blinked and sat up straighter, shielding his eyes.
They weren’t buoys. Too large, too smooth, too symmetrical. Not whales either—no movement, no breath, no spouts. Just… stillness. Unnatural stillness. The sea was calm, but the sight of those objects sent a jolt of anxiety through him. Arthur quickly reeled in his line, hands trembling.
The reel clattered loudly, his breath quickening. He couldn’t take his eyes off the things. They didn’t belong. Something about them pressed against an old part of his mind—deep and instinctive—that said: Leave. Now.
Then one of them shifted. Only slightly, but enough to make a small wake ripple out. Arthur froze. A low, pulsing hum followed, faint and strange—like something organic but mechanical at the same time. A wet vibration, almost felt more than heard.
His mouth went dry. He backed away from the edge of the boat, heart hammering. He grabbed the tiller with stiff fingers and yanked the starter cord. The engine sputtered, then roared to life. He didn’t wait.
He spun the bow and gunned it back toward shore, eyes flicking between the throttle and the things behind him. As he pulled into the harbor, he didn’t bother tying off neatly. He leapt from the boat, feet thudding on the dock, and hurried straight toward the nearest Coast Guard post.
A young officer stood outside, bored and scrolling through his phone. Arthur strode up, still breathless. “There’s something out there,” he said, voice high with urgency. “Four of them—floating things. Huge. Egg-shaped. One of them moved. Made a noise.”
The officer finally looked up, raising an eyebrow. “Moved?” Arthur pointed out toward the sea. “About a mile off. I saw them clear as day. They’re not debris. One of them turned and made a sound I’ve never heard before.”
The officer glanced toward the water, then back at Arthur. “Could be sonar from a sub, maybe whales. Sometimes sound carries funny out there.” Arthur snapped, “They’re not whales! They were the size of a basketball, black and smooth, and they didn’t move like anything natural.”
“I’ve fished here for decades. I’ve never seen anything like it.” The officer held up his hands. “Okay, okay. But unless they’re causing a hazard, I can’t do much without orders. I can radio it in, but I can’t leave my post right now.” Arthur stared at him, incredulous. “You think I’m making this up?”
The officer hesitated, then gave a small, tired shrug. “I think maybe you saw something unusual. Maybe. But we get a lot of calls. Floating logs, lost kayaks, even weird cloud shadows. I’ll make a note, but unless someone’s in trouble…”
Arthur turned away, fuming. His pulse still thundered in his ears. He needed someone to see what he’d seen. He needed someone to believe it was real. He headed down the beach path, boots kicking up dry sand. His heart was racing.
The objects were still out there, he could see them—just a dark smudge on the water’s surface now. He needed someone—anyone—to really look. To confirm he wasn’t losing his mind. A couple lay on a towel near the dunes. Arthur approached, trying to sound calm.
“Excuse me. Do you see that out there?” he asked, pointing. “Something floating—dark, oval-shaped.” The woman looked up and squinted. “You mean that big ship?” the man asked, shielding his eyes.
“No, not the tanker,” Arthur said. “Closer in. Much closer. Just above the swell.” The couple exchanged a look. “I don’t see anything,” the woman said with a half-smile. The man shrugged. “Maybe it’s just seaweed or something.” They returned to their conversation like he wasn’t there.
He tried again, this time with a dog walker. Then with a man holding a camera. Then a family setting up a beach umbrella. Each time, the answer was the same. Either they didn’t see it or didn’t care. His urgency was starting to feel absurd—even to himself.
“Why won’t anyone just look?” he muttered. His voice cracked slightly. Then he spotted a teenage boy leaning against a dune, scrolling through his phone while his family unpacked behind him. Arthur walked over, holding out his binoculars. “Hey. Here. Just take a quick look out to sea.”
The kid blinked, reluctant. “Why?” he asked. “There’s something weird out there. Just humor me,” Arthur said. With a theatrical sigh, the boy took the binoculars and adjusted them. He stared into the distance for a few moments, unmoving. Arthur waited, hands fidgeting, heart thudding in his chest.
The boy finally lowered the binoculars and handed them back. “Just waves,” he said flatly. Then he went back to his phone, unimpressed. Arthur stood frozen, gripping the binoculars tightly. Slowly, he raised them to his own eyes and scanned the water again, jaw tightening.
The shapes were gone. Or submerged. Or drifted further. The surface was empty now. Nothing out of the ordinary. He stared at it anyway, breath shallow, eyes searching. But there was nothing. Just the ripple of the tide and the white glare of sunlight.
He lowered the binoculars, arms heavy. His mouth was dry. Had he imagined it? No. No, it had been too solid. Too real. He could still feel the unease it stirred in his gut. Something was out there. Something nobody else wanted to acknowledge.
He stood there a moment longer, the warm beach buzzing behind him with laughter, barking dogs, and windblown conversation. He felt completely disconnected from it all. It was like the ocean had whispered something only he had heard. Only he had seen.
Then he turned and started walking—fast—back toward his cottage. If no one else would look, he would. If no one believed him, he’d get proof. He’d find it again. Whatever it was, it hadn’t vanished. Not really. He knew the sea too well for that.
He motored out towards the area where he’d last seen the shape. The sun was higher now, glaring off the water, making it difficult to see. He circled for nearly an hour, his earlier frustration giving way to a dogged persistence.
Then he saw it. Just a sliver of darkness breaking the surface. The eggs were almost entirely submerged, except for one. That’s why the others couldn’t see it from shore, and why he’d lost it. It was lower in the water now.
He cut the engine and drifted closer. It was definitely egg-shaped, a dull, matte black, about the size of a basketball. The surface was strangely smooth, almost leathery to his imagined touch. There were no markings, no seams.
With considerable effort, using a boat hook and all his strength, he managed to nudge and pull one end of it towards the side of his small boat. He wanted to see if he could roll it to get a better look.
As he heaved, there was a soft, wet popping sound. The object deflated slightly under the strain, and a thick, reddish-black fluid burst out, splashing across his hands and forearms. The liquid splattered the deck, dripping down the side of the boat in viscous streaks.
Arthur recoiled, letting out a strangled gasp. The fluid was thick like used motor oil, but with a coppery sheen and a faintly metallic, briny smell. It clung to his skin in heavy droplets, refusing to run off with the sea spray. He stared at his hands, heart pounding.
He backed away from the thing, stumbling slightly as he fumbled for the motor cord. He yanked it hard. The engine coughed, sputtered, then roared to life. He didn’t look back. Whatever that thing was—he wanted nothing more to do with it.
Back at the dock, he jumped out before the boat had even bumped against the mooring. He ran up the hill to his cottage, boots slamming the ground, his arms held out from his sides like they were on fire.
In the bathroom, he scrubbed with soap and steaming water until his arms were raw. The reddish-black stain bled into the sink but didn’t vanish entirely. Even after the third scrub, faint shadows of the fluid clung to his skin. Like it had soaked into him.
He leaned against the sink, breathing heavily, staring at his blotchy forearms. There was no pain. No burning. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that something had gotten in. Something strange. Something not meant for the surface.
He wrapped a towel around his shoulders and stepped outside, needing air. The sun was higher now. The beach visible from his porch was busier. But something tugged at his thoughts. His arms felt tight. Or itchy. Or off. He looked down. Still no redness. No rash. Just… a feeling.
Placebo, he told himself. You’re spooking yourself. But he couldn’t stop touching his skin. It felt warm. Or maybe that was the sun. Or the panic. He walked, needing to see the beach—needing a distraction, or a sign that the world was still normal.
He was halfway down the boardwalk when the first scream rang out. Then another followed. People were pointing out to sea, backing away from the water’s edge. Arthur turned instinctively and froze. There were more of them now.
Dozens of the dark, oval shapes floated on the swell, much closer to shore than before. Some bobbed gently. Others lolled at odd angles. A few had visible seams or slits—like mouths, or cracks waiting to open. A low, almost subsonic hum filled the air.
Gasps became shouts. Shouts turned to panic. Families grabbed their children. Dogs barked and pulled at leashes. Coolers were left behind as people sprinted. The calm afternoon unraveled into chaos.
Arthur stood motionless at first, staring at the impossible sight, a surreal mix of horror and validation flooding him. Then, as one of the eggs near the shoreline jostled unnaturally—just a twitch, a jerk—he snapped into motion. He turned and ran with the rest of them.
Arthur sprinted up the dune path, heart hammering, breath ragged. He didn’t stop until he reached his truck, fumbling the door open with shaking hands. He slammed it shut behind him and turned the key. The engine roared to life, and the radio crackled on.
He turned the dial, flipping through static and soft rock until he landed on a local news station. Weather. Traffic. A segment about a bake sale. Nothing. Not a single mention of the chaos he’d just witnessed—no reports of the strange black shapes or the people fleeing the beach in terror.
He leaned back in his seat, sweat cooling on his skin. What the hell is going on? He looked down at his hand gripping the steering wheel. The reddish-black pigment was still there, faint but undeniable. He rubbed it with his thumb. Still no pain. Still no rash. But it hadn’t faded.
For a while, he just sat there—watching the empty road through his windshield, radio mumbling in the background. His hand tingled now. Or maybe he was imagining it. Either way, the silence from the world outside only made it worse. How could no one be saying anything?
After nearly an hour of waiting, of second-guessing, of staring at his skin until the color started to blur in his vision, Arthur couldn’t take it anymore. He turned the key again and eased the truck back onto the road, heading toward the beach. But the beach was no longer open.
The main access road was blocked by a line of unmarked white vans and dark SUVs. Yellow tape fluttered weakly in the sea breeze. Men in black windbreakers stood at intervals, their eyes hidden behind mirrored sunglasses.
Arthur parked further down the lane and approached on foot. As he got closer, a man in a dark suit stepped into his path. “Beach is closed right now, sir,” the man said crisply. “Environmental cleanup. Routine.” His tone was polite but absolute.
Arthur stared past him, trying to glimpse what was happening behind the vans. “What do you mean?” he asked. “What about all those things in the water, the eggs?” The man’s expression didn’t change. “I’m not sure what you’re referring to, sir. Please return to your vehicle.”
Arthur’s shoulders dropped. He turned slightly, about to give up—when something made him speak again. “I touched one of them.” The man’s posture changed instantly. “Touched?” Arthur nodded slowly.
“It split open. Something came out. It—whatever it was—it spilled all over me. My arms. I’ve scrubbed but the stain is still there.” The man lifted his wrist to his mouth. “Ma’am we’ve got a person here claiming to have had potential exposure. Initiating secondary protocol.”
Then he turned back to Arthur. “You need to come with me.” Arthur didn’t resist. He was too tired, too overwhelmed. The man led him past the vehicles and through a guarded gate in the perimeter.
A large tent had been erected beyond the dunes, white and humming with generators. Inside, it was colder. Sterile. A row of folding chairs lined one wall. A few personnel in lab coats and clean suits moved between tables and sealed containers.
And on a raised platform under soft blue light sat one of the eggs—intact. Nearby, a woman in a white coat adjusted a monitor, then turned to Arthur. “You’re the fisherman?” she asked. “The one who touched the egg?”
Arthur nodded slowly. His eyes were fixed on the egg. It pulsed faintly beneath its rubbery surface. Alive. Undeniably alive. The woman reached for a tablet. “Then we have a lot to talk about.”
Arthur swallowed. His voice came out hoarse. “It started this morning. I only saw three or four of them at first. Out past the reef—just floating there. Thought maybe my eyes were playing tricks on me.” The woman glanced up, but said nothing. She kept typing.
“I tried to nudge one with a hook. It popped, kind of. Leaked this thick reddish stuff all over my arms. It didn’t smell bad, just… wrong. By the time I made it to the beach, there were dozens of them. I swear—dozens. Close enough for kids to walk right up to.”
At this, one of the suited men nearby exchanged a glance with another. The woman finally looked at him. “We’re aware of the beach incident,” she said calmly. “You’re not the only one who saw them.”
“But you’re the only one who got this close,” said another voice from behind—a male scientist wheeling over a tray of vials. “I need to know what’s on me,” Arthur said, voice sharp. “It’s in my skin. I’ve scrubbed and scrubbed. It won’t come off. It itches, or maybe I think it itches— I don’t even know anymore.”
“We’ll examine it. But first…” The woman nodded to two personnel near the tent flap. “Quarantine protocol, please.” Arthur stiffened. “You’re locking me in?” “Just precaution,” she said. “We’re not treating you like a danger. We’re treating you like data.”
They led him to a separate corner partitioned off with thick plastic sheeting. A chair. A cot. A few bottles of water. No clock. No answers. Just the hum of filtered air and the occasional muffled murmur from the other side. He sat. Waited. Hours passed.
From where he sat, he could see the other scientists pacing, jotting notes, pointing at tablets, occasionally gathering around the strange egg. They brought in specialized lights, rolled out scanning equipment, collected samples in sealed tubes.
Arthur cleared his throat, called out. “Hey. Can someone at least look at this?” He raised his arm against the transparent wall. The pigmentation was still there—faint but visible, like a bruise that wouldn’t fade.
No one responded. Not even a glance. They weren’t ignoring him to be cruel, he realized. They were just too absorbed in the thing in the center of the tent. Then, a change in energy. One of the younger scientists, a man in a wrinkled lab coat and fogged-up glasses, called the others over. “Dr. Elsom! You need to see this!”
The woman who had first spoken to Arthur stepped in quickly. The rest followed. A small monitor was turned toward the group. Excited murmurs filled the tent. Someone clapped. Arthur leaned forward, trying to catch anything through the buzz.
Moments later, Dr. Elsom returned. Her expression was different now—alert, bright with a strange mix of awe and urgency. She stepped into Arthur’s quarantine area, this time with a gentler look.
“We know what they are,” she said. Arthur stood. “Tell me.” “They’re eggs,” she said plainly. “But not fresh. They’re fossilized. Some are tens of thousands of years old—preserved under immense pressure in sediment layers miles beneath the ocean floor.”
His brow furrowed. “So they’re… dead?” “Dormant,” she corrected. “Or, more accurately, they were in a kind of stasis. Frozen in time.” “The tremors from last week weren’t just felt here. They disturbed the depths of the ocean.”
“Some layers cracked open. These eggs—” she gestured toward the table— “were likely buried in a deep-sea trench. The seismic activity dislodged them, and a rare combination of currents carried them upward.” Arthur was quiet, absorbing the weight of it.
“We believe they belonged to a species of giant squid,” Elsom continued. “Not like the ones we know today. These were… ancient. Intelligent. Possibly apex predators of their time. Their biology suggests an adaptation to crushing depths…”
Arthur looked down at his arms. “And the stain?” Elsom smiled faintly. “The pigmentation embedded in your skin is a unique type of residue. That reddish tone? It’s the same compound that likely gave these squid their deep color—one that helped them absorb bioluminescent light and remain invisible to predators and prey.”
“So… it’s not dangerous?” She hesitated. “We don’t believe so. You’re the first human to come into direct contact with the fluid. But we’ll continue monitoring. You may be carrying the first recorded trace of this creature’s biology on land. It’s… invaluable to us.”
Arthur gave a dry chuckle. “So what now? I go home with a souvenir from a monster?” “Not a monster,” she said quietly. “A message from Earth’s past. A reminder of what we don’t know. What still sleeps beneath.”
He stared at the pulsing egg behind her. Its rhythm matched something in him now. A pulse in the deep. “And you,” she said, “have seen what no one else has. This… is a secret very few are now privileged to understand.
And you helped give it context.” Arthur nodded slowly. For the first time in hours, he exhaled. The fear was still there—but now it mingled with something else. Wonder. Arthur looked past her, to the edge of the tent where a flap fluttered in the coastal wind.
Beyond that was the ocean again. Still rolling, still wide, still unknowable. He thought of the seabed. Of creatures that never saw light. Of mountains underwater taller than Everest, and trenches deeper than fear.
He thought of how much was left uncharted. And for the first time in his seventy-one years, Arthur Finch wasn’t content just watching the tide. He wanted to know what else might rise from the deep.
