The Catch That Wasn’t

The moon shone ominously upon the pier, casting an eerie sense of mystery amongst the atmosphere.

Joe Small was at his usual spot: a quiet wooden pier at the end of the beach, which extended over a series of rocks and reached the open seas. The pier was aging; splinters of wood lay across the floor, leaving edges and crevices broken off.

Slithers of moonlight crept from beneath the surface, as the small gaps between each wooden plank had given way to the bottomless depths below. The wind howled and whistled, as though growing a conscience of its own, as Joe’s jacket flung back and forward under the bucket which he had placed it on.

The bucket was brought for Joe to place his captures in, but something—maybe the wind, maybe the mysterious glint in the sky’s eye—told him that no fish would make their way into his bucket today.

The truth was, it wasn’t the right time for fishing. The cold was bitter, piercing through the gaps of exposed skin on Joe’s neck and the region between his feet and ankles.

Joe, however, didn’t have a choice.

Fishing was his trade; fishing was his life. He either fished or he went broke. He needed to catch enough now to be able to sell the next day to feed himself and his young son, Jacob.

Joe was humming as he cast his net, trying to distract himself from nature’s thunderous melody.

A few minutes had passed, and nothing had bitten. Just the crashing waves and the howling wind—no sea creatures yet.

Then something tugged at the net. It was a gentle tug at first, maybe a herring. Joe had been caught off guard when what he perceived to be a small catch started pounding against the net. He was losing control quickly. He had to haul it in.

Joe’s hands trembled as he attempted to haul in his net, the weight of the catch far heavier than anything he’d ever pulled from the sea. He braced himself for a thrashing tuna or some tangled debris, but as the net broke the surface, his breath caught in his throat.

With furious splashes and resistance, a creature Joe couldn’t recognize powered its way above the surface. Its scales glistened in the moonlight. It had a long singular tail that ended with a ribbon-shaped curve. Its body resembled that of a mermaid, but this was no mermaid.

It couldn’t be.

Its body was tangled in seaweed and debris. Crawling creatures slugged across its surface, with sand pouring out of every orifice.

Joe, stunned by the sheer complexity of the creature before him, struggled to move. He stopped yanking at the net, but the creature didn’t move back towards the ocean. It didn’t struggle. It just hovered. It hovered in front of Joe with its face turned toward the fluorescent city lights. Joe couldn’t see it.

Joe was utterly perplexed. What was standing in front of him? A human? A mermaid? A monster?

The back of its head was spotless—a stark contrast to the rest of its body, which looked as though it had trudged through a landfill. Joe was almost in awe at the beauty of the monster’s locks of glowing blonde hair, which sparkled under the stars’ watch.

It made him feel odd, almost nostalgic.

Slowly, the monster started turning, its grotesque body shifting like a cog, almost grinding, despite not having a surface beneath it.

Mechanically, it finally completed its turn to reveal its face.

A face—her face—stared back at him.

For a moment, the world stopped. Water dripped from tangled hair, clinging to pale skin that shimmered under the full moon. The eyes, dull and glassy, were unmistakable. He knew them better than his own. Anna. His wife. Lost to the sea a decade ago.

He staggered back, heart hammering against his ribs. The body in the net was limp, but not lifeless. Its chest rose and fell, barely. A weak, rattling breath escaped its lips.

“Help me.”

The voice was a whisper, soft and fragile, like the first gust of a coming storm.

His stomach lurched. Anna was dead. He had buried an empty coffin, thrown roses into the sea, spent ten years speaking to a gravestone. He had mourned.

And yet—

He dropped to his knees, hands hesitating over the dripping figure. Her clothes were gone, her skin cold as if she had never left the water. But there was something wrong. The longer he stared, the more it became clear.

The shape was Anna’s. The face was Anna’s. But the thing in the net—it was not her.

The lips curled into something that was not quite a smile.

“You left me,” it whispered.

A tide of ice crawled up his spine.

The net twitched.

Then, suddenly, violently—it moved.

Joe’s fingers hovered over the net’s knots, his pulse hammering in his ears. The wind howled louder now, as if the sea itself were waiting, watching.

The thing in the net—Anna—tilted its head. The skin around its lips cracked as it formed a smile too wide, too knowing.

“Come closer,” it whispered.

Joe took a step back.

The creature’s expression didn’t change, but something shifted in its eyes—disappointment? Amusement?

Then, before he could move, before he could react, the net tore itself apart.

The ropes unraveled as if the sea had reached up and plucked them loose. In an instant, the thing was free. It didn’t fall—it floated, just inches above the pier, seawater streaming off its body in thick rivulets.

Joe’s breath caught in his throat. He wanted to run, to scream, to do something.

But the creature didn’t lunge. It didn’t speak again.

It only watched.

Then, with one slow, deliberate motion, it reached toward him—fingers stretched, longing, expectant.

Joe didn’t move.

And the thing—Anna—gave a final, knowing smile before letting itself slip backward, vanishing beneath the waves without a sound.

The ocean stilled. The wind died.

The pier was empty.

Joe stood there, alone beneath the fading moonlight, staring into the dark, endless water.

Somewhere far below, something was still watching him. Waiting.