The Thames River coiled through the mist like a serpent, its surface shimmering with the reflected glow of the London Eye in the distance. At its banks stood a weathered wooden shack, half-submerged in reeds—a relic of a bygone era. Inside, the air reeked of damp wool and diesel fuel. Ethan Reed, a lanky teenager with sunken cheeks and hollow eyes, stared at the peeling wallpaper, counting the cracks as rain pattered against the windows.
"Time to earn your keep, boy." Grampa Henry's voice cut through the silence like a rusted blade. The old man, grizzled and hunched, tossed a pair of rubber boots at Ethan's feet. "Got a call from the constables. Two bodies tangled in the locks downstream."
Ethan's stomach churned. He'd been shipped off to this godforsaken village three months ago, dumped by his mother after her latest boyfriend decided a moody teenager wasn't part of his "lifestyle upgrade." Grampa Henry, a third-generation riverman, had greeted him with a grunt and a stack of yellowed books on "River Lore & Corpse Retrieval."
The boat ride was a symphony of creaks and groans. Grampa manned the tiller, his gnarled hands steady despite the choppy water. The mist thickened, swallowing the shoreline. Ethan wrapped his arms around himself, ignoring the cold seeping through his jacket. He'd learned quickly that showing weakness in this household meant a week of chores instead of dinner.
"Keep your eyes peeled," Grampa growled. "The Thames don't give up her dead easy."
They found the bodies snagged on a submerged chain-link fence—a man and a boy, their limbs tangled like broken marionettes. The man's face was bloated, eyes wide open as if frozen mid-scream. The boy couldn't have been older than twelve, his blonde hair matted with algae. Ethan gagged, tasting bile.
"Quit your sniveling," Grampa snapped, tossing him a grappling hook. "Hook the boy first. The current'll carry the old man downstream if we don't act fast."
Ethan obeyed, his hands trembling. The hook caught the boy's belt, and together they heaved the corpse onto the boat. Water poured from the boy's nostrils, pooling on the deck. Ethan turned away, but not before noticing a faint black mark etched into the boy's palm—a circle with three slashes through it.
Grampa froze. His eyes narrowed, fixating on the symbol. "Where'd you find that?" he demanded, grabbing Ethan's wrist.
"On the kid—"
"Burn it."
Ethan blinked. "What?"
"Burn the body. Now." Grampa shoved a gas canister into his hands, his voice trembling. "And don't you dare touch the old man. Not until we—"
A low, guttural growl echoed across the water. The boat lurched. Ethan stumbled, dropping the canister. When he looked up, the old man's body was gone. The chain-link fence rippled, as if something massive slithered beneath the surface.
Grampa swore under his breath. "Get us back to shore. Now."
They didn't speak during the return trip. Grampa's knuckles were white on the tiller, his jaw clenched. Ethan stole glances at the boy's corpse, the black mark now seared into his memory. What did it mean? And why had Grampa reacted like he'd seen a ghost?
Back at the shack, Grampa ordered Ethan to dump the boy's body into the incinerator out back. "No questions," he barked, lighting a cigarette with shaky hands. "And don't you dare tell the constables about the mark. Not unless you want them to lock us both up for lunacy."
Ethan obeyed, though every fiber of his being screamed to protest. As the flames consumed the corpse, he noticed something else—a small, silver pendant around the boy's neck. He snatched it before it melted, pocketing it without a word.
That night, Ethan lay awake in his cot, the pendant clutched in his fist. The river whispered outside, its voice laced with secrets. He knew then that this sleepy village, with its foggy canals and silent cemeteries, held horrors deeper than the Thames itself. And somehow, he was tangled in its current.