Floating Endings

​There was nothing odd. At least, that’s what I initially thought when she had invited my husband and me to dinner. A feast, she had said, with lots of wine.

“Nine, then.” She shared her address.

Nine? What an odd time for dinner. “What should we bring?”

She laughed. “You will need nothing.” Again, an odd thing to say. She could have said more wine or maybe a pie from the local bakery.

Her house, a classic weathered, shingled Cape, sat on a high promontory where below, the ocean slapped against the ancient granite cliffs like the fog. Inside, there was an old man, stooped in posture, his beady eyes hidden behind cracked spectacles who sat at the far end of the dining table. He lifted his wine glass to acknowledge our arrival.

“We’ll be writing a new ending tonight,” he said, his gravelly voice heavy. “But first, we dine.”

My husband, a reporter, became uneasy as we dipped into the covered dishes. Minutes into eating, our hostess and the old man stood. Taking one last sip of their wine, they disappeared into the fog that had quickly enveloped us.

Next, we felt the water at our feet, then our knees. We scrambled quickly to the second floor to find all the doors locked. My husband, now furious that he had fallen for their gambit, kicked in the attic door. Reaching the roof, there was more fog as their house began to float. We continued drifting into deeper waters until the gray wall of a fishing vessel loomed over us.

“He’s the one who’s been mu…” were the last words my husband said before he disappeared.

“Oh, no! We’re writing your ending!” I screeched as I grabbed an unattached headboard and clung tight.