Chapter 6: The Saltwater Scourge

Chapter 6: The Saltwater Scourge

The apartment was no longer a room; it was a shallow, dark sea. The spectral puddles had merged into a single, sprawling lake of brine that covered the living room floor from wall to wall, leaving only the furniture rising like small, doomed islands. A quiet, rhythmic sloshing sound, like a gentle tide turning in a cave, echoed in the oppressive silence. The air was thick with the cold, wet scent of the deep ocean, a constant reminder of the impossible reality he was trapped in.

Liam was marooned on his own sofa, his legs pulled up to his chest, a castaway in his own home. But it wasn't the water that was killing him; it was the thirst.

A desperate, agonizing thirst had taken root in him. His tongue was a swollen, clumsy thing in his mouth, his throat a desert of sandpaper and dust. His lips were cracked and bleeding, and a dull, pounding headache throbbed behind his eyes. He, Liam Corbin, the master of the water, the lifeguard, the god of the tide, was being tormented by dehydration while sitting in the middle of a spectral flood. The irony was a cruelty so precise, so personal, he knew it had been designed just for him. This was Arthur’s poetry, written in salt and suffering.

His disastrous plan to "overwrite" the memory of Arthur felt like a lifetime ago. The hunter's thrill he'd felt at Crescent Cove had curdled into the foulest dread. He had tried to cover a stain with a fresh kill, and instead had ripped a hole in the fabric of his reality, letting the entire ocean of his sins pour through. The drowned man’s smile, that silent promise of more to come, was the last thing he saw when he dared to close his burning eyes.

He couldn’t stay here. He would die. His addled brain seized on a sliver of hope. The kitchen. The tap. Maybe it was just the puddles. Maybe the plumbing, a closed system of pipes and pressure, was still safe.

Slowly, shakily, he slid off the sofa, his bare feet sinking into the inch-deep spectral water. It was shockingly cold, a numbing, invasive chill that shot up his legs. He waded through the living room, each step a slow, sloshing nightmare. His conjoined shadow, and Arthur’s darker half, was lost in the murky water beneath him, but he could feel its presence, a weight on his soul.

He reached the kitchen, the linoleum floor a small, dry island. He stared at the sink, his heart hammering. The faucet’s chrome finish was a perfect, curved mirror. He couldn’t bear to look at it, couldn’t bear to see those hollow eyes staring back. He squeezed his own eyes shut, reached out with a trembling hand, and twisted the cold tap.

A low gurgle vibrated through the pipes, a sick, congested sound. Then, the water came. It wasn't the clean, clear stream he prayed for. It was cloudy, almost milky, and sputtered into the basin with a listless hiss. The sharp smell of brine filled the small space. Driven by a thirst that overrode all reason, Liam cupped his hands beneath the stream and brought the water to his lips.

The taste was vile. It was pure, undiluted seawater, warm and foul. He gagged, spitting it violently into the sink, the salty liquid burning his already raw throat. He stumbled back, coughing, a profound hopelessness crushing him. Arthur’s influence wasn't just on the floor; it was in the very veins of his home.

One last chance. The bathroom. The toilet cistern. It was a separate reservoir, filled with fresh water. It had to be.

He splashed his way to the bathroom, his movements clumsy and desperate. He threw open the door and practically fell to his knees beside the toilet. His hands shook as he lifted the heavy porcelain lid off the tank.

He stared into the abyss.

It wasn’t fresh water. The tank was filled with the same dark, murky brine. A piece of rotten, brown seaweed floated on the surface, waving gently. Tiny, spectral crabs, no bigger than his thumbnail and made of shimmering mist, scuttled along the inside of the tank before dissolving. He dropped the lid with a crash, the sound echoing in the tiled room.

In a fit of despairing rage, he flushed the toilet, a pointless act of defiance against the spirit that held him captive. The water in the bowl swirled and then, instead of receding, it began to rise. A surge of the same dark seawater, smelling of salt and decay, bubbled up, cresting the rim of the bowl and spilling onto the floor. It flowed outwards, joining the spectral lake, claiming the last dry territory in his apartment.

Defeated, he retreated to the living room, collapsing onto the damp sofa. The siege was total. Water, water everywhere, and not a drop to drink. His body was failing, his mind fracturing under the strain. He stared listlessly into the dark, shifting expanse on his floor, his vision blurring.

As he stared, the surface of the water began to change. It wasn't just a reflection of the dim ceiling anymore. An image swam into focus, like a photograph developing in a darkroom tray. It was a face. But it wasn't Arthur’s.

It was a man in his thirties, his face pale, his eyes wide with a familiar, ultimate terror. Liam knew him. The hiker from two years ago. The one who had “slipped” on a rainy cliff trail after Liam, the friendly fellow hiker, had offered to show him a better view. The image held for a second—a perfect, silent accusation—before the man’s face dissolved back into the murky water.

Liam’s breath hitched. Before he could process it, another face surfaced in a different section of the water. A young woman, her hair seeming to drift as if in a heat haze. The lone camper from last summer. He remembered the smell of gasoline and the satisfying whoosh of the fire catching on her tent. In the spectral reflection, her expression wasn't one of pain, but of profound, quiet betrayal. She looked right at him, then wavered and vanished.

Another. And another.

A silent, ghostly parade of his victims began to ripple across the surface of the spectral sea in his living room. The man from the “boating accident.” The jogger who’d had a “fatal asthma attack” far from any help. Each one was a "perfect crime," a clean memory of power and control. But they weren't clean. They were here. Their faces, captured in their final moments of terror and confusion, rose from the depths of Arthur’s saltwater scourge to bear witness.

A terrible, soul-shattering understanding dawned on Liam. This was never just about Arthur Vance. The old man wasn’t just a vengeful spirit; he was a gatekeeper. His drowning had been the key that unlocked the door to Liam's personal hell, and he was now ushering in every other ghost Liam had created. He wasn't being haunted by a single victim. He was being put on trial by a silent jury of the dead, with the Drowned Man as the implacable judge. The water on his floor was not just an attack; it was a courtroom, and court was now in session.