The ferryman looked back across the river. Then back at the man in the car, the woman in the passanger seat beside him, the little girl in the back seat of the citroen.
“Not over there, you don’t,” said the ferryman.
“What?” asked the woman. “But doesn’t this ferry lead to Hadsund?”
The ferryman looked away again. But not in the direction of his boat and the other shoreline, but rather up to the clouds. Rain plunked his face. He gave a sharp breath through his nostrils.
“Maybe it would have lead to Hadsund. On a different night, under different stars.”
Now the Englishman sounded a little annoyed. “It’s raining,” he said, pointing up to the sky with a finger.”
“And due to this you do no know what waits on the other side,” said the ferryman. “I am sorry, but you will have to wait until morning, at the very least.
He walked away before the Englishman and woman could protest. He boarded his ferry and went back across the river that didn’t buck or sway, didn’t chop or churn, just continued its slow crawl east, no matter the weather, no matter where it was, the ferryman went. The weather be damned, he thought, the river was as still as glass.
The weeks leading up to my dad’s three-part play was filled with inexplicable noises coming from the basement.
On multiple occasions, Dean and I heard talking, conversing, multiple voices, though nobody had called that day at our door.