S2/E1 | The Sea

I don't know anything. Okay. Well, what's the last thing that you remember? Nothing, mm HMM, poor girl, crack on the skull must have knocked at you. Things loose. Yeah, take my hand, let's get you to the doctor. Alright, steady, steady, steady, steady day. All right, good. How do you feel? Fine, stiff, a little bit of headache. Well, we'll take it easy as we go. You follow me? MM HMM. And Dire Brook. To answer your question, I'm sorry, you asked where you were.

This is the township of dire brook. Oh, we were once a prosperous fishing village and then we were famous, famous for producing parts for merchant ships. But that was a long time ago, though. We tried our hand at the tourism trade. Voters called US bleak and I'm sorry. Who Are you? Of course, I'm so sorry. And the people here call me mother. Mother, it's a strange thing to be called, I know, but I've grown to enjoy it. It feels warm, doesn't it, and this world could use warm,

especially this corner of the world. I've grown so accustomed to the nickname I sometimes quite forget what I was called beforehand. Mother, it just feels natural, doesn't it? Yes, are you cold? No, sort of numb. Well, we should find you a coat. Nonetheless, these winds get brutal this time of year. Oh what look Jonathan, who the fisherman up there? His family has been here since the dawn of dire brook. You have something to warm you, Surely, Jonathan? Hello, come,

we'll meet him by his boat. This used to be a bustling place, this marina now of total disrepair, a store ten years back, reduced to one working dog, and only Jonathan uses it anymore, and not to fish. Hello, mother, who's this fool girl? My guest? Well, she's dripping wet. She'll not last long in this wind dressed like that and old soggy to boot. That's a nasty Gash you've got on your head there. I'll hang on then. This old jacket is dusty and moth eaten, but it'll do

the job. Go on, take it, put it on. Thank you. How are you there? Mother? Well enough, Jonathan, and you know, about the same as yesterday. With apologies, still, what happened yesterday the same thing as happens every other day. Girl, I don't understand. Well, girl, here everything returns to the sea. Not so many years ago this was a bustling little marina.

Men made their living here. It was hard, dangerous, backbreaking Labor, but the sea here was generous to us, and so as long as we weren't afraid to put in the time, we could keep a solid roof over our heads and keep our families bellies full. My father fished, and his father before Him God only knows how far back the salt in the bloodlines ago. But with the salt come the stories. You've probably heard some of them before, or

the famous ones. Mermaids and sirens and Kraken's stories, passed from sailor to sailor as they travel across the globe, stories which eventually make their way inland from the ports. My grandfather used to put me to bed with them, the stories his gruff voice would recall six headed sea monsters and ghosts, ships and all sorts of fantastic things that lit up my imagination, all but assuring that I'd follow the family tradition of making my living trolling the tides.

His favorite, though, and mine by default, was the story of the mortal fish, long with smooth, silvery scales and a streak of Kelly Green down its back. It was beautiful to behold and just as elusive. Story was. If you caught a mortal fish, any wish you made would come true before the next sunrise, so long as you released it back to the sea. And he wasn't just

repeating rumors. He said that when he was a younger man, he'd caught one and wished for his true love, and wouldn't you know it, he met my grandmother the very next day of the market. He was a believer, my grandfather, as our most who live here, we keep these stories with us, repeat them to ourselves during the long, hard days trolling the father of the seas tide. And it was just such a story that was running through my own head, many years after the old man had died.

As I mended nets one early morning, the full moon high in the sky and a line in the water to perhaps catch breakfast, my mind was drifting, dreaming of mermaids. When there is a tallet on the line, gentle barely perceptible, but when you make your living fishing, become a tuned to these sorts of things, gentle nudges letting you know you'll eat. That day, when I reeled it in, there on the hook was the most beautiful fish I'd ever

pulled out of the water. It was just as my grandfather had described, its sleek silver, the greyest green streak running down its back and, what's more, its eyes seemed to reflect the Dusky Pre dawn light with some sort of intelligence. I don't know how else to describe it. The fish knew that I knew him what he was,

the mortal fish. Now, I was never accused, even in my youth, of being a true believer in anything, but I wasn't going to eat this beautiful creature, nor was I going to let an opportunity pass just in case the old man had been right. I mean even I am not above a little superstition, and so I made the same wish my grandfather had before me. Being a romantic, I wished for her great love and I tossed the fish back into the water. I hadn't made it back

to the dark when I heard the cries. There she was, off my starboard bow, thrashing in the water as if tangled in a net. Without thought, I turned the boat and pulled her in. If I told you she was beautiful, it would be a lie by omission. The truth is I'd never seen beauty before I laid eyes on her. Her hair was a silvery type of blonde, like moonlight, her eyes Kelly Green, even dressed in tattered rags and soaked to the bone she was. I asked what brought

her so far out and she said the tide. So I asked her name and she told it to me. It's a name I'll not repeat now, a name that will never cross these lips again, but at that moment I was hopelessly smitten. She came home with me that day and she stayed. She was strange and magical and mysterious. She wouldn't tell me about her past, wouldn't talk about her family, only the future, our future, most of all the child that she wanted for us to have. She

could describe him in great detail. Strong arms and a stout trump like his pop, silver haired and green eyed like his mother, a dreamer and a fighter. I could see him in my mind's eye when she spoke and I was just so happy, entranced, I suppose, enchanted. We were soon married. She wore my grandmother's silver ring. It was only fitting, and soon thereafter, on another night with a full moon high and sky, she bore me that child.

He was beautiful as well, small and delicate, but with a terrible sort of weight to him, as if he'd sink like a stone in the water, but with mother's hair and piercing green eyes. We named him Edward, after my father, though I suspect that she whispered another name to him as he slept in his bassinet. I felt complete. I had a family. Well, that should be the end of the tail, a happy dream Made Real, but the

sea is fickle with her gifts. Over the coming weeks, my wife became restless, spoke of returning home to her father, spoke of bringing Edward with her. I told her I'd happily bring her home if she'd just let me know where home was for her, but she wouldn't meet my eye and would only become sour faced and call me a stupid brute. It went on like this for weeks after Edward arrived. I thought perhaps it was the sadness that sometimes comes after a woman gives birth. You know

that well. I'm no expert on these things, but I know when something has gone too far, and one night, the night of the next full moon, it did. I don't know what woke me, the squeak of the back door or wind blowing up the path from the beach into the bedroom, but I knew at once that she was gone. The bassinet beside the bed already cold and empty.

I jumped out of the bed and ran, and though I was barefooting in my skippies, I didn't feel any of the cold, at least not physically, as I followed my instincts down the rocky path to the shore, where I found her just in time as she walked into the frigid ocean, my boy in her arms. Without a second thought, I had followed her into the water, grabbing her shoulder, trying to pull her back toward the shore.

And she turned. Her face was not hers. The snarl on her face, the spittle flying from her gleaming teeth, her green eyes glowing phosphorescent. To this day I can tell if she changed yet war if that look was just her pure hatred of her poor husband. I only know that it wasn't a human face that greeted me. She screamed at me holding Edward and Mo swiped at my face with the other, her nails tearing into my cheek,

drawing blood. But my eyes were on the boy, my child, and I fought and pulled and finally he was free. And terrified, I moved as quickly as I could back to the shore, all the while her shrieking curses like something out of hell behind me. When I made it back to the beach, with Edward Wailing in my arms, I turned turned back to see if she'd followed, but she was gone. It was just me, winded leading, the salt stinging my wounds, and Edward crying his salt tears

and the ocean. She did not stay gone. Days passed and then weeks, but I remained vigilant. I locked the doors, kept Edward close by my side and never out of my sight, night or day. And then came the full moon. Edward and I both slept fitfully that night. I dreamt he was lost in the water, that I was drowning and trying to find him. The cold hands were dragging

me down. I woke to a tapping. When I turned to the window to look out, I saw her there, standing on the other side of the glass, naked, her silver hair wild, shining in the moonlight, her eyes burning acid green. Though the windows separated us, I heard her voice, clear and haunting from the other side. Give me back my child, she said. It made my blood run cold. Edward must have heard it too, and he kickled and

cooled to see his mother at the window. But I told her no, no, I wouldn't let her take him into the ocean again. She could never have him. She said nothing more. She had just retreated back from the window, back toward the beach. I did not sleep the rest of that night. Again, days passed, again, weeks, and again the full moon came and in the night she returned

give me back my child, and no, I said. And Edward laughing in his bassinet at the Funny Game Mommy was playing with Daddy, and she kept coming after that. Every month, as Edward drew too big for the BASSONET and moved to a crib in the bedroom, and slept less and less. Then one night, the night of his first birthday, after a long day of cake and celebration, I allowed myself a single glass of whiskey before bid. One glass. That was it. That's what it took for

me to sleep through the night. When I awoke, he was gone. The crew was empty. The back door opened to the sun rising over the bay, her footprints leading down to the water. She had taken him home. I searched, I took the boat up and down the coast, posted his picture everywhere I could, but I know she had him, she was with him, and so I set about looking for the mortal fish again. I called out to m bathed the water for a reprieve, prayed to the father

that I do anything, anything for my boy's return. I received my answer the next full moon. As I lay awake in the night staring out the window, I heard tapping at the back door. I jumped from bed and ran to see who it was, but when I opened the door there was no one there, just the wind off the ocean. When I stepped out to investigate further. My foot found something cold and slimy on the stoop and when I bent over I recognized it immediately. It

was the martle fish dead. It's barely split and it's guts spilled across the door step. Something shone in its mouth. I know what it was before I pried it up. It was my grandmother's ring when I placed on her finger the day we married. She would not come back. Neither were the boy. They'd gone home and no matter how long I travel the sea, if I were to traverse every inch of its surface, I'd never find them. I Oh, I'm so sorry. Yes, well, so am i. m HMM, you'd best get moving. You're not going to

get any warmer standing out here in the wind. I'm sure the father has plans for you that don't involve freezing to death while some old coot shouts at you. Mother, you'd best get her to the doctor. That's the plan. Good. Thank you, Jonathan. Can we expect you at the gathering tonight? Of course, good, good, and maybe you bring this girl with you after she's gone herself all taken care of and put on some dry clothes. I will see if she's up to it. I certainly hope that she is.

Thank you for the coat, of course, miss now get going and mother, may the father bless you. Everything returns to him. Yes, eventually, tomorrow, on thirteen days of Halloween, the road. Clearing my head seemed a polite thing to do. Now that my head had company over and a new thought nagged at me. What should I be doing now

with all this truth in my head? Careful, I mean, why Boba Halting, a hundred and twenty slabs of hog meet across country in a refrigerated truck, when the rest of the hogs get to just walk around out there on their own, you know, dressed in people clothes, pretending

to speak human? Thirteen days of Halloween. The seed starring Kathy and Jimmy, Bethany and Lynde and Robin Bloodworth, written by Nicholas Takowski, sound design and mixing by Josh Thane, engineering by violent Ferton, dubway studios, New York, casting by Jessica Losa, created by Matt Frederick and Alex Williams, with executive producer Aaron Mankey, a production of I heart radio, grim and mild and Blumhouse Television