The Phantom Fisherman of Oia

Eleni’s hands shook with fear as she held the Polaroid, her bronzed skin looked pale against the golden Santorini dusk. What began as a peaceful stroll through Oia’s labyrinthine streets had morphed into something far more disconcerting. Her camera hung heavily around her neck, its presence suddenly burdensome. Purchased impulsively that morning from a quaint alley shop, its vintage allure and instant photo printing had enticed her despite being a photographer since being a teenager. Now, she regretted ever buying it.

“This can’t be real,” she whispered, staring at the photo as it developed. The blue-domed church she aimed to capture was there, vibrant against the sunset sky. But the figure in the foreground unnerved her.

A man, seemingly, stood with his back to the camera. His form was translucent, the white walls of the church visible through him. Dressed in old-fashioned fishing gear—a worn cap, thick sweater, and weather-beaten boots—he held something long and sharp that looked scary in the dim light.

Eleni's heart was beating fast, like the waves hitting the rocks far away. One stray cat was sitting on a nearby wall as she looked around for the ghostly figure. The street was otherwise empty. The cat stopped brushing itself and looked at her as if to say, "You shouldn't have seen that."

A refreshing cool wind carried the aroma of sea salt and grilled prawns. Whether it was the chilly weather or the unsettling image, Eleni felt a shiver run down her spine.

She had to calm down. She put the picture in her pocket and walked to a nearby café. The sound of people talking and the smell of freshly brewed coffee made her feel better when she was feeling stressed. As she got closer, the smell of baklava and baked nuts took her mind off the picture that was burning a hole in her pocket for a moment.

The café was cozy and warm inside. Tourists and locals sat at wooden tables and ate cakes and drank coffee. There were paintings of the sea and old shots of Oia all over the walls. Under different circumstances, Eleni would have found it charming. Now, the photos seemed to watch her, their subjects’ eyes following her every move.

Settling onto a cushioned stool at the counter, she felt the polished wood under her fingers, worn smooth by years of use.

“One Greek coffee, please,” she asked the barista, a cheerful man with a bushy mustache. “And something sweet.”

He nodded, his hands moving deftly as he prepared her order. “Tough day?” he asked, his thick accent laced with concern.

Eleni hesitated before showing him the photo. “Tell me I’m not crazy.”

His eyes widened as he examined the picture, crossing himself. “Ai yai yai,” he muttered. “Where did you take this?”

“Near the blue-domed church,” Eleni replied. The café felt too loud, too crowded. She leaned in closer. “What is it?”

The barista glanced around nervously before leaning in. “That’s the Ghost of Oia. They say he appears to those who will witness a great tragedy.”

Eleni’s blood ran cold. “What kind of tragedy?”

Before he could answer, a scream pierced the night, cutting through the café’s buzz. Silence fell, then chaos erupted. Patrons rushed outside, knocking over chairs. The barista vaulted over the counter with surprising agility, his mustache quivering.

Swept along with the crowd, Eleni stumbled into the street. The cool air hit her face. People ran towards the church, shouting in Greek. Eleni followed, her heart pounding. The camera bounced against her chest, a reminder of the phantom figure.

Turning the corner, she saw a crowd gathered. Eleni pushed through, apologizing in broken Greek and English.

At the front, she gasped. There lay a massive swordfish, its bill snapped off and lying beside it. Its eye stared blankly at the sky, scales glimmering in the moonlight.

“What in the world?” she breathed. This was the great tragedy? A fish out of water?

An old woman next to her clucked her tongue. “Poor Stavros. His prize catch, ruined. He must have dropped it.”

Eleni blinked. The figure’s “weapon” was the swordfish’s bill, a trick of light and her imagination. She felt hysteria rising.

She burst into laughter. The tension of the past hour released in great guffaws. The crowd stared, bewildered. Some edged away, wary.

The barista appeared, his mustache twitching with amusement. “Not the disaster we expected, eh?”

Eleni wiped tears from her eyes. “Your ghost has a sense of humor,” she chuckled, showing him the photo.

He squinted at the photo and the fish, then laughed. “Oh, this is too good. Wait until I tell my wife!”

As their laughter subsided, the crowd dispersed. A grumbling man—Stavros—assessed his catch, cursing under his breath.

“No ghost?” Eleni asked the barista.

He shrugged. “Who’s to say? Maybe the spirit of Oia has a wicked sense of humor. Or,” he winked, “you’ve had one too many espressos.”

Eleni rolled her eyes, smiling. “I didn’t even finish my coffee.”

“Then let’s fix that,” the barista declared. “Your next coffee is on the house.”

As they walked back, Eleni looked at her Polaroid. The figure was fading, but something nagged at her.

“You know,” she said, “this ghost looks like those old fishermen in the photos on your wall.”

The barista’s step faltered, then resumed. “Does he now?”

In the bustling café, Eleni couldn't help but notice a black and white photograph of a smiling young man clutching a swordfish.

Even though the man's face was younger, his mustache was unmistakable .

Eleni’s jaw dropped. She turned to the barista. “You! It was you in the photo! You’re the ghost!”

He sighed. “Guilty as charged. Though I prefer ‘master of illusions.’”

“Why?”

He leaned in, eyes twinkling. “It gets dull here in the off-season. A man needs his hobbies. And it’s good for business. Nothing makes tourists crave coffee like a good scare.”

Eleni laughed. She raised her coffee cup. “To the Ghost of Oia. May he haunt tourists and swordfish for years.”

The barista clinked his cup against hers. “And to you. Not many solve the mystery so quickly. Perhaps you’d like to join me next time?”

As Eleni sipped her coffee, she considered the offer. Playing ghost in Santorini didn’t sound so bad.

She smiled, tucking the Polaroid away. It would make a great story when she got home. And next time, she’d stick to digital cameras. Less drama, fewer ghosts, and no swordfish.

But then, what's the fun in that?

As the night wore on, Eleni regaled the café with her tale. The earlier panic was forgotten in the warm glow of good company and stories.

And if, on her way back to her hotel, Eleni thought she saw a ghostly figure waving from the shadows, well… that was just another story for another night in Oia.