Gull's Haven

The plane landed in Seattle at exactly four o’clock. I woke up with a jolt as the wheels hit the tarmac. Seattle. I wasn’t a fan. It rained too much. But the money was good, and rent was overdue.

I had it all planned out: get off the plane, grab my bags, snag a rental car, and drive two hours south to Gull’s Haven, a tiny, forgotten town that wasn’t even a blip on most people’s maps. The drive wouldn’t be difficult, long stretches of road, bordered by dense, rain-soaked forest. It matched my mood perfectly.

Gull’s Haven wasn’t exactly a thrilling assignment. It used to be the West Coast’s largest fishing hub, with boats humming in and out of the harbor and the town brimming with life. That was decades ago. That was before the industry collapsed and people moved on, leaving the place to wither away. Now it was just another ghost town, stuck in time, where people stayed out of habit more than love.

I was supposed to dig up some forgotten stories, maybe talk to the last few folks clinging to the town, write something reflective. But I’d been running on fumes for months. Every article I wrote felt like a repeat of something I’d already done. Why my editor sent me here, I didn’t know. Maybe he thought a forgotten town was a good fit for a writer feeling equally forgotten.

Dragging my suitcase through the terminal, I saw that the drizzle had already started. Typical Seattle. I didn’t even bother with my jacket. I’d be in the car soon enough.

By the time I got into the rental car, an old sedan that smelled like pine air freshener, the rain had picked up. It drummed against the windshield as I drove south, the wipers working overtime. The road stretched ahead, endless and gray, with no sign of life except for the occasional blur of trees bending under the weight of the rain.

Gull’s Haven was waiting, somewhere out there in the mist, barely a dot on the map. I’d heard the stories. People who visited never came back. Fishermen who vanished at sea. Strange lights hovering over the water at night. Small-town superstitions, really. The kind of stories towns like Gull’s Haven cling to, as if a bit of mystery could make them worth remembering.

After about an hour, the rain was coming down so hard I could barely see the road. Static crackled through the radio and the trees on either side of me turned into dark smudges. When I finally saw the exit for Gull’s Haven, I was more than ready to be done with the drive.

The town wasn’t much to look at. It didn’t surprise me. The main street was empty, the buildings worn down and weathered. A few neon signs flickered. There was a diner, a bar, a bait shop. Other than that, not much. Silence.

I parked in the center of town, grabbed my notebook and reminded myself that this was just a few days of work. Get the story, take some photos, and leave.

But then, as I stepped out of the car into the drizzle, I saw a small shop tucked between two larger buildings. It hadn’t been on the map. The sign, barely visible through the rain, read The Cartographer’s Curiosities. Something about it made me pause. Before I realized it, I was standing in front of the door, my hand on the knob, stepping inside.

The bell above the door jingled softly as I entered. Inside, the shop was dimly lit, warm, and smelled of old books and polished wood. The walls were lined with shelves crammed full of atlases, maps, and navigation tools that looked like relics from another time. The whole place felt too perfect, too out of place for a dying town like Gull’s Haven.

I wandered deeper into the shop, running my fingers over the spines of worn books, when a voice interrupted the quiet.

“Looking for something?”

I turned to see an old man behind the counter, his eyes sharp and bright beneath a mess of white hair. He smiled, crooked and knowing.

“Just browsing,” I said, feeling an odd heaviness in the air.

The man chuckled softly. “People don’t just wander into my shop. They come looking for something, whether they know it or not.”

I opened my mouth to protest but his words stuck with me. Wasn’t that why I was here? To find something? I brushed off the thought and shrugged. “Maps,” I said. “I’m a travel writer. I guess I’m drawn to places like this.”

The old man’s smile widened. “Ah, a traveler. Well, I think I have just the thing for you.”

He disappeared behind the counter and returned with a rolled-up piece of parchment, tied with a thin leather cord. It looked old, but not forgotten. It had the wear of something used again and again.

“This isn’t just any map,” he said, handing it to me. “It shows you what you need to see, not what you expect.”

I hesitated, feeling a chill crawl up my spine. “What do you mean?”

“Maps show places,” the old man said. “This one shows paths. And once you’ve seen it, it knows where you must go.”

Without thinking, I took the map. As soon as my fingers touched the parchment, a strange sensation washed over me. The feeling was a mix of excitement and fear, like standing on the edge of something big, something dangerous.

“Consider it a gift,” the man said, his voice barely a whisper. “But once you follow the map, there’s no turning back.”

Before I could ask anything else, he was gone. I stood there alone, clutching the map in the quiet shop, feeling the weight of something I couldn’t quite name.

Back in my small hotel room, the rain still pounded against the window. I sat at the edge of the bed and unrolled the map. It was blank. Nothing but faded parchment. No sign of markings, no roads, no landmarks.

“Of course,” I muttered, tossing it onto the bed. A weird tourist trap. That’s all it was.

But then, as I turned away, something caught my eye. The blank parchment had started to change. Slowly, lines appeared, as if being drawn by an invisible hand. A road twisted across the page, leading to a small, unmarked dot.

My pulse quickened. The road on the map wasn’t familiar and not one I’d seen on any map of Gull’s Haven. Yet somehow, I knew exactly where it led.

The next morning, I couldn’t resist the pull of the map. It felt ridiculous, but something deep inside urged me forward. I packed my things, tucked the map into my jacket, and set off.

The road began where it shouldn’t have, just beyond an old, crumbling stone archway I hadn’t noticed before. The map’s ink shimmered under the light, urging me forward. So, I stepped onto the road, one that didn’t exist on any other map.

As I walked, the world around me shifted. The mist thickened and there was a strange hum in the air, like the forest itself was alive. I passed an old fishing boat, overturned and rotting, sitting in the middle of the woods. We were miles from the water but there it was. The landmarks along the path felt oddly familiar, like fragments from a dream I couldn’t quite place.

Hours passed but the sun never rose. Time seemed to stretch and warp, and the road led me deeper into the unknown. Finally, I reached a crossroads. A weathered signpost stood there with arrows pointing in opposite directions. One path was well-trodden, leading toward a distant, shimmering light. The other was overgrown and dark, vanishing into the underbrush.

I pulled out the map. The ink had shifted again, showing new paths I didn’t recognize. But it wasn’t just about places anymore. The map was showing me choices and paths that seemed tied to my own life, my fears and my regrets.

And then I heard it. A voice was calling my name It was faint at first but growing louder and more insistent. My heart raced. It was a voice I hadn’t heard in years.

Without thinking, I followed the voice. The overgrown path twisted ahead of me, vines pulling at my clothes as I pushed forward. The mist thickened, the buzzing in the air growing louder. The trees around me seemed to bend and shift, their branches curling like fingers, their shadows forming shapes that made me shiver.

Eventually, I stumbled into a clearing. At the center was an ancient stone altar, cracked and covered in moss, like it had been waiting for centuries. The map in my hand pulsed with energy. The ink now showing only this clearing, as if I had reached the end.

And then, from behind the altar, a figure stepped out. I froze. My heart stopped. It was my brother. The one I had lost all years ago. The one I had been running from ever since. He looked exactly as I remembered, smiling, his eyes bright with life.

“Rowan,” he said softly, just as he used to. “It’s been a long time.”

I stumbled back, shaking my head. “This isn’t real. You’re not here.”

He smiled, stepping closer. “I’m as real as you need me to be.”

The map, the forest, the strange voices. This is what it had been leading me to? My brother, standing here, waiting?

“You’ve been lost for so long,” he said, his voice gentle. “But you’re here now. You’ve found what you were looking for."

I wanted to believe him. I wanted to reach out and hold him, to pretend that none of it had ever happened. But deep down, I knew this wasn’t real. The map, the forest, they were making me see this, making me feel this.

"I don’t understand," I whispered. "Why am I here?"

He tilted his head slightly, his smile fading just a little. "This place shows you your path, Rowan. It shows you what you need to face."

I glanced down at the map, now blank again. My hand trembled as I let it fall to the ground. "What happens now?"

He stepped closer, his eyes darkening. "You have to make a choice."

I swallowed hard. "What kind of choice?"

He gestured to the altar, to the clearing, to the dreamlike forest around us. "You can stay here with me, where everything can be the way it was." His form flickered for a brief moment, like static on an old TV screen. "Or you can go back. Back to the world you came from. But I won’t be there."

The weight of the decision pressed down on me. Stay here, where nothing hurt, where I could have everything I’d lost or return to the real world, where grief, failure and uncertainty waited for me.

"I—" I started but my voice faltered.

He smiled again, perfect and warm, just like I remembered. "The map brought you here for a reason, Rowan. It’s up to you now."

My heart ached. I couldn’t let go. I reached out and took his hand and as my fingers touched his, the weight of the world fell away. The forest, the altar, the pain, it all faded, dissolving into light and warmth.

As I took that final step toward him, the world dissolved into mist. I became part of the dream, part of the forest, I vanished, just another mystery story for Gull’s Haven.