Rowboats and Sea Ghosts

The sea was a bitter cold blanket over the coast of Fjordby, and the wind howled like a hungry wolf. Tormod Larsen, captain of the fishing trawler Sigrid, pulled his cap low against the biting gale, squinting as the first drops of rain smacked against the worn wooden deck.

“Tormod! We’re going to be in for it tonight!” yelled Bjorn, his best friend and the ship’s dubious cook. “A storm’s blowing in!”

“Aye, and we’ve got nets full of cod.” Tormod grunted, wiping salt from his face. “We’re not turning back for some wind.”

As if to punish his arrogance, the sky cracked open with a bolt of lightning, followed by a thunderclap that rattled the bones of the Sigrid. The crew scrambled, securing anything that wasn’t nailed down, while Tormod silently cursed the gods, the weather, and—for good measure—Bjorn’s cooking.

“I told you!” Bjorn shouted as he wrestled with a barrel of salted fish that had broken loose.

Tormod grumbled something lost to the wind. The storm was upon them.

###

The sea roared, towering waves threatening to swallow the Sigrid whole. Tormod clung to the wheel, hands raw from the effort of keeping the boat on course. Then, over the storm, came a sound.

A scream.

Tormod’s blood went cold, his grip tightening on the wheel. Bjorn stopped, wide-eyed, scanning the dark waves. The scream wasn’t human, more like something being pulled down into the depths.

“No,” Bjorn whispered. “It can’t be.”

Tormod’s heart hammered. “What can’t be?”

Bjorn swallowed hard, the color draining from his face. “The Draugr.”

Tormod felt a cold shiver run down his spine. The Draugr. The name alone could silence an entire tavern of seasoned fishermen. Every sailor who dared the open sea knew what it meant: death, dragged to the ocean floor by the ghost of a drowned man, cursed to row the seas forever. No one survived an encounter with the Draugr; it was a legend as old as the sea itself, passed down as a warning.

But Tormod’s scowl deepened. He’d heard the stories growing up—every kid in Scandinavia had. They were just that, though. Stories. Weren’t they? 

Another scream. Closer.

“Still think it’s just a story?” Bjorn yelled over the wind, his fear tangible.

Tormod’s gaze shot to the sea. Off the starboard side, something rose from the water. At first, it looked like the remains of some shipwreck: a mess of rotting seaweed, driftwood, and fish bones. But then it moved–towering, ragged, dripping–and let out a sound that chilled every man on the Sigrid.

The Draugr.

Hollow eyes, deep-set beneath a crown of slimy kelp, locked on Tormod and his crew. It raised a skeletal hand, pointing, and its boat—an ancient, decayed thing barely more than a few planks nailed together—floated closer.

Bjorn, ever practical in a crisis, scrambled for something, anything, to throw. “Do we offer him... fish? Aquavit?”

Tormod, for once, was speechless.

The Draugr’s mouth opened in another horrific scream, but this time, words that seemed to carry on the wind followed it, like a whisper from the grave.

“I NEED... A LIFT!”

Tormod blinked. “What?”

The Draugr shifted in its rickety boat, its seaweed-covered shoulders slumping. “My boat,” it growled, voice raspy like stones grinding together. “It’s... seen better days.”

Bjorn, who had been clutching a fish gaff, lowered it slowly, disbelief spreading across his face. “Wait. You just... need a ride?”

The Draugr gave a long, suffering sigh. “Do you know how hard it is to find a decent rowboat out here? Everything’s either sunk or covered in barnacles.”

Tormod opened his mouth, but no words came out. He struggled for something to say, caught between disbelief and the sheer absurdity of the situation. This was not how the stories went. The Draugr wasn’t supposed to hitch rides.

“Well,” Tormod said, after gathering his wits. “We, uh, don’t usually pick up passengers.”

“I’LL PAY YOU!” the Draugr wailed, his desperation making him sound a little less terrifying. “WITH TREASURE!”

Bjorn’s eyes lit up. “Treasure, you say?”

Tormod shot him a look. “We’re not taking payment from a sea monster.”

The Draugr raised an ethereal hand. “It’s not cursed.”

Bjorn, now fully invested, turned to Tormod. “Come on. We could use some new gear. And maybe a stove for the galley that doesn’t catch fire every time I make stew.”

Tormod pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fine. Fine. Get him aboard.”

Bjorn reluctantly helped the Draugr aboard, the creature dripping seaweed and smelling like a combination of old fish and the bottom of a shipwreck. Bjorn gagged slightly but tried to hide it behind a cough.

“You’re lucky we were out here,” Tormod muttered as he steered the Sigrid away from the rising waves. “Where are you heading?”

The Draugr settled onto a crate, the wood creaking under his weight. “Oh, just... the usual. Dark, stormy places. Near a fjord would be nice.”

###

An hour later, the storm had lessened, the sea calmed. Tormod still couldn’t believe they were ferrying the stuff of sailors’ nightmares to... wherever it was sea ghosts went. Bjorn, meanwhile, had become rather chummy with the Draugr, who, as it turned out, had been a fisherman in life.

“So, you were just a regular guy?” Bjorn asked, handing the Draugr a mug of something warm. The Draugr peered into it skeptically before taking a slow sip.

“I was an excellent fisherman,” the Draugr corrected, pride seeping through the seaweed draped over his chin. “Best cod hauls in the region. Until... well. The big wave.”

Tormod shook his head. “Let me guess. The sea swallowed you up, and now you haunt it forever, seeking revenge?”

The Draugr shrugged, making a noise somewhere between a groan and a creaky door. “Eh, it’s more like... I haunt it because I have nowhere else to go. The afterlife was full.”

Bjorn raised an eyebrow. “Full?”

“Budget cuts. It’s been rough up there.”

Bjorn muttered, “Figures.”

###

By the time they reached a misty cove, the crew had almost forgotten their guest was, in fact, the legendary Draugr.

“Here will do,” the Draugr said, gesturing toward the shore.

Tormod brought the boat to a stop and watched as the Draugr began to disembark with an unsettling amount of grace for someone who was more seaweed than man.

“Don’t forget the treasure!” Bjorn called after him.

The Draugr paused, his shoulders sagging. “Oh, right.”

He reached into his seaweed-covered coat—Tormod still wasn’t sure how the thing even worked—and pulled out a small, ancient-looking chest. Bjorn’s eyes sparkled with greed, but when he opened it, his face fell.

“What... is this?”

Inside the chest were dozens of ancient, corroded coins, shells, and a single, very rusty fishhook.

“Treasure of the sea,” the Draugr said proudly.

Tormod groaned. Bjorn, however, looked impressed. “You know, this might be worth something to a collector.”

The Draugr nodded sagely. “It is priceless. To me, anyway.”

With that, the Draugr gave a final, dramatic wave and melted back into the mist, floating away in his rowboat, which somehow no longer seemed to need repairs.

Tormod watched him disappear, shaking his head. “I hate the sea.”

Bjorn clapped him on the shoulder. “Come on, Captain. Next time we meet a sea monster, maybe we’ll ask for gold before offering them a ride.”

Tormod just grunted as the Sigrid set sail again, the ghostly echoes of the Draugr’s scream lingering in the distance.