made him shiver, and he worked faster, his guard lowered in his haste. Suddenly, he felt the oddest sensation — a warmth against the back of his neck. He raised a hand in an ab- rupt slap, swatting at the air as though brushing off an invisible breath he had felt expel near his ear. Profanities cut through the wordless night. Disgruntled, he stowed the oysters safely into the bottom of the boat, their shells clinking together. He pulled himself up, his weight resting against the cool metal of the rocking boat. One leg lifted, ready to haul himself in, but he hesitated. There it was again — the glint. That's it, he thought, lowering himself back down into the water. He couldn’t leave without knowing what lay below. Determined, the man submerged him- self, diving down into the blackness, guided only by the faintest glimmer beckoning him deeper. His knuckles scraped against the rough edge of the mound, oyster shells cut- ting into his skin and sending drops of blood swirling into the salty water. Ignoring the sting, he rooted through the coarse sandy bottom, searching for the source of the gleam. His fingers closed around a wo- ven corded necklace. He shot back toward the surface, kicking hard to propel himself upward. As he broke through, gasping for air, he grasped the side of the boat, his prize clutched tightly in his hand. Safely inside the boat, he flicked on his flashlight and examined the necklace. A collection of baubles hung from the woven
cord — shells, pearls, and gold. The gold looked authentic, ancient even. Yet, strange- ly, the woven cord was intact, suggesting it was newer than it appeared. Still, he ran his fingers over the engravings on the gold piec- es, wondering. As his fingers traced the edg- es of the gold, the entire necklace began to glow faintly. A searing pain suddenly shot through his fingers as the metal seemed to burn his skin. With a shout, he dropped the necklace, cursing as he kicked it away from him in frustration. Gingerly, he grabbed the paddle, care- ful to avoid the burns on his fingers, and ma- neuvered his craft away from the Trailer Es- tates beach toward the Sarasota skyline. But as he drifted further from shore, a soft, eerie moan echoed in his ear —a woman’s voice, low and mournful, as if carried on the night breeze.
…
To be continued in further installments.
Copyright © 2025 Pamela S Kemper
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