The Graves

Eleanor looked to Rob, who nodded, and she turned south. She slowed the small boat as they neared the jagged ledges. The waves churned, tugging the craft to a smashed and splintered end, and Eleanor held the whaler steady as she circled the treacherous cropping. Her white knuckles clenched the engine handle’s twist grip—or maybe the stories of The Graves were getting to her, but Eleanor wanted to leave this place. She was relieved to see no sign of life. Nothing stirred. Not even seabirds lingered in the forsaken spot.