The town of Greyhaven had always lived by the water. Fishing boats lined the docks, gulls screamed overhead, and the frigid ocean—vast and unknowable—was both livelihood and legend. But in late August, something changed.It began with a sighting.
Elliot Crane, a quiet fisherman who had worked the bay for thirty years, claimed he saw a dolphin unlike any other. It swam unusually close to shore, its dorsal fin slicing through the water in tight circles. That alone wasn’t strange—dolphins were known to visit—but Elliot insisted this one stayed longer than it should have.
“It watched me,” he said at the marina, voice trembling over black coffee. “Not like an animal. Like it knew me.”
Most dismissed him. Dolphins were intelligent, yes, but not that intelligent.
Then came the smile.
“Too wide,” Elliot whispered. “Too… still.”
He refused to go back out to sea after that.
A few days later, a group of teenagers swimming near the cove reported something similar. A lone dolphin surfaced nearby, drifting closer, almost lazily. At first, they were thrilled—laughing, pointing, calling out to it. One of them, a boy named Darren, swam closer.
The others would later say it was playful at first. Circling him. Nudging him gently.
Then it rammed him.
Hard.
Darren screamed as the force knocked the wind from him. The dolphin struck again, faster this time, sending him tumbling under the surface. The water churned violently.
By the time the others dragged him back to shore, his ribs were cracked, his face bloodied.
“It wasn’t playing,” he gasped. “It wanted me gone.”
Authorities chalked it up to rare aggressive behaviour. Dolphins could be territorial. It happened.
But the thing in Greyhaven wasn’t territorial.
It was selective.
Source: Some or all of the content was generated using an AI language model
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