Morven Fraser closed the lid to the trunk with a click, sliding the padlock into place. There, nestled safe inside was her skin.

Behind her, salty footprints on the laminate floor glistened in the light of the full moon. With the practice of age, she wiped up the moisture so it wouldn't sink into the cracks. She didn't like laminate, it was fake, but you cut your trousers to fit your cloth. A widow’s pension doesn't pay for hardwood, even alongside the money she made as in her shitty little admin job in the planning office, and George, God rest his soul, had called it.

Well, George was long gone, and was his sou'wester in the hall and the lingering smell of the ocean on the bed sheets that had seen three children born on them. 1 girl, and then twin boys. Midwives were paid to snip away webbing between toes and not ask questions.

Morwen had been happy. On their first anniversary George handed her her skin back. She had gone back to the ocean for a moon, until her blood didn't come, and she returned, pup in belly, joyful. They had 5 good years until the sea became jealous and demanded that if Morwen would not return to its depths, George would have to do.

17 years on, and she still missed him. Her three children now young adults, and the beauty that had made her such a prize for the lonely fisherman was faded like the weathered hull of a ship. The tides of her body were changing as she straddled life between mother and crone.

That didn't stop her though. When she saw the city plans for the oyster farm, she was worried. She knew what lurked in the depths. The Finfolk. She knew they wouldn't give quarter, and they didn't.

People disappeared. Influential people. They returned in Blackfish t-shirts drinking through reusable straws. They nudged city planners. They flinched when seabirds called too loudly.

But the plans continued, and now her own daughter was spending too many nights at the pier, gazing out like she was grabbing at a memory she couldn't quite hold.

Morwen spent nights searching for the Finfolk, trying to reason with them. They refused to meet.

Until she received the message.

WhatsApp tied to a burner phone, a digital message on a bottle.

The words Sunrise, Pier, Full moon.

Morwen dressed swiftly, her human form felt like threadbare protection against the dawn, as she pulled the front door closed, and stepped into the night.

She's coming for you. Are you ready?