When the northwestern wind blows through the island, the shutters of the grand houses on Archbishop Street rattle like the tips of snake tails. Ships moored in the harbor moan at their anchors. The ancient capital city perched on top of the weathered limestone cliffs slumbers in a deep, dreamless sleep. There’s no light, save for the frantic beacon of the lighthouse, calling from the depths of the sea sailors of lost fishing boats.
They answer the call. Wraiths of bone and tattered cloth, they walk along the clay seabed of the marina and rise to the surface on bubble streams. Under the light of the waning moon, sailors walk the familiar streets, looking at the living world with eyes of tinctured, tainted glass.
Everybody knows this island is drowning. With every year, the sea waves crawl higher, their slow, lazy ascent eating away at the rocky shores. We huddle together on the remaining land, stacking our high-rise buildings, one on top of the other, in a futile attempt to escape the coming tide. I guess the sailors know the utter foolishness of it, but they stay silent. No one has ever heard one of them speak.
As always on a windy night, the streets are empty. I jog down the weather-beaten steps from Old Mint Street to St. Mark’s below, wondering who needs to break their leg for the municipal offices to fix the dents in the stone slabs and the chipped off sections. My guess is that it needs to be someone important. Perhaps the Grand Master’s aunt.
At the end point of my path, a drowned sailor stands by the last step of the stairs, his moonlit eyes turned upwards. Judging from the remains of an ornamental collar around his neck, back in the day he sailed with the Phoenician fleet.
The sailors aren’t dangerous to humans, but I find the liquid shine of their eyes unnerving and try to avoid them as much as possible when making my rounds. I take a sharp turn into the alley between the convent of St. Augustine and a woodwork factory. With the detour, it takes me a little longer to get to my destination, but I don’t mind – the night is still young.
The door is in front of me, painted a dark tint of green. The two symmetrical door knockers on its panels shine with polished bronze—a pair of dolphins, backs arched in a playful jump. I run my fingers over their smooth fins as I recite the words of a benedictory rite. No one but me seems to remember the true purpose why il-ħabbata, the door knockers, were created in the first place, and why we continue to install them in this age of electronic doorbells. Guardians of thresholds, they capture nightmares, keeping them away from the pillows of the people sleeping inside.
I slip a bag off my shoulder and take out a large carboy. Kneeling quietly in front of the door knockers, I pull out the cork inscribed with the symbols of binding. As the last syllable of the rite blends into silence, the dolphin on the left spits out a dark shadow, which falls heavily into the bottle. I slam the cork back in and pat the dolphin on the back. It has done its job well.
The thing with il-ħabbata guardians is that while they’re perfectly capable of capturing even the strongest nightmare, they cannot hold more than one at a time, and they cannot hold on to it for long. Someone needs to clear them out before the night ends. That’s just proper maintenance of the wards.
Back in the good old days, there was a whole regiment of nightmare wardens patrolling the streets at night, and it was my family’s trade for generations. By now, the old art is all but forgotten, and instead of catching nightmares, people prefer to medicate the consequences of their impact. The office charged by the Knights with making payouts to the wardens still issues me a monthly check, but the clerk’s face betrays puzzlement every time she looks up the payment code on the invoice. I won’t be surprised if one day they give up on payments all together. But since that day hasn’t come yet, I continue my nightly rounds.
I heave the bottle back up on my shoulder and turn to go. At the far end of the street, a figure of a drowned sailor hovers. I pretend not to see it and head the other way.
From the rather littered depths of my left pocket, I fish out what looks like an antiquated compass. Instead of North, its copper arrow points to the next address where an il-ħabbata guardian has managed to apprehend a nightmare. It would have been so much cooler if the pointer was an app on my phone, but so far, I haven’t managed to figure out how to make one work.
I follow the walkway underneath the remains of an ancient viaduct and reach my second destination for the night. The door knockers here are a pair of octopi, and they have a lovely fat nightmare captured in their tentacles. I feel the bottle grow heavier in my hands as it plunges inside. When the night is over, I’ll take the bottle to the dry well in the internal courtyard of my family home and dump the contents inside. Normally, wells like that collect rain water from winter storms, but this one has been created for a different purpose. Symbols burnt into the stones of its walls seal the collected nightmares inside. Devoid of a living vessel, they eventually expire.
Bottle sealed up and riding in the bag on my shoulder, I’m ready to head for my next destination when I notice a dead sailor again. What’s even more interesting is that it seems to be the same one—strapped sandals, tunic, and all. It is unusual for them to follow someone around. Unnerving as it is, I choose to ignore it as a weird coincidence and continue on my way.
By the time I coax a couple of stubborn nightmares from a pair of elephant door knockers at the fifth address of the night, I’m certain the Phoenician sailor is following me around on purpose.
After a couple more addresses, I’m seriously annoyed. I dive into the alley to avoid unwanted attention—and run into the sailor in question. I hate it when they just flicker out of existence in one place and re-appear out of thin air. The wraith stands there, staring with those green, bottle-glass eyes, and then something incredible happens: he tries to speak. Water pours from his mouth, running down in rivulets onto the chipped limestone slabs of the alley.
I’ve had quite enough of oddities for one night. “Listen, buddy, I don’t understand what you’re trying to say,” I say, and turn to go. The guy reappears right in front of me. Again. Water is still pouring from his mouth, punctuated by an occasional bubble, but it seems he’s figured out that I can’t understand him, and gestures for me to follow.
It sounds crazy, but I do follow him. Why? First of all, I’m getting curious. As I said, nothing like this has happened before, and it would be stupid to miss out on a potential odd event of the century occurrence. That would make me a really lousy nightmare warden. Second, I suspect that following the sailor is the only way of getting rid of him for the night. And I do want to get some sleep. So, I trail after the ethereal shape in front of me, as he leads the way towards one of the bastions facing the sea.
When we reach the ancient, weather-beaten slab of the parapet, I stare, stupefied. There are hundreds of sailors here, all looking at the sea. Dressed in tunics and breeches, thobes and t-shirts, they watch the rolling waves in silence. When my guide and I emerge on the battlements, the sailors move as one and point towards the horizon. I could have shit myself from that sight alone, but what they’re pointing at is so much worse.
From the darkly rippling, midnight waves, emerges an abomination. A creature made of every seafarer’s nightmares—an oversized mass of tentacles, muscles, and bulging eyes. Many eyes. And, of course, it’s slowly plowing towards the island. From the way the various ship anchors, whale skulls, and human skeletons dangle from its mass, I doubt that this is intended as a friendly visit.
“Well, aren’t you going to do something?” I ask the sailors, gesturing at the approaching monstrosity. They turn to face me and I see rays of moonlight seeping through their half-transparent shapes.
“Of course, you can’t,” I sigh. “You’re just wraiths. Immaterial.” I suppose this is why they’ve sent the Phoenician to fetch me, the only nightmare warden remaining on the whole damned island. It just so happens that I don’t know what to do either.
For lack of any better ideas, I make a dash to the police booth in the garden at the back of the bastion. I can actually see the uniform-clad guy inside of it. Sleeping, naturally. I swear you’re more likely to see a sleeping policeman than a running one on this island. I hammer my fist on the glass door of the booth, but to no avail. If we make it till morning alive, I will ask this guy to recommend his sleeping pills or whatever it is that he’s taking. I give the door of the pavilion another, futile, rattle and give up. To be honest, even if I succeeded, what would I have this guy do? Say mela and shoo the eldritch thing in the harbor away with a broom?
A quick glance over my shoulder shows that the thing in question has not changed its mind and is still moving towards land. By now there are at least a couple of broken boats in its wake. Then it dawns on me. The Knights! If they’re still making payments to their single remaining nightmare warden, albeit hesitantly, they should know how to handle all the other supernatural stuff. I fumble for my phone and make a call to the Grand Master’s office. A long-suffering, automated voice moans in my ear, “Your call is very important to us. Please note that the office of the Grand Master is open from nine to five on weekdays. In the event of an emergency, please contact your nearest station post.” I roll my eyes. The nearest station post, if I remember correctly, is half an island away from here, in the Silent City up on the hills. By the time I get there, a good part of the island will be demolished.
Beyond the battlements, the creature rises tall. Its maw yawns, and this close up, the breath coming from its hellish mouth hits me with a stench of rotting seaweed and decomposing bodies. Things are not looking good, and smelling even worse.
The bag with the bottle slips off my shoulder, and an idea strikes me. It’s wild and ill-advised, but I don’t have any better ones.
Nightmares crave human hosts. The difference between your average human and a nightmare warden is that, theoretically, I should be able to take the captive nightmares in and control them. Even wield them as weapons. Family legend has it that my great granduncle managed to pull this off during the big war.
As I take a big swig from the bottle in my hand, I hope he wasn’t lying.
Liquid pours down my throat, burning all the way, and I begin to see the stars that should definitely not be visible in the ordinary, human sky. I feel my body change, stretch and expand. Tall as a tower crane and many-limbed, I step off the battlements and dive into the sea below. The drowned sailors flock to me like pilot fish flock to a shark.
The creature in the sea roars and I roar back. I fling the sticky nightmare from Lower Barrakka Lane into the monster’s gaping maw and it seals its jaws closed; a rabid dog that was coming to haunt the sleep of a little girl on Boat Street rips off the creature’s right claw; the chainsaw I picked up on Lascaris Wharf cuts through its torso.
The battle is going well until the horrendous creature shudders and hits back. Its armored pincer connects with my skull and, for a split second, everything goes dark. Disoriented, I flap about in the muddied water. If the creature wants me dead, and I’m pretty certain it does, this is the perfect opportunity. I’m surprised it doesn’t take the chance.
When my eyesight clears, I understand why. The drowned sailors, a flock of transparent, vaguely luminescent shadows, have launched at the monster, keeping it occupied and away from me. The monster bats at their darting shapes with its tentacles and claws but cannot touch the ghosts.
I reach for the diminished arsenal of nightmares inside me. The two-headed shark from the house on Marsamxett Street brings the monster’s attention back to me, and I slap it with a particularly vindictive guilt trip from Bishop Lane. The creature cowers, hesitant, and the bloody fishing hook from Victoria Square tears through its self-esteem. I agree this was a low blow, but all is fair in nightmare war. I can’t help but feel vindicated when, with a low moan, the ugly wanker sinks back under the waves and departs.
By the time I make it back to shore, I feel noxious from the remaining nightmares sloshing around in my mind, and I’m grateful when the Phoenician sailor hands me the carboy bottle to spit out the last drops of darkness. I’m not entirely sure how he managed to pick the bottle up, immaterial wraith and all, but I’m feeling so hungover I cannot force myself to consider the possible implications. It will have to wait.
My shape back to normal, I tread through the streets of the lower city, half-submerged in the influx of the morning tide. This stupid island will drown anyway. But not today. Not on my watch.
Laila Amado is a nomadic writer of speculative fiction. She writes in her second language, has recently exchanged her fourth country of residence for the fifth, and can now be found staring at the North Sea, instead of the Mediterranean. The sea, occasionally, stares back. Follow her on Bluesky @amadolaila.bsky.social
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