02/19/2026
Issue #1 - The Spirit of Sea Trash
From this point on, you’re reading words from a man that doesn’t exist. Not in any meaningful way anyways. Sure, I may be physical, I may be corporeal and trust me, those two things do mean a lot in my field. But I don’t exist in the same way you do. You’re not going to find me on any register. You’re not going to find me on any databases or in any documents. The closest you’ll find is my cover name. A name I was given at my second birth.
There’s 25 of us, you see. And sure, we may work with other detectives from time to time. Hell, some of us even have partners. But those people aren’t like us. Maybe one day they will be, once one of us inevitably dies off. But that’s a long way away. Probably, anyways. Nothing is certain in this field.
What is certain is what’s out there. What’s always been out there. A hell of a lot more than most people will ever know. And I gotta say, I’m kinda jealous of them. Once you open your eyes to that kind of stuff, you can’t close them ever again.
I’m talking about the supernatural. I’m guessing if you’re bothering to read this, then you probably saw that coming. Which is good. It means I have to do less work to convince you that what I do is real. Not that I really care if you believe me or not. None of us are in this line of work for any sort of recognition. It's a bad job if you’re interested in publicity.
My name is Zed, designation Isa. Neither of those are my real names, so don’t bother checking. I’m a psychic and I hunt spirits for a living. I work for the federal government, a special branch of the FBI known as the Federal Occult Task Force. We’re a small group, only 25 like I said, and there’s rarely ever one of us in the same place at once. Our job is to travel the US and take care of the things that go bump in the night. The kind of things you can’t see, the kind of things you don’t want to see.
Some of us hunt monsters, some of us cultists, some of us ghosts…. But I hunt spirits.
And yes, before you say something. There is a difference between ghosts and spirits.
A spirit is a natural phenomenon of the earth. You ever hear people talking about all that spiritual mumbo jumbo? About the rocks and stars and stuff? Well, they aren’t too far off. Our planet is crawling with natural energy, practically overflowing with it. It doesn’t have a name as far as I’m aware. It's just energy. As plain as there is air and water. A fact of life as simple as any other.
And it's those very elements that end up making spirits. All that energy from the earth has to go somewhere. It will latch onto things, water, fire, even more abstract concepts. I’ve seen spirits formed from love, hate, fear… Hell, once I even saw a spirit formed out of a calendar…. That was a really weird case.
That’s besides the point though. The point I’m making is that spirits can form anywhere, at any time, with anything. And if a spirit goes unchecked for too long… If it's able to grow for long enough…. Well, it becomes something a little different. Sometimes something good. Sometimes something bad. But either way, they scare the hell out of me.
So it's my job to make sure they don’t get to that point. Or if they do get to that point, it's my job to make sure they don’t get any further. It’s hard work, it’s dangerous work, but it’s my work. And it's my work that keeps my head off things I’d rather not think about. Because as scary as the spirits can get, the things in my head scare me a whole lot worse.
I know your next question. Or maybe I don’t. I don’t know. I’m not good at playing the whole psychic angle up. Especially not over the internet. Anyways, what I think you’re wanting to ask next is why I’m writing this. If this whole thing is as secretive as I seem to say, if it's so much better to sleep through the night than face the things that dwell in its shadows, then why am I trying to wake you up?
I wish I could tell you I had some noble reason, or some bigger picture I was getting at. I wish I could pretend that telling you would save the world, or stop some disaster from happening. But that’s not the case. It’s never been the case.
No, the reason I’m telling you all this is because… Well. Because I’m selfish.
I’m tired of keeping all this trapped in the rusted metal cage that is my brain. You see enough of this creepy crap and you become desensitized to it. That’s what all the others on the force say, anyways. And that was true for me too for a while. But sometimes things get bad enough that it just…. Snaps you out of it. The straw that breaks the camel’s back, so to speak. Well, I got my straw a few weeks ago. And I haven’t been the same since.
I’ve been carrying this burden for so long that I just want to get it out of my head and into someone else's. Maybe then I’ll feel a little better. Maybe then I won’t feel so alone out here. There’s 24 other members of the task force, but… Well, we’re not really close. We’re not that kind of force. Hell, I don’t even know some of their real names.
Not that I know any of your names either. But sometimes shouting into the wind feels better than shouting into a bottle. Maybe one of you out there can do something with this information. Maybe my stories can do some good after all…. I’d like to think so anyway.
My name is Zed, I hunt spirits for a living, and these are my stories.
******
Case File: 11-12100623A
Date of Case: October 6th, 2012
Location: England Cove, Maine
Active Agents: Agent Isa
Case Subject: The Spirit of Sea Trash
I don’t really have a reason for sharing this one first. Just the first one that came to mind I suppose. They say write what you know, so I put the case details that we usually use up at the top for you. Not all of the information, obviously, just the key details to set the scene. I censored the town name too and replaced it with something fake. I don’t need any jokers running around trying to chase my coattails. The government does that enough.
Where to start… Well, it was a cold and dreary October up in Maine. If that doesn’t set the mood for you then I don’t know what will. It was a horrible day to be out and about. The sky was nothing but gray, and I still remember the chill. The air had this slickness to it. It was wet that day. Like a Trojan horse, the wetness would sneak through your clothes and carry that cold with it. It’d go right past your jacket, past however many shirts you were wearing, it would seep through your skin and settle deep in your bones. It made my shoulder ache. Bad weather always does, ever since the incident with the Nail Spirit.
I was out there on what was supposedly a simple case. This was earlier on in my career, so I wasn’t being sent on the really crazy ones yet. From what I was led to believe, some strange corpse had turned up at the town’s pier. I’d never been out there before, but from what I saw it was a nice enough place. Full of fat rich people, in their fat rich houses though. They got to stay all bundled up nice and warm, while I was out there trudging through the wet, cold, air. Even though I like my job, it's hard to not be a little jealous sometimes.
My contact was a man named Jared Sapper, another fake name, by the way. Unless said otherwise just assume they’re all fake. Mr. Sapper was the town’s coroner. We get a lot of calls from people like him. It's not uncommon for uncontrolled spirits to get loose and kill someone. And usually when they do, they leave behind a mess that no ordinary mortician could explain.
I met Jared Sapper outside of the corner’s office. He was a portly man, probably in his 50s I would guess. His hair had gone mostly gray and he had a bit of a hunch to his shoulders, but he carried a certain youthful look in his eyes that I wish I still had. He was sitting on one of the benches outside. The second Mr. Sapper saw me, he gave me a knowing nod. I guess there’s something about me, because people always seem to know that I’m there for the weird stuff.
“Are you Agent Isa?” He asked me in a quiet voice. The kind of voice you’d expect from someone in his line of work. I told him I was and he gestured for me to take a seat next to him. I wasn’t exactly enthusiastic to sit down on a wet bench. But I don’t like to be rude, so I did as I was told. I sat my briefcase down next to me and took a pack of cigarettes out of my pocket. I lit up and offered one to Mr. Sapper, he obliged.
We sat there for a moment in silence. Both of us puffing away, letting the smoke chase the chill out of our bones. I waited patiently for Mr. Sapper to speak first. It's always a toss up when it comes to speaking to people about this kind of thing. Some get right to the point, while others like to… Meander around the subject. I get it though. Sometimes it's hard to describe what you saw.
Luckily for me, Mr. Sapper was in the former category. A quicker explanation meant the quicker I could wrap up this case, and go get something to really warm me up. I could’ve honestly just read his mind if I really wanted to, but I don’t like using my powers like that.
He started talking about the body that washed up on the shore. It was a gentleman named Wyatt Laps. A local fisherman that had gone missing the day prior. The man was set to head out on the water early in the morning, but come afternoon his boat was still moored by the dock. Untouched. Nobody thought much of it, till his wife declared him missing. The search from the cops turned up nothing. Until this morning, when a different group of fishermen found his bloated corpse on the beach.
And that was more or less the catch up. Mr. Sapper said the body had confused and scared him. To be honest, I was a bit shocked it had all happened so quickly. Usually it takes a week at least for a case to cross my desk. But in this situation, Mr. Sapper happened to already know about us. So we were the first ones he called.
Not one for long talks with clients, I stamped out my cigarette and stood up from the bench. The cold clung to the seat of my pants and ruined my mood just a little more. I nodded to the old timer, and together we headed inside.
They had Wyatt Laps laid out on a table for us down in the morgue, his body covered up to his chin with a blue plastic sheet. The poor bastard was stretched out like a piece of laundry out to dry. Maybe not so illfitting of a description, as I would soon find out.
The first thing that stuck out to me was the state of his body. His face looked bloated and full. Like he’d been rotting in the water for days, not the look of someone who died just yesterday. And the second thing I noticed was his skin. It had a wet sheen to it, like he’d just gotten out of the bath. In fact, he had so much water on him it was pooling beneath him on the table. The water dripped off the sides like little waterfalls, which became miniature streams that trickled down into the floor drains.
When I asked if they’d dried him off, Mr. Sapper said they’d tried. But no matter what they did, the water just kept coming. He said they’d had it tested, it came back as sea water, polluted with chemicals, oils, and runoffs.
That part would’ve been strange enough, but it was what Mr. Sapper showed me next that really rocked me on my heels. We both stood on either side of the corpse, and Mr. Sapper pulled the sheet the rest of the way off, exposing Wyatt’s open body to me.
At first I wasn’t even sure what I was looking at. I thought for a second it was some kind of joke. It's not uncommon to run into out of taste pranks or something. But it hit me all at once what I was looking at. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it sure wasn’t someone’s dissected torso full to the brim with trash.
Plastic bottles crowded his lungs, six pack rings were tangled around his ribs like Christmas lights. His stomach was wrapped up in several layers of old plastic bags, sharp bits of aluminum cans poked out of his stomach, and every other spare inch of his body was crammed full of sea trash. His innards looked like a landfill and smelled like one too.
I’m not a squeamish person, so I didn’t react all that much to it, but damn. If it wasn’t a weird sight. I took a few photographs for the record while Mr. Sapper stood quietly off to the side. And no. Before you ask, I can’t show you. Those pictures are locked away deep in an archive somewhere that I don’t have the permission to get to.
Once I was finished documenting the body, I turned back to Mr. Sapper. He was practically standing a mile away from the corpse. He had his hand clutched over his mouth and nose. I guess he wasn’t as used to this sort of thing as I am. I pocketed my camera and told him to bag up the body. He looked confused, but I told him I didn’t really need to investigate it anymore. The case seemed pretty clear cut to me. We had an obvious location and an obvious case of the paranormal. Unless Mr. Sapper shoved all the junk in there himself, which wasn’t impossible but not something I was entertaining at the moment.
If Mr. Laps went missing down at the docks, and turned up on the beach nearby, then I didn’t think it would take Sherlock Holmes to figure out where the spirit was hiding. Not to mention the sea water pouring from the corpse, the sea trash lodged in his guts… I thanked my lucky stars that this case seemed more straightforward than others.
But even if I could find the damn thing, that doesn’t guarantee an easy finish. The hardest part was still to come. I took my brief case, tipped my hat to Mr. Sapper, and bid him farewell. Heading back out into that dreary cold weather was the hardest part of the day. The morgue wasn’t exactly warm, but compared to outside it felt like paradise. I lit up another cigarette and pressed my fingers against my temple. It’s an old habit I still keep. It's an easy way to focus my psychic powers. I picked it up from an old movie, if you’d believe that.
Back then it was a little more necessary than it is now, though. Back in 2012 I was much more green in general, but especially with my psychic abilities. It’s hard to open your mind’s eye like that, but the temple thing helped. I focused my mind and reached out. It's hard to explain how connecting a psychic link to someone’s brain feels. Imagine shoving your hand into a wet sponge, and grasping around till you found a handle. That’s what it feels like. Eventually, my “hand” found what it was looking for. An open mental link that I quickly snapped onto.
The voice that answered my psychic call drifted into my mind like a slow honey. It was a sound of home, a friendly voice that I could always turn to. And thankfully, in my line of work meant I got to call on often.
“Body pick up so soon, Zed?” The suave voice of Agent Dagaz answered me. I only grunted in response. I never was good at clever comebacks. But with Dag I never had to be, he was the easiest person in the world to be myself around.
I gave him my location and ordered a body pick up stat. That should’ve been the end of the psychic call, at least by protocol. But Dag had a certain way of keeping people on the line. I wasn’t complaining though. His “voice” made my cold walk a little less chilly.
I explained the case to him. I told him what I saw back at the coroner’s office. Dag enjoyed that kind of stuff. He was morbid from the start, unlike me. I grew morbid over time. I was just morbid by trade, but Dag was morbid by nature.
“Fascinating.” I remember him thinking. That was the word he used. Fascinating.
“Not how I would’ve described it.” I replied. “More like disturbing.”
“So what do you think the spirit is formed around?” I had a brief flash of a mental image. The image of Dag leaned over his desk in anticipation, hanging on my every word. His long blond hair tied back in a loose ponytail, his suit jacket draped over his wiry frame, and his tie left sloppily undone around his neck. These sort of mental flashes were common with psychic calls. I’m sure Dag was receiving some pretty miserable images of me trudging down to the docks right about now.
“If I had to guess, some kind of sea spirit.” It wasn’t a very hard guess. It was pretty obvious from the case around it. “Not a regular one though. The sea litter has me thinking.”
“I sure hope it's not just a regular sea spirit.” Dag answered me with a hint of boredom teetering on his voice. “I’ve seen about a hundred sea spirit cases this year alone. I hope this one is more unique.” Another mental image, this time of that crooked smile that Dag always flashed. The one that drove people insane. People like me.
“Thanks.” I answered without much enthusiasm. “Wouldn’t want a case to be easy on me for once, now would we?”
“Don’t pretend like you don’t get bored of the regular ones too.”
I would’ve loved to have kept on the line and kept talking to him, but as the rows of old wooden piers, and the sound of crashing waves against the rocks came upon me, I knew I had to go. I told Dag I’d connect with him later, and broke the psychic link. Once more I was left standing in the cold alone.
I stood at the top of a hill, looking down upon the bay below me. I could see a lighthouse off in the distance, its light doused for the time being. There were about half a dozen fishing boats lined up at the docks. And about two dozen more visible on the horizon, out on that cold gray sea. I finished up my cigarette, then made my way down to the water.
The sea spray made things even worse down there. I had to step carefully since the docks were slick with sea water. One wrong move would send me to the hospital. So I walked with caution down to the dockmaster’s office. It was nicer inside, but I wish I could say the same for the people working there. They weren’t as…. Forthcoming with information as Jared Sapper was.
The dockmaster was a grizzled old salt. The kind of man who’d been at sea probably longer than I’d even been alive. He had a beard thicker than the clothes I wore and a face so tanned and wrinkled that I almost thought it was crafted from leather. When I asked him about Wyatt Laps he refused to give me anything of substance. Not from the reasons you might think though. Normally on jobs, people give us a hassle because they don’t believe in the supernatural. Not these guys though. Sailors are some of the most superstitious people you’ll ever meet. And that very reason makes them very hard to work with.
He refused to so much as even speak about Wyatt Laps or the fate that befell him. He wouldn’t tell me where his boat was, where the other fishermen had found him, or even so much as the name of his boat.
Thankfully, I didn’t really need him to tell me.
Like I said earlier, I really don’t like digging around in people’s brains unless I really have to. But this was one of those situations. I could’ve sat here all day and argued back and forth with the old geezer, but in the end this was just the quicker result.
Just like before, I pressed my fingers to my temples and exerted my psychic powers.
I guess this is as good a time as any to elaborate on that, huh? I mentioned it earlier, and I just talked about how I was able to connect psychically with Dag, but there’s a lot more to it than just being a human telephone. My psychic powers aren’t as strong as others, but they let me do quite a bit. I can do some minor physical things, like levitating objects or causing people harm. But I’m much better at mental stuff. Remote viewing, telepathy, and most important for this situation. Mind reading.
The old man was easy enough to read, older people usually are. It took little effort on my part to probe into his mind. Once I was connected to him, I asked aloud “Where did Wyatt Laps dock his boat?”
I knew the dockmaster wasn’t going to tell me, but the question was enough to bring the thought to his mind. I watched the image bubble to the surface within his brain, a small boat docked down by the beach. Tied up and held in place by an old slimy rope. Once I had a visual of the place, it was easy enough to locate more memories in his mind. Memories that showed me how to get to that area, memories that showed me Wyatt Laps’ body being found only about a mile away.
When the dockmaster told me to “piss off and come back with a warrant”. I obliged. I tipped my hat and took my leave. I’d gotten all the information I needed from him, so there was little point in staying and arguing. I left without another word, only leaving the man with a minor headache as a souvenir.
There’s probably a case to be had about the ethics of using my psychic powers like that. I didn’t enjoy doing it, and I didn’t rightly make it a habit, but that didn’t make it any better I suppose. Not that I had much say in it. It was part of the job after all. Not all of the other 25 agents in my group are psychics, but some of them are. And some of them are a lot less frugal about using theirs.
I used the memories I had seen to follow a path down to the beach. My shoes sunk down into the wet, slushy sand. The gray seawater lapping and pushing at the shoreline as I walked down its length. It was there that I found the post and rope that Wyatt Laps used to moor his little fishing boat. Since it wasn’t moored on the actual dock, I could only assume it was some kind of “off the books” situation with the dockmaster. Maybe just a favor for a friend, or maybe something more illegal. But drugs or hook ups or whatever it might have been wasn’t my problem.
The boat itself was gone, but this was definitely the area. A quick sweep with my eyes didn’t reveal anything out of the ordinary. Sometimes I’d get lucky and the spirit would just be hanging around out in the open, but not today.
After a quiet sigh, I knelt and set my brief case down in the wet sand. I undid the combination lock and swung it open. Inside were the tools of my trade. I may be a psychic, but often that isn’t enough.
Among the usual supplies, my pens, notepads, a phone, I also had more…. Specific items. The first was what almost looked like a speedometer, like the type a cop would use. A big, gun shaped object with a screen on one end, and a funny looking radar dish on the other. There was also a photo album in there and what the average person might mistake to be a regular polaroid camera. I also carried a few pouches of crystals, runes, and herbs, just in case. As well as some other items of spiritual importance.
The speedometer-like object is something we call a “Paragraph”. “Para”, like Paranormal. And “graph” like a… Well like a graph. From what I understand the name sounding like that was just a coincidence, but it sure helps keep it a secret when talking about it in public. It's a device that some of us use to pick up trace amounts of spiritual energy. It's like a sort of metal detector, but for spirits.
I took the device out, unfolded the radar dish, and plugged one of the earpieces into my ear. I gave the thing a few preliminary sweeps around the area. I was picking up some small readings, but nothing drastic. Nothing enough to track it by. It was at least comforting to know that the spirit wasn’t ungodly strong.
I let my arms hang at my side and took another look at my surroundings. I had to squint against the cold breeze that blew up from the sea. My eyes caught on something that was rolling across the ground, an old soda can. It bounced along the coast, dragged by the blowing wind. I watched as it rolled it past me and kept on going, until it disappeared into the shadows beneath the pier….
I laughed aloud at that. Sometimes the answer is always staring you right in the face. I tossed my Paragraph back into the brief case, and looped the strap of the camera around my neck. In my right hand I held a trusty old flashlight, while the fingers of my left were tight around the handle of my pistol. You’d be surprised how effective a good old fashion bullet is against the supernatural.
I approached the dock with extreme caution. I had to kneel down to see underneath, because of how low it was to the sand. I clicked on the flashlight and swept its light around the underside.
As the beam bounced around, I was met with a lot of nothing. Shells, some trash, and a whole lot of sand. At first I couldn’t see it, it was pretty well camouflaged. But both fortunately and unfortunately for me, the spirit wasn’t keen on sitting still.
It leapt out at me like a snake for its prey. It had been half buried in the sand, and had it stayed there I probably wouldn’t have even seen it. The second it moved I leapt back as far as I could. The thing startled me, so I ended up falling flat on my ass in the wet sand. Like I said. I was still relatively new when all of this was happening.
The thing advanced from underneath the dock, finally showing itself in full detail. It almost looked like a frog, kinda. It was a big, squat looking thing. It had four legs that bowed outwards, like its body was too heavy for it to properly support. It was a massive conglomeration of broken glass, plastic, and rubber. It smelled too. A putrid combination of a landfill and dead fish. Just as I’d suspected, the thing was formed out of sea trash. I assumed the spiritual energy had latched onto a pile of junk that floated out to sea, and now here it was. Bringing havoc and fear to the mainland.
I stumbled back as the spirit approached. After seeing what it did to Wyatt Laps, I didn’t want to get touched by the damn thing. But it was faster than it looked. It leapt at me, its jagged glass teeth snagged the edge of my shoe, and tore it open. I felt a pain burn in my foot and heat pooling in my shoe. I didn’t have to look to know I’d been slashed.
I finally managed to get back up to my feet just in time. The spirit lunged for me yet again. This time though, I was prepared. I pressed my fingers to my temple and let out a surge of psychic energy towards the thing. The spirit stopped in mid air, held back by my psychic force. I threw the thing back against the post of the dock, where it crashed against it with a wet slap.
I brought my camera up to my face and prepared to take a ghost photograph, but before I could, the damn thing swung its… Tail? I guess it was like a tail. It swung at me and sent a ball of shredded aluminum cans and tangled plastic hurling my way. I jumped to the side, the ball of trash crashed onto the beach right where I had been standing. It sounded a lot heavier than I thought it was.
I tried to take the picture again, but the spirit had already recovered itself. It was racing back along the beach straight towards me. Its mouth brimming with sharp bones and glass. Still on the defensive I brought out my pistol and let loose two shots into the beast’s mouth. Between the silencer on my gun and the howl of the sea wind, you couldn’t really hear it going off. The thing recoiled with a gurgling croak. Like I said, bullets still had their use.
Because I didn’t get a good scan of it with my Paragraph, I wasn’t sure exactly how strong the spirit was. Normal procedure would be to scan the spirit with the Paragraph to get a reading of its power. Then you’d weaken it by either psychic, physical, or spiritual means. And then, once it was weak enough… Snap. It was a bit like a game almost. Except the stakes were a lot higher than just getting a game over.
I was flying by the seat of my pants. I hadn’t done a very good job of gathering information on the damn thing. So I was going in blind. If I missed my shot with the camera, I’d have to reload the film. And in a fight like this, that could often mean life or death.
But I took the gamble. And it paid off. This time.
While the spirit was still choking on the lead I pumped into it, I brought the polaroid up to my face. While it looked more or less like a normal, if not old fashioned, polaroid camera, it was actually a lot more. This was something we called a Spirit Camera. It’s a special and rare type of camera that captures spiritual or supernatural energies. People use them for ghost pictures, aura photos, or in my line of work, capturing spirits. I lined the spirit up in the crosshairs of the camera lens and pressed down on the shutter. There was a mechanical whir, a flash of turqoise light, and a powerful surge in the air around us.
I kept the button held down for as long as possible. Letting the camera do its work. Though I couldn’t see the spirit past the glowing light and whirling sand, I could tell it was working thanks to the screeching of the awful thing. No more than 30 seconds later, and I now stood alone on an empty beach.
I breathed a sigh of relief and lowered the camera away from my eyes, blinking away the stinging tears that always followed its usage. The Spirit Camera kept whirring away, and then finally it printed out its photo. I snatched it up and fanned it in my hand as I walked back to my sand covered briefcase.
While the photo developed, I carefully placed my camera back into the case, along with the Paragraph. I grabbed my photo album and flipped it open to a fresh page. I slipped it inside one of the protective pockets, and gazed upon the now developed photograph of the Spirit of Sea Trash. In all its plasticy and trashy glory, its mouth open and barring its refuse fangs. Safe and sound.
I let the album fall close and secured it back into my briefcase. I picked up my things and lit up my cigarette as I limped off the beach. The cold was making my foot hurt now, just like my shoulder. I really had to be more careful on my cases. One wrong move and I would’ve ended up cold and wet for good.
I reported back to my superiors and asked if I needed to get to a doctor. But they told me no. They told me they already had another case they wanted me on. Some spirit out in Texas causing chaos. They didn’t even want me wasting time to drop off the Spirit Photos I already had on me. That’s just the nature of the job, really. From one thing to the next, you hardly even get a chance to breathe.
I shacked up in a decent enough little motel for the night. It was little comfort, but still better than being outside. Especially as the gray sky finally gave way, and let loose a cold autumn rain upon the town.
I spent much of the night caring for my foot. Drying it, disinfecting it, and removing the bits of plastic that had gotten stuck inside me. At least I hoped they’d gotten stuck in there. I hated to think about them growing from within me, or something like that.
I tried to think otherwise. I tried to convince myself that the cold I felt deep in the bone of my foot…. Was just from that cold and wet weather.
