The Bucket of Fish
[Something Fishy Is Going On]
Entry: No. 001
Date: October 14, 2026
Location: Archipelago village
Source: Local resident
THE ACCOUNT
I’ve lived here for nearly forty years. We moved to this island town in the late eighties, when my wife was expecting our first child. She had always dreamed of living in a small town surrounded by water. I agreed, though I’ve never quite understood the appeal. Even back then, the place felt confining.
The town was more lively in those days. Shopkeepers knew their trade, and you could still get proper help at the hardware store. Nowadays, you’re lucky if anyone looks up from their smartphone when you walk in.
Anyway, strange things began happening about two years after we moved here, shortly after our first son was born.
One late autumn evening, I believe it was the last Thursday in October, Karin burned the risotto. No matter how hard I scrubbed the pan with steel wool, the black residue wouldn’t come off.
Eventually, I’d had enough and went outside to throw it in the bin. I nearly tripped over a bucket sitting right outside the door. I flailed my arms wildly and just barely managed to regain my balance. The frying pan clattered down the concrete steps with an echoing clang, and I swore out loud.
Karin was an expert at leaving things lying around. Scatterbrained, always a hundred things going on at once. I remember thinking that one of these days she would be the death of me.
That was when I saw what was inside the bucket. It was filled to the brim with disgusting fish. I say that because I absolutely hate fish. I don’t even like the sea, despite living in the archipelago.
“What fish?” She sounded genuinely confused.
“The bucket on the doorstep! It’s filled to the brim!”
She raised her eyebrows and walked past me to the door. We both stood there staring at the bright blue bucket.
“One of the neighbours must have left it. Maybe as a housewarming gift?”
I let out a loud snort.
“A housewarming gift? After two years? It makes no sense!”, I almost shouted to Karin.
If so, it was definitely the worst housewarming gift I’d ever received. Nobody had rung the doorbell, and it was almost eleven at night. Who leaves a bucket of fish on someone’s doorstep and expects them to just happen to look outside at that hour? No. Something wasn’t right.
Karin was convinced it was a kind neighbour behind the whole thing. I had my doubts. We went inside and watched a TV show about police dogs, like we always did on Thursdays. Eventually, we forgot all about the bucket.
Until one autumn evening the next year, when it was sitting on the doorstep again.
This time, there were two large eels inside, twisted around each other. I felt sick and was boiling with rage. This was definitely no friendly gesture. Even Karin was beginning to doubt the neighbours’ goodwill.
We asked around among friends and acquaintances. Nobody had given us any fish. At least, nobody admitted to it.
I barely slept that night. The disgusting dead eels were etched onto my retinas. I glanced over at Karin, sleeping beside me. Suddenly, it occurred to me that perhaps she was the one playing a trick on me. But what would she gain from making me furious? And where would she have got hold of a couple of eels?
The nearest town with a shop that sold fish was over an hour away, and Karin didn’t have a driving licence. There was no way she’d taken the unreliable local buses and been gone for half a day without me noticing. We spent every evening together after work. Nothing about this made sense.
It’s gone on like this ever since. Year after year. Sometimes it’s pike, sometimes perch, and sometimes other small fish. Only that one time were there eels. The fish changes, but the bucket is always the same bright blue, and it always appears on a late autumn night.
Since then, I’ve installed security cameras, but I’ve never managed to catch anyone in the act. One moment there’s no bucket, and the next, it’s there.
I’ve told Karin I won’t live in this dump for another year if this continues. I know how much that hurts her, but this sick joke has taken its toll on our marriage. We’ve had arguments that sent spatulas flying, Karin has cried, and I’ve stood banging on the neighbours doors in the middle of the night.
The kids have left the nest long ago, and I’ve never liked living here anyway. I only stayed because it was her dream. All I need is a confession, but I’m afraid I’ll never get one.
Sometimes, I wonder if Karin is the one behind all this. Maybe she does it and forgets about it? The thought frightens me more than any fish ever could. I’ve shared my life with this woman. Surely I would know if something was wrong with her? And yet, I can’t shake the feeling that I may not know her as well as I think I do.
LOGBOOK NOTES
What if the most disturbing part of a mystery isn't the mystery itself, but the possibility that someone close to you knows more than they're letting on?
Pike, perch, eels. Different fish, different years. If someone is behind this, why go to the trouble of changing the fish every time?
The first bucket appeared two years after the couple moved to the island. I wonder what happened during those first two years, and whether the move itself had anything to do with it?
Status: Explanation pending.
