Page 2 of Stolen Magic of the Deep

“Yeah, sorry. Zoned out. Structure’s stable, no movement. Unless you count a couple of moody-looking rockfish.” I ramble, panning my flashlight across the debris field as if to prove I’m paying attention again. “Real party down here. Visibility is still crap, maybe fifteen feet.”

“Alright. Stay sharp. The signal’s clean for now but we’re on the edge of the strait’s dead zone—radar’s patchy.”

“Awesome,” I mutter, and drift lower, flashlight sweeping like a searchlight through the murk into the shadows. “Love that for me.”

The silence presses in, not oppressive yet, but I know how fast that can change. I glide lower, weaving through rusted beams as my fingers tighten around the light.

Just me, the wreckage, and the overwhelming sense that something is watching. No sound, no movement, just that crawling awareness threading down my spine like a whisper I can’t quite hear.

This feeling is obviously just my overactive imagination and not, say, the start of a horror movie. Definitely not the perfect setup for being snatched by some deep-sea cryptic with a grudge against divers. Nope. Totally fine.

I shake it off with a slow breath and keep going, pushing past the feeling like I’m being followed by a particularly judgmental fish.

After a while, I settle into the rhythm of the dive—documenting marine life winding through twisted metal and seaweed-choked corners, brushing against corroded railings and clinging to the bridge supports to steady myself. Tiny fish in every color of the rainbow dart around me, curious and unafraid, their scales catching the filtered sunlight like scattered jewels. An octopus slides across a rusted girder, pausing to peer at me with intelligent eyes before vanishing into a crevice. Every corner seems alive, as if the wreckage itself is breathing beneath the water.

I drift farther from the main debris field, letting my eyes trace the contours of the structure, scanning for details that could have gone unnoticed earlier in my dive. That’s when something catches my attention, too uniform to be natural. Four rusted beams, one at each corner, forming a perfect square, almost like the frame of a room. Years of growing seaweed and shifting silt partially obscure the edges, but I can’t mistake the deliberate angles beneath the growth. My pulse quickens; this wasn’t just another patch of reef.

It’s not much, just a forgotten shape buried in the deep, but it’s also not something you’d notice unless you were down here, eye-level with the secrets the ocean keeps.

I edge closer, camera steady, curiosity tugging harder than caution.

“Leo,” I whisper, “you seeing this?”

A pause.

His voice crackles through my earpiece. “Yeah . . . maybe it should stay untouched.”

I grin. “Are you scared of what we’ll find?”

“Not scared. Maybe you’ll finally find your future husband down there. God knows you need it. When was the last time you got laid?” he inquires, laughing so loud it vibrates painfully in my eardrum.

“Oh fuck off Leo! God forbid a girl prefers a decent man over garbage sex.” I fire back. “I’m swimming closer. Let me know if anything shows up before I do.”

His sincerity is genuine, but I can’t ignore the warmth that settles in my chest at having him as a friend. Life feels a little easier with Leo around, even if his terrible jokes occasionally make me want to roll my eyes into next week.

As I move closer, the details become clearer. What I thought was just random debris now looks methodical. The framed room isn’t just collapsed wreckage, it was built. Even the seaweed, which I’d assumed had simply drifted and tangled around the rusted beams, now appears strategically placed. All four sides of the structure are enclosed, though there’s a narrow opening, almost like an entrance.

Just as I’m about to enter, quick movement in the corner of my vision catches my attention.

“Leo . . . anything on the radar?” I ask, keeping my voice steady.

Silence.

No answer.

Shit. I must have lost communication. I start to turn, and that’s when I see it: a sea turtle—brown and gold in color, the size of a large dog.

I barely have time to react. It’s not aggressive exactly, but it moves with purpose, heading straight for me without hesitation. I slowly swim backward, away from the seaweed-covered room, and try to reestablish contact with Leo.

“. . . fis . . . are you . . . can . . . hear me?” Leo’s voice crackles through the earpiece.

“Slightly distorted, but yes, I can hear you.” I keep my eyes on the turtle, which hovers near the structure like it owns the place. “That seaweed room is just past the edge of the dead zone. I lost contact when I got near it.”

“Yeah, I got worried,” he replies, his voice clearer now. “Your camera feed glitched. Glad you’re okay.”

“Physically? I’m fine,” I drawl. “But there’s something odd . . . sea turtles are native here, right?”

“Well, they’ve been spotted off the California coast, including near San Francisco. Still, it’s rare this far north. Why?”