The pale trail was water broken by trapped gas escaping through the corroded seams of the iron structure beneath, forced upward along its length by tidal pressure, frothing white as it surfaced. At the main chamber end, the pressure was strongest: the water spun, and on the worst mornings, a section of loose iron casing was pushed briefly upright before falling back.
Once the fear lost its ghostly shape, what remained felt worse. This had not been a curse the village could hide behind. It had been a danger left in place, then dressed in whispers and greed, because then no one would have to be accountable for what was happening and people could profit off the tragedy.