Everyone on Munroe Island knew about the ghost.
It appeared on full-moon nights, drifting along the narrow canals between the coconut groves. Fishermen swore they had seen it — a white figure, hovering above the water, making no sound. Some said it was a woman who had drowned decades ago. Others said it was older than that, a spirit from before the island had a name.
Hari was twelve and did not believe in ghosts. He said this loudly and often, especially in front of his grandmother, who told ghost stories the way other grandmothers made tea — frequently, generously, and with great relish.
"Nonsense, Ammoomma," he would say. "Ghosts are just stories."
"Then row through the Thekkumbhagam canal on the next full moon," his grandmother said calmly, shelling tamarind. "Alone. At midnight. If ghosts are just stories, you have nothing to fear."
Hari's pride made the decision before his brain could object. "Fine," he said. "I will."
The full moon came on a Tuesday. Hari pushed his small vallam — a traditional canoe carved from a single log — into the canal behind his house. The water was silver-black under the moon. Coconut palms lined both banks, their fronds whispering in a breeze he couldn't feel on the ground.
He paddled in silence. The canal was narrow here, barely wider than his boat. The roots of mangroves reached into the water like bony fingers. An owl called from somewhere in the darkness. Then another answered from the opposite bank, as though they were discussing him.
Hari's heart was beating harder than he liked to admit. His paddle cut the water cleanly, propelling him deeper into the canal. He passed the old boathouse — empty, its roof half-collapsed. He passed the toddy-tapper's shack — dark, shuttered, no sign of life.
And then he saw it.
At the bend in the canal, where the water opened slightly before narrowing again, something white floated above the surface. It moved slowly, drifting from one bank toward the other. It made no sound. It had no legs.
Hari stopped paddling. His boat glided forward on its own momentum, bringing him closer whether he wanted it or not.
The white figure turned. Hari gripped the paddle so hard his knuckles ached. Every ghost story his grandmother had ever told flooded back. Every nerve told him to paddle backward, to flee, to scream.
But he had made a promise. And he was twelve, which is the age when a promise matters more than common sense.
He paddled forward. Slowly. Each stroke bringing him closer. The figure grew larger, more defined. It was definitely white. It was definitely floating. It was definitely —
Wearing a lungi.
Hari squinted. The "ghost" was an old man standing in a small, flat-bottomed boat painted black. He wore a white mundu and a white shirt, both luminous in the moonlight. His boat was so low in the water and so dark that it was invisible — only the man appeared, seeming to hover above the canal.
In his hands, the old man held a fishing net. He was casting it gently, gathering prawns that came to the surface on full-moon nights.
"Who's there?" the old man called, shielding his eyes.
"I'm Hari. From the south side."
"Ah, Lakshmi's grandson? What are you doing out here at midnight?"
"I came to find the ghost."
The old man laughed — a wheezy, gentle laugh. "You found him. I've been the ghost for twenty years. Every full moon, I come here for prawns. Best catch of the month. But the fishermen see my white clothes in the moonlight and run before they get close enough to see the boat."
He held up a bucket. It was full of fat, translucent prawns, their eyes catching the moonlight.
"Want to help? Four hands catch more than two."
Hari spent the rest of the night learning to cast a net by moonlight. The old man — whose name was Kunjachan — showed him how the prawns rose to the surface on full moons, drawn by the light. He taught him which canals had the best catch and how to read the water by the way moonlight reflected off it.
At dawn, they split the catch. Hari paddled home with a bucket of prawns and a story that was true, which is always better than a story that is frightening.
His grandmother was waiting on the bank, shelling tamarind as though she had been there all night — which she probably had.
"Well?" she asked. "Did you find the ghost?"
"There is no ghost, Ammoomma. It's old Kunjachan. He fishes for prawns on full moons."
His grandmother smiled the way grandmothers smile when a child learns something she already knew. "Of course it is," she said. "I've been buying his prawns for years. But you wouldn't have gone out there if I'd told you that."
She took the bucket, inspected the prawns, nodded approvingly, and went inside to make breakfast.
Hari sat on the bank in the early light, watching the canal turn from silver to green. He had gone looking for a ghost and found a fisherman. He had gone looking for fear and found a friend. He had paddled into the dark certain he would find a monster, and discovered instead that the monster was just moonlight on white cloth and a boat painted black.
Most monsters are like that, if you paddle close enough.