What was hiding in the fog of Porto Velho? Tomás had wondered about that his whole life. Every fisherman in the little town refused to sail on the seventh day of the month. They shook their heads. They whispered about the Harbour Ghost. They tied their boats tight to the dock. Then they went home to eat warm soup. Even Tomás's grandfather locked up his boat. 'The ghost comes in the fog,' the old fishermen said. 'On the seventh day. Every time.' Tomás was six years old. He did not believe in ghosts. So, on the morning of the seventh day, Tomás woke up early. Before the sun even yawned awake, he walked down to the safe, shallow part of the harbour. The fog was thick and white. It looked like a big cloud resting on the water. The waves made soft, lapping sounds against the wooden dock. He climbed into his grandfather's small fishing boat. His heart thumped loudly. He felt very excited! The little boat rocked gently. Tomás pushed away from the dock with a long wooden pole. The fog wrapped around him like a cozy blanket. Then he heard it. Creeeak. Groooan. It sounded like something very old and very tired. Tomás froze. His tummy felt wiggly and strange. He felt a little scared. 'It is just the boat,' he whispered. 'Just the wood.' But the sound came again.