CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "The SOS Signal We Picked Up Was 100 Years Old" CreepsMcPasta

Episode Date: February 20, 2025

CREEPYPASTA STORY►by FrightfulFiction:   / the_sos_signal_we_picked_up_was_100_years_old  Creepypastas are the campfire tales of the internet. Horror stories spread through Reddit r/nosleep, forums and blogs, rather than word of mouth. Whether you believe these scary stories to be true or not is left to your own discretion and imagination. LISTEN TO CREEPYPASTAS ON THE GO-SPOTIFY► https://open.spotify.com/show/7l0iRPd...iTUNES► https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast...SUGGESTED CREEPYPASTA PLAYLISTS-►"Good Places to Start"-    • "I wasn't careful enough on the deep ...  ►"Personal Favourites"-    • "I sold my soul for a used dishwasher...  ►"Written by me"-    • "I've been Blind my Whole Life" Creep...  ►"Long Stories"-    • Long Stories  FOLLOW ME ON-►Twitter:   / creeps_mcpasta  ►Instagram:   / creepsmcpasta  ►Twitch:   / creepsmcpasta  ►Facebook:   / creepsmcpasta  CREEPYPASTA MUSIC/ SFX- ►http://bit.ly/Audionic ♪►http://bit.ly/Myuusic ♪►http://bit.ly/incompt ♪►http://bit.ly/EpidemicM ♪This creepypasta is for entertainment purposes only

The ocean doesn't care about you. It's not your enemy, and it sure as hell isn't your friend. It's just there, silent and endless, stretching past the horizon. People think they understand it because they can chart a course, read a tide, plot a point on a map. They don't. The ocean keeps its own secrets. And sometimes, it lets you see one. We had planned a trip across the Atlantic.

I captained the MV Red Sabre for almost 15 years now, moving small cargo from one port to another, keeping to tight schedules and predictable routes. I initially started in the Navy, but that life was a long way behind me. My crew is small, just four of us. Fewer men means fewer costs, but it also means fewer people to rely on when things go wrong.

We were three days out from Spain. It was the middle of the night, somewhere past 0,200 hours, and I was still awake in my cabin, staring at the same navigational charts. The radio crackled once, then again. A voice was trying to push through the static. It came through the comms, a weak, staticy voice repeating the same sequence over and over again. Mayday, Mayday, this is the perdition, position, latitude 35, longitude... It cut out again.

I sat up. The perdition? That name wasn't familiar, but the way the signal came in, faint and interrupted, meant whatever equipment they were using, it was dated. I keep the intercom Rich, this is the captain You picking that off There was a pause Then Gallagher answered

Icap We thought it was interference at first But it's repeating Same distress code every 30 seconds Source We're running it through the registry now Another pause I could hear his fingers moving over the keyboard

the sound of rapid typing. Then a brief pause. Uh, captain? You might want to see this. By the time I got to the bridge, Gallagher was still staring at the screen, one hand resting against his chin. His brow was furrowed. You're going to want to see this, he muttered. I glanced at the monitor.

The distress code was still cycling. A single repeating sequence of numbers. numbers and static as if someone had been broadcasting it on a loop. Behind us, a chair creaked. I turned to see Holloway, the youngest of the crew lingering near the back of the bridge, arms crossed over his chest. He looked tense. I wasn't sure if he even realized he was doing it, but his foot tapped against the floor

in a steady rhythm, a nervous energy he hadn't learned to mask yet. Rodriguez lingered near the back, standing stiff, watching us all. What am I looking at? I asked. Gallagher turned the monitor slightly so I could get a better look. The registry was pulled up. The distress code logged and matched. The perdition was listed. But the date next to it stopped me for a moment.

1921. I frowned, glancing me. back at the others. You're telling me, we just picked up a hundred-year-old distress call. Gallagher didn't answer right away. He exhaled through his nose, tapping his knuckles against the desk. Signals coming through clean. No drift, no degradation. This isn't an old transmission bouncing back. This is live. That has to be wrong, I said. It's a malfunction, a glitch. Behind me, Rodriguez muttered something in Spanish. This is bad luck, he said.

We shouldn't meddle with these things. Rodriguez had been on the water longer than the rest of us combined. He wasn't overly superstitious, but he had his traditions and ways. I'd learned to respect and honor some of them. Gallagher cleared his throat. I guess it could probably be a mistake, Captain. Some tech anomaly, maybe a freak frequency bounce. The ocean can be weird like that.

I nodded slowly. He was right. I've seen things like this before. Stray signals, old transmissions getting caught in atmospheric loops, even ancient broadcasts being replayed by accident. But this was no tech anomaly, as Gallagher had said. The signal was coming through clean as a whistle. I looked back of the screen.

The coordinates placed the signal 200 miles ahead of us. Nothing there but open water. No islands, no reefs, no known wreck sites to mention. Could be pirates, Holloway said suddenly. His voice was casual, but I caught the way he swallowed hard afterward. Bating us in? That was a possibility. It wouldn't be the first time someone had rigged a fake emergency.

to lure in a rescue crew. But pirates don't use distress codes from a century ago. I exhaled slowly, then turned back to Rodriguez. You think this is bad luck? He nodded once. A ship disappears and a hundred years later it starts calling for help? That's not right, Captain. Tell me something about that doesn't sound wrong to you.

I turned back to the rest of the crew. Listen, we're professionals. That's a distress call, and we're obligated to check it out. We went over this and training people. There's nobody else around us for this. Radio into nearby ships from here, and we take it from there. Could be a hoax. Could be a malfunction.

Could be something else entirely. But we won't know unless we look. Gallagher hesitated. Captain, I... That's final. I turned back toward the helm. set a course for the coordinates. No one spoke.

The tension in the air shifted. Finally, Gallagher muttered something under his breath and nodded. Aye, sir. Rodriguez didn't argue. He just shook his head and walked away. The fog rolled in a few minutes after we started heading for the location, and it was getting steadily worse. The further we pushed toward the coordinates,

the denser it became. until the ocean and sky blurred into the same endless void. The radar picked up the ship before we could see it. The radar was reading a massive ship floating just ahead. The readings weren't erratic, weren't distorted. Whatever was out there was solid. So, we weren't heading for a shipwreck. Gallagher adjusted the radio frequency,

turning dials with the patience of a man who had done it a thousand times before. His jaw was tight, his fingers tapping anxiously against the console. Still nothing, he muttered. No response. He tried again. This is the envy Red Sabre responding to an emergency distress call. Petition, do you read, over. The radio remained silent, just static.

A low hums stretching out like a dead signal. I exhaled slowly, rubbing my temple. Keep trying. Holloway stood near the bridge window, staring out into the mist like he was trying to will something into focus. He shifted uneasily. If they needed help, shouldn't they be responding? Gallagher shook his head. Even if they're dead in the water, someone should be hearing us.

if the beacon is live, the comm should be live too. Maybe their radio's busted, I said through my teeth. Maybe they lost power. Rodriguez scoffed under his breath. Maybe. Then the fog thinned. And we saw it. The perdition emerged from the mist like a ghost.

It loomed before us, intact and untouched. A merchant vessel from another century. Dark wood slick with moisture. Its sails furled tight. Its masts rising into the grey sky like skeletal remains. There were no signs of damage, no wreckage, nothing to suggest why a ship like this had sent out an SOS in the first place. Holloway took a step closer to the window.

Jeez! Gallagher tapped a few keys on the radar. console shaking his head. God, that is one massive ship. Rodriguez remained silent. I straightened, inhaling sharply. We're boarding. We lowered the dinghy and approached slow. The ladder was still intact, rope and wood swaying gently against the perdition's hull. I grabbed hold testing its weight. The damp fibres creaked under my grip, but held firm. I looked back. Holloway and Gallagher sat stiff in the dinghy.

Rodriguez didn't move, didn't reach for the ladder. His hands were planted on his knees, fingers tight. You coming? I asked. A pause. His jaw clenched. Then, reluctantly, he took hold of the rungs. Holloway and Gallagher followed. The ship was still.

The lantern swayed gently from their hooks, but they were unlit. The ropes were neatly coiled, undisturbed. A layer of dampness clung to everything, but there was no decay. Perdition, I shouted, my voice cutting through the mist. Anyone aboard? No response. Gallagher called out next, louder. His voice echoed, bouncing off the sails before fading into nothing.

Silence. Rodriguez muttered something, glancing around. I turned back to the others. We'll cover more ground if we split up. Gallagher, take the upper decks, haul away with me. Rodriguez, check below deck. We regroup in ten minutes. If we don't find anybody, we leave and report back to land with what we find.

Gallagher excelled sharply. Splitting up. I'm sure that's a good idea, Cap. You know in movies, they say, We're wasting time, they said sternly. Rodriguez simply turned, disappearing into the shadows below deck without another word. Holloway and I moved carefully

through the dimly lit corridor, the damp wood beneath us groaning under our weight. The air here was heavier than it had been outside. thick with a scent of salt and aged timber. The lanterns lining the walls were unlit, their glass panes smeared with condensation. Every door we passed was shut tight, their brass handles tarnished. At the end of the passage, one door stood slightly ajar. I pushed it open, stepping inside.

The captain's quarters were small but oddly. A single cot against the wall, neatly made, the sheets still tucked in tight. A chest at the foot of the bed latched but not locked. The desk took up most of the space, its surface covered in loose papers, maps curled at the edges, ink bottles tipped over and dried. A leather-bound logbook sat in the centre, lying open to a page warped with moisture. beside it a lantern, unlit but still filled with oil. Holloway hesitated in the doorway, nostrils flaring slightly. You smell that? I did.

Not rot, not mildew, just damp and sour. The scent clung to everything, thick and stale. The way a house smells when it's been shut up for months, or a ship has been sailing for. for decades. I ran my fingers over the desk. The wood was swollen, the grain rough beneath my touch. The papers beneath the logbook was stuck together in places, the ink smudged, but the words

beneath my fingers were still legible. I flipped through the logbook carefully. Holloway steps inside now, staying close to the door, his gaze shifting between scattered papers and the rest of the room. What does it say? I squinted at the text, reading aloud. May 3rd, 1921, northeasterly wind, steady at ten knots, course-adjusted westward, men in good spirits. I skimmed further down.

The next few entries were standard, nothing out of the ordinary, weather conditions, course adjustments, a brief note about rationing. Then, something changed. May 10th, a voice below deck last night. Bosen claims he heard it too, but there was no one there. Crew uneasy. I frowned, flipping further. May 13th, the men are restless. I do not believe it was the wind.

Mr. Avery refuses to sleep below. The others are beginning to whisper. Holloway shifted on his feet. you think they had a stairway maybe i kept reading the last entry was written in a hasty scroll as if the writer had barely finished before slamming the book shut may 18th the sea is speaking the men are listening i am the only one left i stared at it for a long moment the ink smudged and bleeding into the page. The words rushed, uneven.

The last page wasn't finished. Holloway leaned over my shoulder, exhaling sharply. Man. I closed the logbook, running a thumb along the frayed edges of the pages. There's no mention of distress before this, no damage, no sickness, no storm. I gestured at the room. And this place looks like someone just left. Holloway glanced around, rubbing his arms.

I don't like this cap. This isn't how a ship looks after a hundred years. I knelt beside the chest at the foot of the bed, running a hand over the latch. It wasn't locked. I lifted the lid. Inside, neatly folded clothes sat stacked on one side, a pair of boots placed carefully beside them. A shaving kit, a pocket watch, small ordinary things, but clearly untouched for a very long time.

Holloway exhaled to his nose. No personal letters, no sign of where they went? No. I set the watch back, my fingers brushing the fabric of the clothes beneath it. The material was damp, but still intact, not eaten or not eaten or. away by time or salt. I stood, glancing at Holloway. Where the hell is the crew?

And who and how did they make a distress cut? Before he could add, a noise echoed from somewhere outside the room. A deep, dull thud. Holloway turned sharply toward the doorway. I tensed, straining to hear past the thick stillness. Then another sound. Shuffling, distant, slow, Gallagher's voice carried through the corridor. Rodriguez?

I felt something cold settling my gut. We stepped out the room. The ship was silent again, nothing but the distant lapping of water against the hole. Gallagher stood near the helm, looking around, frowning. Have you seen Rodriguez? He asked. I glanced toward the stairs. leading below deck.

He should have been back by now. The ten minutes were up. He was checking below, I said. Gallagher exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders. He hesitated and turned his gaze towards the stairwell. You think he found something? Gallagher led the way. His flashlight sweeping the stairwell as we descended into the lower decks,

our boots heavy. The same smell from the captain's quarters was present here, but stronger. It smelled so wrong. I gripped the railing, stepping down cautiously. Rodriguez, my voice came out tight. You down here, silence. Holloway moved close behind me, barely a step away, breathing hard through his nose. He kept glancing over his shoulder like he was expecting.

expecting something to be there when he turned back. Gallagher kept his jaw locked tight, pressing forward, his flashlight bouncing off old crates and rusted tools. Another few steps, another breath of damp air, thick with salt, then.

We heard it. A crash. Wood splintering. A low, wet gurgling. We turned forward. Fast, Gallagher's light flicking wildly, catching nothing but empty space. But the sound was still there.

A struggle. Moved first, pushing past the others, heart hammering against my ribs. Rodriguez! No answer. A thud. Something heavy hitting the floor. We stood frozen. Holloway clenched his jaw so tight I thought it might snap.

Then, finally, I stepped forward. The corridor stretched ahead, damp wood groaning beneath us. I forced myself to move faster, flashlight gripped tight. I pulled so loud in my ears, I almost didn't hear the drip. But it was there. Soft, rhythmic. Drip, drip, drip, drip. Gallagher saw it first.

His breath hitched, his steps faltered, his flashlight beam caught something on the floor ahead, something red. A trail, a body, Rodriguez, I stopped breathing. The flashlight shook slightly in my grip, illuminating torn fabric, shredded flesh, broken bones. His chest had been ripped open. Chunks of him were missing. When I was gone, the socket blacked in. His jaw was slack, the muscles of his neck mangled, as if something had chewed through them. Holloway made a noise, choked, disbelieving.

Gallagher swallowed thickly behind me. He didn't move. None of us did. Madriguez hadn't just been attacked. He had been eaten. I had seen a lot of things at sea. drowning, suicides accidents. This wasn't any of those.

I opened my mouth, then closed it again. Holloway took a step back from the corpse, shaking his head. His breathing was erratic, chest rising and falling too fast, like he was trying not to hyperventilate. No, no, we need to go, we need to go right now. What the hell did this to him? Gallagher hadn't moved, just kept staring at the mess that used to be Rodriguez. His face was unreadable, but I could see his fingers twitching at his sides,

like his body was deciding whether to run or shut down completely. I exhaled, forcing my mind to stay in control. We can't just leave him here. Holloway snapped his head up to look at me. His eyes were wild. Are you, are you serious? His voice cracked, like he couldn't believe what he was hearing. Look at him, there's no bringing him back.

He's dead, he's... He gestured with both hands, stumbling over his words. He's gone, captain, and if we don't get the hell off the ship, we'll be next. I clenched my jaw, kept him a voice even. I know that. Do you? He let out a sharp, human. unless laugh. Because I don't think you do. I think you're trying to make sense of this,

trying to be the goddamn captain when we should already be getting the hell out of it. We will not leave him here. Holloway went silent. I forced myself to keep going, even though my stomach felt like it was trying to turn itself inside out. We should, at least bring him back to his wife and family, hold a proper funeral. Gallagher excelled sharply, running a hand down his face. His shoulders were still stiff, his posture tense. I swallowed, glancing down at what was left of Rodriguez. I didn't even know what we'd tell anyone back on land.

And there was something about the way he'd been left there, torn open and abandoned, that didn't sit right with me. I forced myself to look back at them. We don't just leave him here like some animal carcass. We take him back. Holloway didn't say anything. Just looked at me, eyes dark and unreadable. Then, finally, Gallagher let out a slow breath and nodded.

We didn't argue about it anymore. The smell of blood was worse now. The motion of dragging him had stirred it, letting it seep into the wood, thick and warm. and unmistakable. Holloway had his hands hooked under Rodriguez's arms, his face a combination of something

between determination and revulsion. Gallagher and I took the legs, lifting as best we could. The ship groaned around us as we moved. Every step was slow, heavy. The weight of the dead

is always different than the weight of the living, more final. We didn't talk, just moved, just kept her eyes ahead. We were almost to the stairwell when Gallagher muttered. Wait. We stopped. His flashlight flickered, bouncing off something near the far end of the corridor.

I followed his gaze, shifting my own beam to match. Something was there. At first, I thought it was a man. Hey, are you the person that sent out? the distress signal, who the hell did this to our friend? Who are you? I shouted. It didn't respond. Instead, it just stood in the shadows, half lost in the darkness. Then, it stepped forward. Its body was swollen, bloated in places like it had been left underwater for too long. The skin was blue-gray, tinged with deep, sickly greens.

The texture was hoarse, its flesh not smooth but broken up, cracked like dried leather. Clusters of varnicles hung to its shoulders, its arms, the side of his neck. It stared at me, and I stared back. Its mouth hung slightly open. The inside of its mouth was ragged and torn. The gums were black, the teeth rotting, but something moved inside, shifting beneath the teeth. Small, thin tendrils stained with moisture, flicked in and out between them, almost like feelers. It took another step forward, and it spoke.

Not words, not anything that should have been speech, just a wet, gurgling croak. Something pulled from the depths of rotting lungs. Rodriguez's body hit the floor with a dull, wet thump as we let go. and ran. We didn't think, didn't speak, didn't breathe. The thing behind us lurched forward, its feet dragging across the damp wood, its movements both too slow and too fast. I could hear it, the wet, labored wheeze rattling in his chest, the sickly pop of something shifting under its skin. Gallagher shoved past me, his flashlight beam bouncing wildly, Holloway was right behind him, his breath coming ragged, desperate.

We made it to the stairs, our boots slamming against the steps, but the thing wasn't too far behind us. And then, Holloway slipped. He hit the landing hard, his flashlight skidding across the floor. He scrambled up onto his hands and knees, gasping, but the thing behind us was already there. A wet slap of flesh on wood. a cutural croak.

I turned, barely catching a glimpse of it lurching toward Holloway. Its mouth yawned open, unimaginably deep, a mess of shattered teeth and writhing, slick tendrils. It was so close. I didn't think. I grabbed the first thing I could. A boxer tools to my left at a crowbar. I grabbed it so tight my hand ached.

then swung The crack of impact was sharp, jarring The thing's head jerked violently to the side And something deep inside it made a wet sucking sound Like air escaping from a bloated carcass It staggered Gallagher was already moving hauling Holloway to his feet

I took another step forward and brought the crowbar down hard aiming for its head its chest, anything that would break. It didn't bleed. It leaked. Dark, brackish water spilled from the wound, sloshing onto the deck, carrying with it the reek of salt and decay.

But it didn't stop. It grabbed at me, his fingers webbed and thick with barnacles, its nails blackened and splitting. I wrenched away, my breath coming in short, gasps. Gallagher moved next, slamming his boot into my chest, sending it staggering back. Holloway grabbed a rusted pipe from the floor and brought it down on its skull. This time,

it collapsed. The final, shuddering breath rattled out from its lungs, but there was no struggle, no death throws, just the slow, unnatural way it deflated, like the sea itself was pulling its insides back down into the depths. The ship went silent. The three of us stood there, panting, shaking, dripping sweat. I forced myself to breathe. My heart was still hammering, my body still locked in vital flight, but we weren't being chased anymore.

Not yet. Gallagher wiped the sweat from his brow with a shaky hand. Geez, he muttered, what the hell was it? Holloway didn't answer. I swallowed hard and stepped forward. My leg shook as adrenaline surge through me. The creature's skin was the worst part. Pale, almost translucent in places, bloated with water,

the veins underneath bulging, too dark, too thick. It had been human once. that much was clear but it wasn't anymore the barnacles the jagged nails the empty sockets as I should have been whatever had happened to this thing it had changed

then I really looked at it it had clothes ragged torn but still there a heavy wool coat tattered and salt-eaten a loose undershirt ripped down the front, a pair of slacks that might have once been navy blue. I knew these clothes.

They weren't just old rags. They were a uniform, a sailor's uniform. Holloway must have noticed it at the same time I did, because he let out a short, shaky breath. I turned slightly, saw his hands clenching at his sides. His face was pale, his lips pressed into a thin line. "'Cap?' he said, voice low. "'How many?' I blinked.

"'I—' Holloway swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. He didn't take his eyes off the corpse. "'How many?' he repeated, quieter this time. "'How many crewmen would a ship like this have?' I stared at him. Then I looked around us. Big ship, massive really.

For a merchant vessel of this size, back in the 1920s, I glanced my jaw. At least 30, they said. Holloway exiled slowly through his nose. He didn't look away from the thing on the floor. Let's get out quickly, calling for help and come back for a drink. The sound rose from all over the lower day. from the corridors, from the darkness behind the crates, a chorus of damp, shuddering exhales, all breathing in unison. Holloway heard it too, his face drained of colour. Gallagher took a slow step

back, his light shaking in his grip. They heard us. They crawled out of the dark, dragging themselves across the damp wood, climbing from the flooded lower decks. Some staggered it upright, their legs bent at wrong angles, others moved on all fours, their limbs elongated, their bloated fingers curling into the boards. One of them lurched into the light. I could hear Holloway gagging. I took a step back. The creature's head snapped toward me, and then it stumbled and ran at the same time. Gallagher screamed. The whole ship erupted into motion. The creature swarmed forward, scrambling over each other, crawling, sprinting, dragging themselves toward us. Go! I shouted, shoving Holloway toward the stairs. We ran. Gallagher was ahead of me. Holway was right behind him.

I could hear the creatures closing in, the sick, wet thud of hands and knees against the wood, the wheezing, the gurgling. Gallagher was the first to reach the stairs. taking them two at a time. Although I stumbled, caught himself. I turned my head just once and saw them dozens. Their forms shifting in the dim light,

some missing entire pieces of themselves, but still coming. One of them leapt forward, its jaw unhinging. Gallagher reached the railing, but a hand shot out from the darkness and grabbed his ankle. He hit the stairs,

hard, his flashlight clattering against the floor. I lunged forward trying to grab his arm, but I was too slow. Something tore, Gallagher screamed. And then he was gone. Holloway kept running. I had no choice but to follow. I could still hear Gallagher screaming. Then it turned into gurgling. We burst onto the deck, gasping. for air, lungs burning, muscles screaming. The floor was wet, and Holloway and I both slipped and fell, and some of the things gained on us. Move, I shouted, but my voice barely carried over the thick, suffocating air. Then they hit us.

The first one grabbed my arm, fingers slick and bloated, curling around my wrist. I whipped around, swung everything I had, my fist, cracking. against the thing's skull. It barely reacted. This jaw hung open, those blackened gums and jagged teeth barely visible in the dim light. The thing inside its mouth flicked, reaching. I drove my knee into its gut, yanking my arm free, stumbling back. Holloway was next, a pair of them closing in on him, their movements slow like they planned to enjoy themselves. He grabbed a rusted pole from the deck and swung hard, knocking one of them back. The other lunged, grabbing his shoulder. I rushed forward, slamming into the thing, sending both of us sprawling to the deck.

Holloway stumbled back, panting, wiping sweat from his face with a shaking hand. And then I felt it. Fingers around my ankle. My stomach dropped. I kicked hard, but the grip was up. iron. It was dragging me back. I tried to reach for something, but my fingers only scraped against the deck, against the damp, rotting wood. And then Holloway was there. He grabbed my arms yanking me up. The thing's grip tightened into rotting nails trying to dig into my skin. I barely had time to register the pain before Holloway ripped a plank off the floor and smashed it in the thing's face. A wet, sickening crunch.

The grip loosened. That was all we needed. We ran. Holloway skidded to a stop near the railing. He turned to me, chest heaving. He didn't speak. He didn't need to. We both knew.

One option. Jump. I gave him a single nod. No hesitation, no second-guessing. Just do it. We turned together and jumped. The air rushed past my ears, the cold spray of salt water hitting my skin

as we plummeted toward a black abyss below. I hit the water hard, the cold like a knife to the chest. My breath vanished, stolen by the sudden pressure, the darkness, the silence. For half a seat, Second, I was weightless, spinning.

The current gripped me, dragged me downward. I kicked hard, fighting against it, lung screaming, heart hammering. My fingers reached for the surface, for air, for anything. Then, I broke through, gasping, choking. I wiped the salt from my eyes, twisting, searching. Holloway. I saw his head bob up a few feet away, sputtering, spitting seawater. We're...

His voice broke, hoarse, panicked. We're here, we're... Where's the dinghy? I turned, looking frantically through the fog-drenched water. We saw it, just a few feet from where we landed. We pulled ourselves in, slipping and shaking. I just grabbed the oars. and started rowing.

As my adrenaline faded, I could focus my eyes, hear things, see. To row, I had to face the ship, seeing it slip into the thick fog that surrounded us,

and on the silhouette flat line of the railing, I saw shapes that broke the perfect linearity of it, lumps, vague shapes wondering to the perimeter of the ship, watching us leave. bound to the cursed vessel. I was more than ready to just leave the ship behind, be done with it. But I heard something.

Not the sloshing of them swimming towards us, nor the chase of something in the water. A voice. Captain, come back, please. It was Rodriguez. Not a mimicry, wet and gurgled beneath the monster's form. His voice was clear, like it was perfectly well. like he hadn't been torn apart in the lower deck. Don't leave us behind.

Come back. This time it was Gallagher. I hesitated. My rowing slowed. Holloway tapped my arm, and when I looked at his face, he just shook his head. It wasn't him.

It wasn't them. I knew that. But part of me still wanted to go back. just to make sure. I thought back to the logbook, the final entry. The sea is speaking. The men are listening. In a straight-up brawl, one or two we could handle.

A ship of 30 hardened sailors would be able to handle that level of incursion. But all it would take is one. One familiar voice, one person you care enough about to check on, to make sure they're okay and you can see how quickly things can turn sour. We eventually reached our vessel. Holloway collapsed behind me, panting, coughing, shaking. Neither of us spoke.

By the time we reached the ship, the perdition was gone. The fog had swallowed at all like it had never been there at all. Thank you.