Creepy - Log of Captain Kyle Wright

Episode Date: April 16, 2018

Sometimes we need time to find ourselves, but what if that time away resulted in losing everything? Everything. ***Credited to user plaidsheep***Please consider supporting the podcast at Patreon.com/Creepypod or creepypod.com/support***Produced by Steve Blizin***Title music by Alex Aldea***Intro/Outro Narration by Joe Stofko Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

This episode of Creepy is presented by patrons Michael Jains, Dear Durrana, Lauren Kelly, Aaron Teresa Gleason, Robert Peters, Tom Wallison, Alexis Robles, and Jacqueline Howard. If you'd like to see how you can support the podcast, please check out the reward tiers at patreon.com slash creepypod. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling. and disturbing creepypastas and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or are simply fabrications is for you to decide.

These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. Creepy Presents The Log of Captain Kyle Wright. credited to user plaid sheep on creepypasta.org. June 15th, 2012, off the island of Banaba, Gravada, South Pacific. Day 34 of my solo trip in the South Pacific. The pony's doing nicely.

She's keeping me relatively on track as far as distance and time are concerned. At a rough time last night, water was a bitch. I still haven't gotten used to. to sleeping with the rocking so much. Overall, systems are good and go. Managed to patch my sail when I was in port, had a local boy mended up. Couldn't speak a drop of English,

but he understood the money quite well. Stocked up on supplies, managed to hit the jackpot on some fresh fruit. I was down to Vienna sausages and stale bread. But I think I've got enough to last me till next port. I haven't decided which way to go yet. north to Tarawa or heading east to Christmas. Either way, I'm in for a ride.

This solo stuff is a workout. But I'm toning up, and honestly, it's not the physical part. That's the hardest. The loneliness is really kicking in now. I miss watching TV. I miss eating cheeseburgers. I miss my wife. June 18th, 2012.

Location unknown. It's around one in the morning, and I can't sleep worth a damn. The water is as calm as a pond, but I've been getting shoddy sleep the past couple days. I lost my sat phone over the side two days ago, and a big storm took me by surprise. That was my last tie with home. And poof, gone in the deep. I haven't talked to Julie since then. But you can still watch my progress on the GPS, so...

At least she's not worried. I wish I could say the same about her. Watch her as she goes to the gym or takes Tyler to the park. Just a little bit of a reminder of home. This is a fine mistress, but she's only that. A mistress. I'm not married to her. She gives me my pleasure.

But I want to go home and see my wife and child. But my God Looking at her now In the wash of the moon She's all lit up like she's going to a ball I don't think I've seen anything so pretty The stars are her pearls The moon her stunning white dress

I can see how many a man have fallen for Know her disposition Or sudden change from beauty to beast Oh the mood swings wings of the sea. She makes a woman seem like a toy. Her complexity best, even the most eccentric lady. I wish I could see into her depths.

See how she feels, how she ticks. What she does that makes her so pretty and deadly at the same time. I want to see that source of pleasure and pain and I want to hold it in my hand. I've filled my log with craziness. I need sleep and I need to see my wife. June 20th, 2012, off Christmas Island, Kirby. Fixed the mainsail. I couldn't find a single person to fix the bent shaft on the motor.

I'm glad I was pulling into port when I hit that snag. I would have been floating around for days before someone picked me up. Finally got the pleasure of talking to another English speaker. Met a man named Riley at a local motel. I stepped in to have a drink and he practically tackled me when he saw it was a White. Talk my ear off for an hour. He's headed to some little island westy here. He said he was escaping the apocalypse.

I think he might have been off his rocker. Did see a news story on the TV about home. Seems we've been a series of nasty forest fires in California. Hope they don't spread north. Main tail good. GPS ticking. Baring east and finally headed home. All systems good and go.

all intact, water calm, June 22nd, 2012, location unknown. Something's happening out there. My GPS unit stopped working a couple hours after I left Christmas, so I turned back. But it didn't seem damaged. It just refused to link up with the satellite. Kept bringing up a searching message for a solid hour. I got pissed and turned around. headed back to Christmas in hopes of picking up a new one.

But as soon as I came with inside of the island, I was met by an armed patrol boat. This was a U.S. military boat. But it wasn't Americans on there. They were locals, dressed as locals, but touting machine guns. These weren't the ones you see on the news. The cheap little ones that the terrorists had, the K-A-67s or whatever that. hell they are. These were U.S. guns. Something happened, and the bastards were wearing gas masks. Big, ugly, bug-eyed things that made him look like damn aliens. They pointed the guns at me.

Laser sights trained on my head. Laser sights. Not a damn one of them said a word. I threw my hands up, palms out, clearly not armed. I was in a soul. I was in a soul. a little sailboat for God's sakes. I wasn't an armed pirate with a peg leg and a fucking eye patch. Yet they kept the guns pointed at my damned head. After what felt like an hour loud speaker crackled to life. Don't come closer. Turn around, go back, and a heavy accent.

That's all it said. The guns didn't move an inch. The damn lasers were still in my head. But I wasn't about to get shot. Not over a damn GPS. So I turned tail and ran. And I didn't look back. I didn't even start thinking about the whole thing until hours later.

It had scared me shitless. Why the hell were they on an American ship? Why the hell were they armed? Why the hell were they wearing gas masks? Then stuff got really strange. The next morning I was headed east, making great time. I sailed right through the night, trying to put as much distance between me and those bastards at Christmas. The sunrise was astounding, and I kept thinking,

This is too beautiful. Way too beautiful. Something's wrong. This feeling of dread sank over me and hung there like a cloak. I tried to keep my mind off the incident of Christmas. As I calmed down more and more, I realized that the details of that encounter didn't add up. Something was going on, and it was bad. I could feel that much.

Then I saw the ship, and my mind could focus on nothing else. It was just a pillar of smoke. That was all I could see at first. Just a speck on the vast blue horizon. I wish I had just brushed it off as a mirage or a small, island fire, anything. But instead I felt drawn to it. I needed it to latch onto. It would give me something new to focus on instead of the many questions swirling around my head like rotten soup. So I changed cores and the speck grew bigger and bigger off my bow. The smoke grew more distinct

against the sky and with it an ominous feeling. Dread. Yeah, it was dread. When you're on the sea, Ironically, it's fire that worries you the most. Water, water everywhere, but not a drop to drink. In this case, it was not a drop to extinguish the flames. The flames are always hungry, ready to consume everything. They only get thirsty once you're a charred set of bones on the deck of the dying carcass that was your boat. This dread helped me forget the incident from earlier. I had to prepare for the death that was ahead, for a fire at sea almost always has deaths surrounding it.

When I came within looking distance I saw it was a fishing trawler. The nets were engulfed, the flames climbing higher and higher. The center mass was completely engulfed. The deck was a furnace. I stared through my binoculars and was horrified to see bodies writhing on the deck. black shadows against the raging inferno. At that moment my radio crackled alive. The boat was angled with its bow facing me and I could see the boathouse.

The only thing that had escaped the fire so far, the radio mass was barely visible through the thick black smoke. A static-filled radio transmission broke through my speakers. Some native island or tongue lashed out screaming at me. I had no idea what the word was. were, but I could hear the desperation in the voice. The fear. Words are not universal, but the impression they leave are.

Whoever was speaking was scared shitless. I scanned the boathouse and saw a single man inside. He was waving his arms frantically at me as he shouted into the radio. I reached for my mic to reply when the second strange thing happened. Two men ran up the stairs from the deck, both alight. The flames shone brightly on their backs and arms. They looked like two stunt men out of a Hollywood movie. They charged at the door to the boathouse and started to bang furiously.

The voice on my radio started with a new torn of screaming, shouting in a string of incomprehensible phrases that sent a chill through my body. He was praying, it seemed. praying to me, asking me to save them. But I just stared, mouth agape, watching the two flaming men break down the door and burst into the boathouse. The radio stopped. Static felt the silence on my boat. I watched in horror as the two flaming men jumped atop the single man and then all three were out of you, drop into the floor. Only the tips of the licking flames could be seen through the windows.

I dropped the binoculars and shook my head fiercely. It seemed like a dream now. The whole thing. I think I cursed loudly. Maybe it was silent. Maybe only in my head. But the next thing I remember is spinning the wheel and holding on tightly as my boat whipped around. I hauled ass away from that burning boat.

I only allowed myself to look back once. And at that point, it was only a pillar of smoke again. An hour later, I was lost on the vast sea. Something's happening out here. Something bad. First the guns and then the damn boat. They were on fire. I can't get past the fact that those bastards were on fire.

I just want to get home. I just want to walk into my house and shout for them. my wife and hear her walk from the kitchen and then feel her in my arms. I want to see her. I want my damn wife. Most of all, I want to get off this damn ocean. July 12, 2012, location unknown. I haven't had much to report since I saw the boat.

Just open water. I have been thinking a lot. The guns and boats have mainly faded out of my mind over the past weeks. They seem almost like a memory. They're shrouded in fog when I try to recall them. There may be a medical term for that. Shock? Maybe.

Or it might just be that my mind is smarter than I give it credit for and has pushed those memories away so that I can focus on the task at hand. That task being getting the hell off this ocean. Why I ever decided to take this trip in the first place, The place escapes me at this point. To clear my mind and find myself is what I told my wife and friends. Instead, my mind is more clouded than it's ever been. Clouded with thoughts of home.

With thoughts of my wife sleeping alone night after night in her bed. Thoughts of growing wings and flying to her. Why did I punish her? Why did I punish myself? I still can't pinpoint my exact location. The GPS continues to flash the searching screen every time I turn it on. I was never good with this extant, although I have one on the boat. Never thought I would have to use the damn thing.

That's what we have technology for. So it sits there and taunts me day and night, whispering to me that it knows where I am. All I have to do is ask the right questions. But I can't. I have tried. I've traced a rough course on the map thanks to my compass reading, so I have a very, very rough estimate of where I'm headed.

I'm positive I've missed Hawaii already, but I think I can make it to the coast of the U.S. before the end of the month. The seas have been extraordinarily calm, almost too calm. And the sunrises have been strange as well. Some days they're blood red, reflecting on the still seas. and painting the sky and water. At those times, it looks as if my boat is cutting through a sea of blood. It was quite unsettling at first,

but I've come to appreciate its beauty as of late. I have neglected this journal for a while. But as I record this, a weight seems to be lifting off me. It's nice to do something other than stare out at the water or constantly be reading the wind. Food supplies are okay for now, and the food all spoiled. but the cans will last for another month if I start rationing them.

Hull is intact. Main ceiling riggings are holding. Still headed home. July 29th, 2012. Off the coast of Oregon. Land. God damn land. My God, I never thought I'd ever be so happy to see the pine trees of Oregon.

Home at last. Home at last. Thank you, Lord. I'm home at last. First spotted it yesterday, just barely on the horizon. I was too far out to reach the coast before dark, so I anchored where I was and waited for dawn. There's no lighthouses that I could see, and I knew that if I tried to get closer with no GPS for means of seeing the coast in the dark, it could very possibly crash.

I'm so glad I'm still able to think clearly at this point. I've been living on beans and stale water for the past three days. The food went faster than I thought, and the water. I've been drinking as purified salt water. Hasn't rained since before the incident, which is damn strange for this part of the Pacific. But to hell with it, I see the coast. This morning when it got light, I set course to bring me in closer. See if I could get my bearings.

I immediately spotted several landmarks that I recognized. I'm less than half a day's sail from home. I'm saying to hell with heading down to Brookings. down to Brookings. I'll eat my last can of beans tonight and pull into burnt hill tomorrow morning. I'll forego getting supplies if that means seeing my wife sooner. I'll walk into the house and yell her name and I'll hear her walk from the kitchen and I'll pick her up in my arms and never let her go and hold her and smell her and feel her. My hand is shaking right now with excitement. I'll finally see my wife again. I'll see her again.

July 30th, 2012. Burnt Hill, Oregon. Something happened here. Something bad. I'm tied up in the marina in Burnt Hill. The same slip that I sailed out of three months ago. But it's not how I remember it. The slip is, for the most part, exactly the same.

It's still wooden planking and the moors are still there. But the marina is a stark contrast to what it was. when I left. I can't help but think back to the men with the guns in the flaming boat. That feeling of dread that I had mostly forgotten his back. Something did happen when I was on that ocean. Something terrible. My last entry was filled with such excitement. Such hope. Looking back on it makes me feel like I'm in a dream. The emotions I felt yesterday are gone. Replaced with a feeling in my stomach. Nervousness? Yes. Fear? Yes. Sickness? Maybe. It feels as if I have a rock the size of a fist pushing down in my bowels. My mind is foggy. I can't get the images

out of my head. The bodies. When I approached the opening of the small harbor, I was immediately met with the smell of acrid smoke and something else, although I couldn't put my finger on it at the time. Fear gripped me then and has yet to let go. My first thoughts were a town on fire. My wife's face flashed into my mind. My house that was burning? Was it the whole town?

Was she okay? As I got closer to the entrance of the harbor, I saw a fishing trawler run aground to the right. Smoke rising from a smoldering deck. The hellish image of the flaming boat did see flash before my eyes and the rock formed in my stomach. Dreg came over me. My thoughts raced. The main harbor and the town were still blocked by the pine trees that stood at the water's edge. But as I came around, I first caught a glimpse of the marina. Not a soul was present. The usually bustling and busy docks were empty. Three boats remained of the usual 15. Two of those smoldering as well. My mind continued to race. Question after question, all unanswered. The smell of the smoke was always

present. But the second, unidentified smell began to overpower the stench of burning boats. I heard something smack against the bow of my boat and my eyes shot to the water. expecting to see litter from the destroyed boats. At my gaze was something far worse. The lifeless eyes of a floating corpse. My heart skipped to be lies what the second smell was. Death. Decomposing people.

I looked to the other side of my boat and saw more of them. Some floating face down. Some only parts of people. Bodies everywhere. They were everywhere. Where, puked right there on the wheel, bile covering the gauges as I felt my knees grow weak. That's when my mind grew foggy. I don't completely recall pulling into my slip.

I vaguely remember tying the boat to the dock. Instinct is my only explanation. When my mind cleared somewhat, I was sitting here in the cabin, sweat growing on my brow, the rock in my stomach weighing me down. The questions came back in a flood. Was everyone dead? Who did this? What did this?

It grew frantic and rushed upside, only to stop immediately as my sense returned somewhat. I realized that other than my heavy breathing and the sound of the water lapping against the dock, there was not a single other sound to be heard. Something. I can't explain what, but something made me think of the gun. The small revolver I've always kept down. the cab and in the box of shells to go with it. Something inside me.

Common sense. Instinct. Something. Made me turn back and go back to get it. After I loaded it, I saw this journal, and once again, something made me stop and write this down. A feeling of impending doom, I guess. A feeling that I may never make it back to this boat if I leave.

Feeling that I needed to write something else down. Not only to try and clarify it in my own mind, but to say goodbye, maybe. Now was it. I'm going to find my wife. July 31st, 2012, off the coast of Oregon. I don't know exactly why I wrote the Dayton location. I don't really know why I do anything anymore. It's all quite foggy.

I found some answers. They weren't all dead. The people, at least in some sense, they weren't dead. They looked dead, smelled dead. But they were moving, walking, running after me. Some of them were missing limbs. Some didn't have all their skin. They didn't talk, at least not to me.

They just chased me. I think she's really dead now. Not dead like them, but not moving, Dad. I shot her. I shot her five times. She didn't stop until I shot her in the head. I finally stopped crying. Sometime last night, I think.

It's quite foggy. They chased me. They wanted to kill me. They wanted to eat me, I think. My wife tried to bite my face when I came home. home. I walked in the door and yelled her name and I heard her walk from the kitchen. Then I saw her. And her face was missing parts. And she screamed and ran to me. And she tried to bite my face. Then I shot her. But it wasn't her. She was dead. Her face. Her beautiful face was missing parts.

I shot her. Five times She didn't stop until I shot her head Then I ran And there were more of them Dead people that weren't really dead Because they were chasing me Screaming

Some of them were missing limbs Some didn't have all their skin I made it to the boat I made it out of the harbor I'm back in open water Back on this ocean It's all quite foggy I lost a box of bowl

bullets. But I still have one left in the gun. I spent the last hour opening the cylinder and spinning it and snapping it shut. The bullet never stopped at the top. I couldn't bring myself to just put it there. So I kept spinning it and snapping it shut. And it finally landed at the top. It's sitting next to this journal as I write. If you find this and are reading this, Don't go to burnt hill Everyone's dead Even if they do move and walk and run and scream I shot my wife

Five times She didn't stop until I shot her in the head Sun's coming up It's red again I call those mornings before I'm going to the deck to watch it To look out over the ocean as it turns From blue to red

As it turns from water to blood If I had my own, I don't think it'll matter much. For more information, including pictures and videos of the stories told on this podcast, or to suggest stories for future episodes, please visit us. At Creepypod on Twitter, Instagram. All stories told on this podcast can be found at creepypasta wiki.com. and are protected by a Creative Commons license. Some rights reserved unless otherwise stated.