Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - We Found a Ship Drifting in the Ice—There Was a Journal, But No Crew

Episode Date: August 22, 2025

A haunted journal pulled from a lost 19th-century ship turns a reporter’s Arctic expedition into a nightmare of madness, blood, and unstoppable hunger that follows him all the way to a modern-day press conference. Author: Jake Bible Check out the author's latest release: Blood Cruise! ⁠https://jakebible.com/novels/blood-cruise/ * * * CONTENT DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content not limited to intense themes, strong language, and depictions of violence intended for adults. Parental guidance is strongly advised for children under the age of 17. Listener discretion is advised.  #drnosleep #scarystories #horrorstories #doctornosleep #horrorpodcast #horror Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

The bright lights from the dozens of cameras nearly blind me with their strange intensity as I'm led from the helicopter and into the hangar. The cameras, with their lights and their operators, follow right on my heels until I pass the rows of chairs, halfway already full of reporters. I'm directed to the long table that's been set up for the press conference. Despite the fact that I'm wearing thermal underwear, a long-sleeved tea, two sweaters, a hoodie, and a thick parka, I still shiver as I take my hair. seat behind a bank of microphones that almost block my view of the waiting journalists.

I'm one of them. I was. Maybe I still am. It's hard to say what I am anymore. If someone were to ask me right now, and some of those faces out there just might, I wouldn't be able to say what I am, who I am. I know my name, but a name is nothing compared to what lurks in the soul. That's the real me, that lurking soul, what waits underneath. A glance to my right tells me that my entourage won't be joining me behind the microphones. They may be lawyers and suits, but none of them want to be on record or quoted regarding anything about me and the tragedy. A healthy distance is what one of them said as I was grilled relentlessly on this ship

before finally being allowed to come over to the mainland via that helicopter. None of the lawyers, and only half the suits, wanted this press conference. But the other half of the suits insisted, as did the CEO of Corbell Communications, the media company that owns the magazine I work for, so a press conference was set up. The cat was already out of the bag, so to speak, so they must have figured that no further damage could be done. Little do they know. One of the lawyers, a tall woman named Bishop or Bishay or something like that, walks up to me and leans over my shoulder, putting her mouth close to the microphone

array. If everyone could take their seats, please, we can begin, she says. I'm Laura Bishir, lead counsel for Corbell Communications. I would like to remind all of you that Mr. Floyd here has just been rescued from a traumatic ordeal. So I ask that you maybe save your heartball questions for the follow-up press conference next week. For now, let's stick to the basics and try to show a little compassion, okay? None of the reporters seated in front of me nod. or agree to miss Bashir's request. And I don't blame them. I wouldn't agree either if I was in their shoes. Shit went down and they all know it. There isn't a single, friendly face in the house, despite the fact I know some of them personally, and have even worked with a few over the years.

I'm a story, and that is it. What they don't understand is the story isn't mine, not really. But despite it not being mine, I shall tell it. It is something. they all must hear. Miss Bichet pats me on the shoulder, then returns to the gaggle of attorneys and suits waiting in the wings. Hello, I say a nod at the reporters. My name is Tanner Floyd, and I'll tell you what I can. A lot of it is still bits and pieces, the details are rough, but I can give you the broadstrokes. First, I was assigned to the icebreaker, the North Point, to conduct interviews with the crew in order to get a sense of the changing climate through their eyes. I was and still am, or I think I am, employed by Corbell Communications,

specifically the publication Outpost, which specializes in wilderness, climate, environment, and adventure reporting. Hands shoot up and questions are shouted. I wave them away and wait until it all quiets down. When it's time for questions, I'll let you know. I say, and get a couple chuckles from the crowd. Second, yes, we did find the lost ship. aethon trapped in ice about 80 kilometers north of the Arctic Circle.

I'm sure you all know that the last official report citing of the athon was in the late 1800s. There have been unconfirmed sightings over the century, plus since, but until the north point came upon it last month. The athon was presumed to be at the bottom of the Arctic Ocean. More hands up, more shouting. Hey! I yell.

The lawyers and suits all jump. I don't blame them. Interrupt me again? And no one gets to ask questions. Are we clear? A month ago, I would have never shouted like that, especially not at my colleagues and peers. But that was a month ago. The place quiets down once more. I continue. The North Point had 36 crew members when I came aboard.

I was the 37th occupant on the ship. I ended up being the last person alive, as far as I know. Hands shooed up, but no one starts shouting. I sigh. Nelson, I say, pointing at a bearded man I've known for years. What you got for me? Is it true that Leonardo DiCaprio will be playing you in the movie adaptation of the events that occurred? I laugh, and so to most of the reporters.

Nelson Richmond is a hard ass of a journalist, so it's obvious to us veterans that he's lobbying me a softball on purpose. I don't know, I say, and look over at the lawyers and suits. Miss Bashir shrugs. Maybe? There's more laughter than Nelson asks. So what did happen, Tanner? What can you tell us?

I force a smile, but as the thoughts that I have struggled to keep under control come racing to the forefront of my mind, I know this could be one of the last smiles that graces my face. So really what you're saying, Captain, is that climate change is good for your business. Is that it? I ask. The man seated across from me scowls. It's a little more nuanced than that. But as the average temperature climbs, your ship is called on more and more to help navigate through the broken ice flows in the Arctic, creating clearer passages for other ships.

I mean, your business is growing. There's no denying. Yes, but you have to understand that. Cap, you need to come see this. The voice calls out from Captain Driscoll's radio. The man grabs the radio off the table and replies. Where are you at, Lague? Top deck port side. There's a ship in the ice, cap, and it looks old.

On my way, Driscoll grins at me, but the grin doesn't meet his eyes. Let's put a pin in this interview for now. We can talk later or tomorrow. Again, my article is due as soon as we dock, Captain, so I'm going to hold you to that. Tomorrow at the latest, I promise. It's a promise he doesn't keep. We both stand up, and Driscoll raises an eyebrow. Oh, are you coming with?

No reason not to, right? I'm here to observe, interview, and report. Sounds like there's something worth observing. So yeah, I'm coming with. Listen, Tanner, you should see this gig as a vacation. There's nothing out here worth reporting. A whole lot of ice and some ships that need to get through that ice. That's about it.

Just relax. Let us do all the work. It writes your story like you intend to anyway. Whoa. What the hell does that mean? Do you think I've already got some preconceived notion about you and your crew? About me and my crew? No, not at all.

Why would you? You never met us until you stepped aboard. He takes off his Seattle Mariners baseball cap and rubs his forehead a few times before putting the cap back on. Listen, Tanner, I like you. He holds up a hand before I can object. No, I do.

It's just that the angle you are taking on this story of yours makes me and mine sound like we're responsible for all this. climate change shit. That's not my intent at all, Captain. Intent or not? That's how it looks to me. The crew have been commenting on it. No one is exactly thrilled. That explains a lot. I assumed it was just the outsider thing. But maybe it's just that my approach, like the captain said, is off. I'm coming on too strong with the climate questions. Okay, I say. What do you suggest I do?

Chill out. Get to know everyone. Forget about your story and just live with us. Pitch in, do some work. If you really want to know what it's like. There are a million tasks that need doing every day on the North Point. Lend a hand. Show you know what hard work is. And the crew will start to relax around you. Try to fit in is what you're saying. No, because you'll never fit in, Tanner. Look at you. When was the last time you did serious manual labor for a living? I shrug. It's been a while. I bet.

And when was the last time you had a job where your life is literally on the line? That's easy. Ukraine. I was embedded with two Delta Force operators who were training Ukrainian strike squads. Oh, all right then. That counts. Respect on that one. Thanks.

But you get where I'm coming from, right? Get to know the crew. Let the crew get to know me, then ask questions. You do it right, and you won't have to ask questions. This crew is a bunch of jabberjaws. Not around me. Not yet, but when you relax, you'll wish they'd shut up. Trust me. He laughs and claps me on the shoulder.

Cap. Driscoll's radio squawks. On my way, he replies. Then cocks his head towards the hatch. Let's see what Lague found. By the time we get up to the port side of the top deck, half the crew has gathered at the ship's railing. They see the captain coming and make way. I quickly follow in his wake before the courtesy expires and I'm blocked out.

Well, shit, Driscoll says and takes his ball cap off to scratch the top of his head. That is old, Driscoll looks at me. How much do you know about maritime history, Tanner? Great. The test. In front of the crew. Awesome. All eyes fall on me. Are you asking me to name the ship? I ask Driscoll. No, no. Just tell me what you see. I get closer to the edge and place my hands on the rail. I instantly pull them back as some of the crew chuckle. That metal is freezing cold, literally,

and I could have lost a layer of skin from my palms if I hadn't reacted so fast. My guess it's a late 19th century British frigate, possibly Navy, but more than likely, privateer. The crew are watching me closely, and I try to keep my breathing even, so I don't show how panicked I am over this impromptu quiz. Driscoll raises an eyebrow. Why do you say more likely a privateer? What are you seeing? The main mast isn't British Navy regulation, and if I'm not mistaken, the maidenhead is a, well, dragon. and not a maiden at all, which makes me think the ship is actually Welsh. Driscoll looks about, and I can see a couple of heads nod.

He smiles at me. Not bad, Tanner, not bad at all. Except for the maidenhead part, the British Navy allowed different forms other than topless women. Dragons weren't out of the norm. So you think it's Navy? Oh, hell no, the masked part is dead on. This ship is looking for instant maneuverability. British naval frigates are built for strength in battle.

What else gives it away? I only see three cannon ports. There you go. Three visible cannon ports. With how the ship is tilted, there could be two more ports below the water line. But I suspect there is only one. Not enough for naval use. Driscoll goes quiet and stares at the ship.

After a few minutes of his silence, I get a little antsy. But the crew are calm as can be, and simply wait for the captain's next move. He slaps the rail and grins at the crew. Who wants to risk life and limb for absolutely no practical reason other than to see what there is to see on that ship? Every hand shoots up, including mine. Driscoll laughs.

I'll pick five. We'll go after lunch. In the interim, I want eyes on this ship at all times. Watch the ice flows around it. Look for lift or drop. Is it moving at all? I want to know as many variables as possible before a single boot steps onto that deck. Understood?

Aye, aye, Captain. The crew respond. Good. Now, let's get some chow so we have full and warm bellies before we get lost in the very cold past. Picture this. It's late at night. You're scrolling and suddenly you find exactly what you've been looking for. You add it to your cart, maybe browse a little more, than head to checkout,

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Chief mate Lague says to me as we step from the gangplank to the old ship's deck. Wood still rots, even in the Arctic. Just a shit ton slower, Boes and Jimmy Leach says. We found a rowboat completely preserved once. With the rowers still sitting upright, his hands frozen solid to the oars. A. B. Seaman Niles Bilsen adds. Poor guy got lost and completely disoriented. Seaman Claude Melanoo says, he'd been missing for two and a half years. Cut the chatter, Captain Driscoll says as he approaches the main hatch to the lower decks. Eyes open, ears open, mouths shut. Keep watch on each other.

No one strays from the group. If I say we leave, then we leave immediately without debate or discussion. I have no plans for this old girl to be my tomb. I, aye, I say. I'm not fast enough, so I just nod. Leach, you stay up here. I want a man on this end of the gangplank. Just in case.

Got it, Cap. Leach says, and sits his ass down on the end of the gangplank I just stepped off of. Driscoll nods to the man, looks at all of us, takes out a high-powered flashlight, and turns it on. Then, without another word, he steps through the main hatch. We do the same with our flashlights and follow right behind him, finding ourselves descending a rickety set of steps to the next deck. With the sub-zeroed temperatures, there shouldn't be much of an odor, but there is. It's faint, and I can't tell if the others notice.

But when I glance over my shoulder, I see Claude frowning. Death, I say, and he nods. When you embed with soldiers during an active war, you learn what death smells like, in all its forms, whether you want to or not. Captain, I smell it, Triscoll responds without looking back at me. Let's start checking doors. Open slowly and be careful in case loose timbers might be braced against it from the I don't want any skulls crushed today, you hear?

Aye, aye! Driscoll approaches the first door, while Lague goes to the one opposite it. They open the doors simultaneously, each look inside, flash their lights about, then ease out and close the doors. They meet eyes, shake their heads, and move on with the rest of us close behind. All the way down the corridor they do that, never finding anything. Like, absolutely nothing. Where's the furniture? Where's the furniture?

Legue asks. The cabins are empty. Firewood? Bilsen suggests. Possibly. Driscoll responds. Let's keep going. He takes a step and stops.

What is it, Cap? Legu asks. These boards, he says, and taps them with the toe of his left boot. Hear that? When no one responds, he laughs. I suppose none of you have worked on an all wooden ship, have you? Everyone shakes their heads. Well, the thing about wooden ships is that they are soft.

They bend and mold to their environment. In a wooden ship, nothing is perfectly solid or stable. Because no matter how much you seal it, wood is porous. It will soak up moisture eventually. He gives the floorboards a hard stomp. The sound is thick, solid, and unforgiving. If this ship has been here for over 150 years, then this wood should be spongy. Even in this cold, I ask.

Wouldn't the moisture freeze? That's probably why they are so hard. Maybe, sure, Driscoll responds. But this feels... His words drift off, and instead of continuing his thought, Driscoll continues walking down the corridor, his toe tapping here and there at the wooden boards. When we reach the hatch at the end of the corridor

and descend to the next deck, the death smell gets way worse. This doesn't make any sense, Griskel says. Melanoo, what's the temperature? Negative 24 Celsius. Um, I say, and scrunch up my face at Melanoo. That's what in Fahrenheit? Negative 8? Negative 9? More like negative 11, Bilsen says.

But close enough. Oh, okay. I know from my time in Ukraine and other frigid climates, that smells tend to be muted in the cold. Simple science, really. The molecules are so slow that they can't rise to your nose. It's why everything smells crisp and clean after a fresh snow. This place doesn't smell crisp or clean or fresh. We'll check every cabin carefully before we go into the hold, Driscoll says. But be prepared. From the smell of things, one of these cabins may still be occupied.

We all nod, then split up, and take a side of the new corridor we're in. Melanue and I take the right side, while Legue and Bilsen take the other. The captain doesn't stop to help search the cabins. His eyes are on the hatch at the far end. We're a deck lower, so the corridor is about one and a half times as long as the deck above, which means we have four extra doors to check. Lague opens the first door on the left, while Bilsen leaprogs them and checks the second door on the left. Melanoo and I do the same with him taking the first on the right.

while I move past and check the second on the right. Empty. Legue calls out from inside his room. Same. Bilsen says. Empty here too. I say when I step back into the corridor. Melanoo's door is wide open, but he hasn't called out or returned.

Claude? Legu says. What do you see in there? Still no response. We give each other worried looks, then converge on the cabin door. Melanoo stands in the center of the empty room. is back to us. We wait and exchange confused glances. Claude? Lague asks again and steps into the room. He reaches out and grabs Melanoo's shoulder.

You good, man? Melanu jumps and spins around, his eyes wide with pure terror. I think he's going to strike Ligue, but the man blinks a few times, then tries to force a smile. You okay? Ligue asks. Yeah, just thought I heard something, is all? Melanoo's smile never materializes. All he can manage is a pained grimace. What do you think you heard? I ask. The man's eyes track slowly toward me.

You said you heard something. What was it? What did you hear? He blinks. I don't know. Then he shakes his head, and the grimace disappears, and his lips curl into a real grin. Probably nothing. Old ships, you know? I don't know, but I nod. like I do. We have more cabins to check, Legue says.

Come on. Except, when we all step back into the corridor, we see the hatch at the end open, and Driscoll is gone. Cap? Leguet calls as he walks toward the hatch. Captain? Briscoll. Bilsen shouts. Lague cocks his head.

I hear him. Come on. We skip the last few rooms and hurried to the hatch. The steps it opens onto are mostly cracked and broken. How'd you get down there? Bilsen asks, leaning through the hatch and frowning at the useless steps. Use the edges! Melanoo says and places a foot on the side of a step. It's more stable here. Just be careful. There isn't much room for your boots.

He isn't kidding. After Melanoo and Bilsen, it's my turn and I swear that with each step, I'm going to tumble through the broken parts and fall down into the deep, dark hold. Move quickly with confidence, Lague says. That's how you learn to live out at sea. move quickly and with confidence. Thanks. I do as he suggests, and I'm at the bottom of the steps in no time. Bilsen and Melanoo are waiting in the center of the hold. Just like with everything above, the hold is empty, not a single crate or barrel.

Not even any rope or tools or anything you'd expect to see in an ancient ship's hold. There's also no Captain Driscoll, Ague yells. We all turn in slow, separate circles. are flashlights, trying to cut through the gloom and shadows that fill the hold. Driscoll is nowhere. Lague moves toward one shadowed end, and it's easy to see the space is empty. Bilsen moves in a different direction with the same results. Driscoll.

Melanoo shouts. Captain! What's that? I ask, spying a floorboard that isn't flush with the rest. Warped wood, Bilsen says. No, no, look at it. I say in hurry to the board. Hold on.

It's a trap door. I bend down and grab a small ring of iron set into the board and pull as I stand. A trap door about four feet wide lifts easily on surprisingly quiet hinges. Light spills up from below. Captain Driscoll, are you down there? Move. Legu says and pushes past me. He shines his flashlight through the opening.

There's a ladder. Without saying another word, he hooks a leg over and climbs down through the trap door. Bilsen is right behind him. After you, Melanu says, grabbing onto the hatch. I'll stay up here and keep an eye on things. He must see the look on my face because he quickly adds. You're the reporter. The story is down there, not right here. He has a point.

So after another second's hesitation, I follow Bilsen and Lague through the trap door. When I reach the bottom, my boots land in about two inches of freezing cold seawater. I shine my flashlight around and see Billson. Wilson and Legu standing behind Captain Driscoll as the man crouches down, holding something in his hands that's blocked from view. What you find? I ask as I walk over to them. The smell of death increases with every step. Wilson says in a hushed whisper, looks like a journal. Might be a captain's log, Legu says quietly. Then raises his voice to say, Is that it, Cap? Is it the captain's log?

Captain Driscoll doesn't respond. Is it? Legue asks again. Cap? Hey, what is it? Captain Driscoll! Bilsen shouts. Driscoll starts but doesn't turn and look our way. Instead, he slowly stands up, his back still to us, and says,

No, no, it is not the captain's log. When he does turn around, I have to stifle a gasp. His skin is bone white and his eyes are sunken into his skull. The man looks like he's been living on this ship for weeks or months. His hands shake as he holds out what he's been studying. This is something else, he says. In his hands is a thick ledger bound in dark leather. One hand grips the ledger by the spine, while the other caresses the cover.

It's a journal, but not from the captain of this ship? Lague asks. Driscoll slowly turns in Lague's direction. He doesn't look directly at him, though. His eyes sort of drift off to the side, staring past Ligueh's direction. Staring past, Lague's left shoulder. No, not from the captain, Driscoll finally replies. Something more powerful than that.

Someone, you mean? Bilsen says, and I can tell by the tone in his voice that he's worried. Good, that makes two of us. I'm worried as shit. There is something way off with Captain Driscoll. We should get back to the ship, I suggest. What did you say? Driscoll says to Bilsen.

He said the journalist from someone, not something. I say. You said something and... Before any of us can blink, Driscoll wallops me across the face with a ledger. I stumbled back. My hand goes to my cheek. My feet come out from under me,

and I land ass first in the two inches of Arctic seawater. What the fuck, Cap? Bilsen says as I rub my cheek. He hurries over and helps me up. Thanks, I say. My cheek stings like hell. Cap, can I see that? Leguu asks and holds out a hand.

No, Driscoll says, and clutches the ledger tied to his chest. I am the captain. This is mine. Hey, how's it going down there? Melanoo shouts from the trap door. You all good? Yeah, we're good. Leguer replies, he drops his hand. Cap, I think it's time we head back, don't you? To where? Driscoll asks, his voice is thin and far off.

To North Point, sir, to the crew. Driscoll's eyes brighten and a little flush. comes to his white cheeks. The crew? Yes, yes. We should return to the crew. Okay. Bilsen says and grimaces at me.

I feel the same and grimace back. We should hurry, Driscoll says and takes a single step. There's a loud crack and Driscoll drops fast, his right leg having broken through the hall. Seawater rushes up around his thigh and he stares at each of us as if he hasn't seen us before. Like you? Bilsen? He cries.

What the fuck is going on? Shit! Ligueu shouts and reaches for the captain. He grabs him by the arm and yanks hard. Grab on, cap! But Driscoll doesn't grab on. Both hands are firmly clutched around the journal as the water starts to rise fast.

Get him under the armpits! Bilsen shouts. Lague rushes around behind Driscoll and slips his hands up under Driscoll's armpits. He rears back, putting all his strength into it, and Driscoll scream. The water around his leg turns cloudy. Shit, he must be caught on a splinter.

Bilsson yells. Melanoo! Melanoo! Go get help and fucking fast! What? Melanue says, making me jump as his voice suddenly comes from right by my left ear. He looks fine. Just pull him up. What the fuck are you talking about? He's bleeding. And why are you down here? Get your house back up and go get help. Nah, he'll be fine, right, Cap?

Melanu asks, ignoring Lagu's orders. He shoves by Bilsen and squats down in front of Driscoll. You'll be fine, Melanoo holds out his hand. It'll all be fine. Driscoll hesitates, then nods, and places the journal in Melanoo's hand. Yes, it'll all be fine. The second the journal leaves Driscoll's hands, the ship creaks and begins to tilt to starboard. The water around Driscoll rushes up through the hull even faster.

Help me! Lague shouts and Bilsen hurries over to try to pull the captain free. Melanoo stands up, the journal in his hands, turns, and walks back to the ladder. Where are you going now? I yell at his back. Help us! Oh, he'll be fine, Melanue says. Then I hear a zipper, and he tucks the journal away inside his coat so we can have both hands to climb the ladder. A terrifying thought, slams into my brain. He's going to close that trap door and lock us in here so we drown. Tanner! Lague yells. Help us with Driscoll. I ignore his shouts and race effort.

after Melanoo. What are you doing, asshole? Wilson shouts. Get back here! I'm at the ladder and almost to the top when the trapdoor comes crashing down. Fortunately, I'm there to block it. Unfortunately, the trapdoor hits me squarely on the skull, and lights flash before my eyes. I'm about to lose my grip on the ladder, but I find some inner strength and shove up hard

with my legs, shouldering the trapdoor aside. I scramble out of that lower hold and into the main hold. Melanoo is navigating the broken steps. Melanu! What the hell, man? Come back! Then a massive cracking noise echoes up from below, and before I can say or do anything, I watch, as the lower hold fills with water so fast that it's coming up out of the trap door within two seconds of the noise.

Oh shit! I whisper, and scurry away from the water that's quickly filling the main hold now. Oh, shit! I run to the steps and try to climb my way up to the next deck, but the ship is tilting even more now. And the boards no longer feel firm, but are soft and rotted. I can barely get my boots placed in the right spots next to the runner without slipping off and splashing down into rising ice-cold seawater.

My eyes go to where the trapdoor is, and I swear I see a body float up from that hole. Grabbing onto anything I can get a grip on, I finally clamber up the steps and throw myself out into the corridor. No, Melanoo. I'm able to get to my feet, but it's like running in a carnival funhouse. The ship is now at a 45-degree. angle, and I'm stepping as much on the wall as I am the floor. None of it is solid. My boots keep breaking through rotted boards, and I almost don't make it to the end of the passageway. One more

set of soft steps, and I'm on the first deck. Still no sign of Melanue. I'm racing down the corridor when an ear-piercing scream stops me on my tracks. I spin about, and Captain Driscoll is sprinting at me, his arms out, hands like claws, eyes wild with madness. Driscoll, no! I yell and cover my face with my arms, waiting for the impact. But it never comes. I pull my arms away and the corridor is empty. The ship shifts again, and I basically have to climb the last steps like a sideways ladder.

When I'm up on the top deck and staggering toward the gangplank, Leach has already escaped to the north point, where several members of the crew are trying to hold the plank steady for me. Hurry, God damn it! Second mate, Arlene Switzer shouts over at me. We can't hold on much longer! I'm on the plank, and tight. light roping my way across when the ship behind me rolls hard and the next thing i know i'm in

open air and all that's below me is sea water and large chunks of ice if i go in there i'm dead the ice will close over me and the crew won't be able to get me out before i freeze to death then hands have me by the back of my coat and are yanking me up and over the north point's railing i splay out on the deck and gasped for air as i roll over onto my back switzer stands over me her Her hands on her hips. Where is everyone? Where's the captain? She asks, I shake my head.

No, you can't be serious. I just stare at her. Well, fuck, what happened? Someone asks. What did happen? A reporter named Martha Vasco asks me as I sit and tell my story. Because it sounds like you left the captain of the North Point and two key crew members behind to drown on that ship.

She flips through her notes. The, uh, athon. I say. The ship's name was the athon. Athon, yes, she says, like her agreeing with me gives it legitimacy. You left them to die. It's a statement, not a question.

I think maybe we should take a break, Bashir says, suddenly at my elbow. Mr. Floyd needs some rest, and the doctors would like to do some more thorough exams just to be sure he's in good health. How about we take this up in the morning? Mr. Floyd will be flying out tomorrow afternoon and we'll...

No, I'm... good, I say and smile up at the lawyer. I want to finish this. She leans in close and puts her hand on a few of the microphones. We both know that it does nothing except give the appearance of a private conference. The mics are still going to pick up everything we say. Are you sure about this, Tanner? She asks me, her voice, pointlessly hushed. I think it would be better if we call it for now and resume in the morning. That gives you some time to eat and rest, and it gives the doctor's time to run some tests, and it gives me time to prepare a more formal statement. Now, I say in a normal voice.

I want to tell my story now. Then I lower my voice. I need to tell it, Miss Bashir. The doctors can wait. She studies me for several seconds, then nods. Of course, Mr. Floyd. Continue. Where's Melanoo?

I ask as I huddle under about a hundred blankets while I wrap my hands around a steaming mug of coffee. That's a good question. Switzer says. Why don't you tell me? Me? How would I know? You saw him last? What?

No. Leach would have seen him when he came above decks. Leach didn't see anyone. But he had to. Melanie left with the journal before I got up out of that ship. We're seated at one of the booths and the mess. Switzer and Chief Medical Officer Craig Lansing sit on one side, while I shiver and huddle on the other.

Their eyes are locked on me, and I shudder under their intense. gaze. What journal? Switzer asks. And the ship is called the athon, Lansing adds. We were able to barely make out the name once the ship started to tip and sink. Athon, I say, and a jolting pain stabs the back of my skull. Ow! What's wrong? Lansing asks and stands up. Switzer places her hand on one of his, and he sits back down. What journal? Switzer asks again.

I don't know, I say. Her eyes narrow. It's the truth. I don't. Start at the beginning, she says, and then leans back against the booth. Her arms crossed over her chest. Of all the crew, Switzer and I have probably connected the least. Usually the first mate is the one who's standoffish, trying to act as a buffer between everyone and the captain. But on the north point, it's the second mate who has taken that upon herself.

She hasn't trusted me since I stepped aboard, and she really doesn't trust me now. Not after three of the crew, including the captain, first mate, and an A.B. Seaman have died, leaving me the only witness. Except I'm not the only witness. I go through it all from how there wasn't a stick of furniture or old supplies or any equipment on board. Not even a damn rope. I tell her and Lansing about the weird smell of death, even though we never found the source. But that's not true.

A memory of the death smell growing stronger as I got close. closer to the captain, hits me like a ton of bricks. I think the smell was coming from the journal. The death smell? Switzer asks. You think the death smell was coming from a book? Yeah, I remember walking toward Bilsen and Lague, and that smell just kept getting worse and worse. I shrug, but they can't see it with all the blankets wrapped around me.

I mean, there was nothing on that ship. We checked. The only item we found, or Driscoll found, was that journal. "'You think a journal smelled of death?' Lansing asks, incredulous. "'I find that hard to believe. "'Even if it was leather and it became wet, it wouldn't smell like death. "'Earthly, a little funky, but not death. "'I know.

"'But that was what I smelled, and I wasn't the only one. "'Everyone else smelled it, too. "'And it got worse the lower in the ship we went. "'I swear, I think the journal was—' "'You'd think the journal was what?' "'Switzer snaps. "'Alive? Dead? Made of rotting flesh?

When she says that, another sharp pain erupts in the back of my head. I make sure not to bring attention to it. Lansing has poked and prodded me enough for one day. Or night, or whatever time it is, I don't even know anymore. The hull broke and began flooding the ship, Switzer says. Then you... No, no, Driscoll's leg fell through the hole. There must have been a soft spot in the wood, but it didn't start flooding until...

Until? Until what? Until Driscoll handed the journal over to Melanoo. Once that happened, it all went to shit. The ship started flooding and all the boards went soft. They share a look, then Switzer says. And you ran away. No, no, I didn't run away.

I was chasing after Melanoo. Why? Because I had a sudden premonition he was going to lock us down there alive. A premonition? I guess, yeah. I used to get them in Ukraine. I just know shit was about to go down and nine times out of ten, I was right. So this could have been the tenth time, Switzer says and declares.

Except I was right, I argue. Melanoo did try to close that trap door. If I hadn't gone after him, he would have closed it on all of us. Not that it mattered in the end, you're the only one who made it out. And Melanoo, so you say. How could none of you have seen him? I ask, my voice rising. He got out way before me.

He must have crossed the gangplank. He had to. I don't care if Leach didn't see him. Someone must have. Unless there was a moment when no one was keeping watch. We had eyes on that ship at all times, Switzer says. He didn't cross over. Okay, then he died on the ship. What was the name again? Athon, Lansing says. We're looking it up. From what we've learned, it disappeared around 1883.

Privateer, Switzer, says. A radio squawks. Come in. Switzer's eyes stay on me. Captain, do you read? That's you, Lansing says, nudging Switzer with his elbow. Oh, right. She says with a heavy voice and picks up a radio. Switzer here. What have you got for me, Leach?

Coast Guard is on the horn. I can patch it through to... No, I'll take the call on the bridge. Switzer replies and stands up. Lansing scoots out of the booth to let her by. Tell them I'll be there in a minute. We'll do. Switzer points the radio at me. We're not even close to Dunn, but I have to make an official report to the Coast Guard,

so they know what's happened. What has happened? I asked. I know people died, but there was more going on with that ship. I could feel it. I rubbed my cheek right where the journal hit me. If we can find Melanoo, he'll say the same. Will he? Switzer asks, then nods at Lansing and walks out of the mess,

leaving me alone with Lansing. Is that a rash on your cheek? he asks me. I hadn't noticed that before. Here, let me have a look. What happened to the North Point crew? A reporter calls out, interrupting my telling of my tale. Don't answer that.

Bashir says from off to the side, then addresses the group of journalists. Folks, we are going to let Mr. Floyd finish what he asked to say. Then we'll reconvene in the morning for questions. From the way she says it, I doubt she's going to let that happen. And the way eyes are rolled throughout the room, Most of the reporters don't buy it either.

I'm getting to that, I say. If you let me finish, then you'll have all the answers you need. So, you do have answers. Nelson asks me. Because it sounds like you aren't sure what happened. May I finish? Yes, of course. Sorry.

He says, and gestures for me to continue. I look to Miss Bashir, and after a moment, she nods. I continue. It's the smell that wakes me up. Wake up, Tanner. It wants you now. What sleep lingered in my head disappears the second I hear Melanoo's voice. Claude?

I ask, sitting up, my hand slapping for the lamp next to my small bed. Where have you been? I flip on the light and scream. The man is covered in blood from head to toe. And that's not all that is on him. In Ukraine, I watched three soldiers get blown apart by an RPG. When the rocket hit them, all that was left was a thick spray of human remains. That's what coats Melanoo.

Blood, brains, bone chips, shit, and probably piss. But it's impossible to tell any of it apart. Everything a human body holds is on Melanou. Don't be afraid, he says, which is a bullshit thing to say because I'm terrified. No, I'm more than terrified. Every ounce of my soul is screaming for me to run. To get away from this crazy man. To jump off the ship into the Arctic.

If that's what it takes to escape the insanity that stands before me. In his hands is the journal, and it's spotless. Dig it, he says and offers me the book. It wants you to have it. What does? What's happened, Claude? Why are you drenched in blood? Trenched in blood.

He smiles. Oh, it likes that. He hugs the journal close to his chest and rocks back and forth. Oh, it likes that a lot. Then he sighs and offers me the journal again. The blood and bits of people that rubbed off Melanoo and cling to its cover are absorbed into the leather right before my own. eyes. Claude, what is going on?

Come see, he says, and pulls the journal back again, once more clutching it to his chest. He gestures for me to follow out of my cabin. Come on, Tanner, it will show you. Don't be afraid. It promises that you are the one. It promises. Can't you hear it? A voice far away calling my name, like my mother would on late summer nights as I walked

our old farm. She'd call and call. and her voice would drift along the wind until it reached me acres and acres away. But I don't tell Melanoo this. I don't say a word to him as I get up and throw on some sweatpants. Shirtless and freezing, I do follow Melanoo out of my cabin and down the passageway. Blood is everywhere, and as we pass large patches of it on the walls, Melanoo casually presses the journal to the blood.

It soaks it all up like a sponge. What's in it? I ask. and he doesn't need me to clarify. He knows I'm talking about the journal. Truth, he replies, leading me to the stairs that take us up to the next deck. So much truth. My bare feet slip and slide through awful and various bodily fluids,

but I barely notice. My attention is on Melanoo's back. I'm watching him like a hawk, ready to bolt the second he turns and tries to attack me. I'm not going to hurt you, he says without looking back, like he can read me. my mind. It wouldn't like that. Where did all this blood come from? I ask. Where's the rest of the crew?

Then we reach the hatch to the mess, and I have my answer. The crew is no more. Well, not whole, at least. Every surface is covered in what's left of them, and I know it's all of them. I can hear the voice confirming it in my head. Did you? I have to swallow hard to keep the gorge at bay. Um, Claude, did you kill everyone? Of course. He says as he walks into the mess, then turns around. The journal still held to his chest. It's what it wanted.

It's what they wanted to. As soon as I explained it all, the crew knew that their sacrifice was for a greater purpose. They were going to become something more, something forever. He holds the journal out to me for a third time. Take it. It's yours now. That's what it's saying. You hear it. It's yours now. It's yours. It's yours. It's yours.

He repeats those words over and over as I walk to him and gently take the book out of his grasp. The moment I touch it, the rash on my cheek burns like wildfire, then goes as cold as ice. I reach up and rub my cheek, feeling for the irritated bumps that had appeared. But my skin is as smooth as a baby's bottom. Melanoo chuckles, then falls to the floor. There's one less thing to do, Tanner, he says, looking up at me with wide, hopeful eyes. It said I can be a part of it too. I get to be included, so I live forever with all the crews from all the ships from all the years.

Claude, I don't... I can see it clear as day in my head. I see everything Claude did. The journal shows me. While I slept, he finally appeared and told Svart, Switzer to call an all-hands meeting in the mess. She argued, so he beat her to death with the journal. It sucked up her blood like a thirsty dog. Whatever is left of her is up on the bridge, along with several others from the crew. So Melanoo called the meeting himself. I never woke up,

even when the ship's PA bellowed with his happy voice. The mess, filled with the crew and one-by-one, Melanoo bathed their skulls in. Some tried to run, but the journal, wouldn't let them leave. It was well fed and was at full strength. I feel that strength in my hands right now. Do it, Melanue begs. Make me whole with the journal. Yes, is all I say as I lift the journal over my head. Thank you. Melanue gasps, then closes his eyes. I bring the journal down, and instead of the soft thud I expect to hear, there's a loud crack, like a bat hitting a baseball. Melanoo grunts but doesn't fall over. His eyes stay closed as I hit him again and again and again.

When his body finally collapses, his head splits wide open. I kneel down and set the book on his chest. Without letting go, I shake and shudder as the journal devours every piece of melanoo, sucking him straight through the cover. Then he's gone. Like that, there is no more clawed melanoe. But there's still plenty of crew to feast on. I walk the journal along every inch of the ship until the walls, the floors, the ladders, and everything is nearly spotless.

The journal is swollen to almost bursting, and blood drips from the corners as it happily struggles to consume it all. Then, when it is finished, I make my way to the bridge, and I send the SOS call. And that's the story, I say as I unzip my parka. Stunned faces stare back at me. Then Nelson says, What's that smell? I smile as I remove the journal from under my second sweater. When I hold it up, the room turns to pure chaos.

From the reporters to the doctors, to the Coast Guard sailors, to the lawyers and suits, everyone begins to rip each other to shreds. They claw and scratch and bite and tear. Some pick up chairs and bludgeon those next to them. But most just use their hands. Except for Miss Laura Bashir. I turned my head and see her standing there. staring at me as her colleagues go insane with homicidal violence.

But none of them touch her. It wants you, I say, and hold the journal up. Can't you hear it? It wants you. She cocks her head, looking like a dog after a far-off whistle has been blown. Then she nods and walks to me, taking slow, careful, measured steps. When she reaches me, I hold the journal out to her, I ask. She nods. Oh, that's good.

That pleases it. It is very happy. Take it. It's yours now. She takes the journal from my hands and then caresses the cover. It'll be very hungry, I say, giving the journal one last pat before it is no longer mine. You will feed it. Bashir nods, then slowly lifts the journal over her head. My heart swells with joy and I close my eyes. Now I will be part of it too, I say.

And soon, so will the work. The journal collides with my skull, and I thank it before all goes dark.