Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - Voyage of the Scylla A Transatlantic Journey into Madness, Murder, and the Unthinkable #75

Episode Date: August 8, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #truecrime #psychologicalhorror #murdermystery #seaadventure #madness  This gripping tale follows passengers and crew trapped on the Scylla as sanity unravels and a deadly force stalks the ship. Between psychological terror and a mysterious killer, the voyage transforms into a desperate fight for survival where the line between reality and nightmare blurs.  #horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #scarystories #horrorstory #creepypasta #horrortales #truecrime #psychologicalhorror #murdermystery #seastory #madness #thriller #darkvoyage #shiphorror #survival #unsolvedmystery #darksecrets #paranoia #suspense #isolation

contains depictions of graphic violence, abusive language and disturbing themes. Here's a tale from the void of the abyss. 1881, the aging transatlantic steamer Silla departed England for America, carrying on board the hopes and dreams of struggling emigrants and wealthy aristocrats alike. After an inhumanly gruesome murder of a noble woman, the monotonous calm was shattered like the victim's skull, as stability, and order drained away like the lady's brain. The death-bound voyage descended into darkness and despair.

Table of contents. Part 1, aboard. Part 2, astray. Part 3, awakened. Part 4, adrift. Part 1, aboard. The Silla slowly came into dock, quietly dwarfing other vessels in port as she closed. This bustling English town didn't see the sun most days of the year, and today seemed not to be one of charity either. A newsboy on bicycle zoomed past a neatly dressed gentleman, nearly clipping him. Well, excuse you, young man, the man's whispered complaint sounded closer to mild amusement. Must be delivering some horribly important newspaper to some terribly important people. Then he was back on his trek to the harbor, catching a glimpse of the masts on that tower of a tub from all the way over here. A serpentine line of travelers plottingly formed next to the dock behemoth as the sun,

crawled its way up indolently behind the smog. Captain Phillips leaned against the railing on the prow of the Silla, quietly reading every single one of his new passengers, occasionally shooting a practiced smile towards the waiting crowd. It was quite the diverse gathering of travelers indeed. Folks from all over Europe and the Americas seemed to have assembled for this coming voyage across the Atlantic. And there were even glimpses of far more exotic faces to be caught, belonging to one's hailing from the orientalmost corners of the known world. Pardon me, sir. A man well-dressed in grey approached a boarding officer, had in hand, voice thick with German accent. I do not have my watch with me at the moment.

Could you please tell me the time and inform me whether our departure shall be on schedule this morning? Without a word, the officer started fishing in his pockets soon as the German gentleman mentioned a watch, pulling out one strikingly rose gold. It's 1013, Mr. And the Silla shall indeed depart at precisely 11, as scheduled. My gratitude's the German man refrained from staring at that shiny pocket watch in amazement, it wouldn't have been polite. The shuffling queue of passengers converged into a formless flock. As the clock struck 1030, the boarding procedures commenced, and the captain began to address his herd of new responsibilities. Ladies and gentlemen, a most cheerful morning to all of you.

A scant few responses arose from the now two-and-a-half-hundred-strong assemblage. And welcome aboard the Silla. What kind of name is Silla anyway? Chaffed a red-head young man from the crowd, clad in cheap shirt and vest, aged no more than 20. I read that it's the name of a Greek monster. That sunk sailors. Am I supposed to entrust my safe passage back home to Boston in such an ominously named boat, Captain Sir?

Lafters chimed. The young Bostonian man asked a most brilliant question. Captain Philps shifted his posture slightly, a less calculated smile manifested on the corner of his mouth. We sailors are a deathly superstitious lot. However, it is my personal belief that with fear we give power to any and all potential misfortunes. So why not embrace the identity of a sea-bound overlord in control of the elements and its own destiny? In embracing the bad luck, we may yet master our fortune and turn the tides against any malintention forces. Wouldn't you agree, lad?

The young Bostonian gave a mildly dismissive shrug, a hint of Irish in his accent. Sure, Captain. If you say so. Not like I can find a cheaper ride home, eh. Thank you for the fair prices, sir. You are most welcome, lad. I do hope you thoroughly enjoy your voyage home. And that unexpected back and forth was certainly more entertaining than whatever I had planned beforehand, passengers rustled into the Silla.

Once again, welcome aboard. And if I may, Bon Chance Ety Bonn Voyage to us all. The neatly dressed gentleman strode in on the tail of the inflow of passengers, meeting the captain on deck. Captain Phillips. Sir Howard Pendleton. My warmest welcome, the men shook hands. We wouldn't have been able to launch the business let alone this ship without your aid as the financier. So please allow me to re-express our gratitudes this time in person. Thank you. It is always my pleasure to service the most enterprising and not to mention, charitable, of our proud nation. Sir Pendleton took a look around deck, the giant funnel made up for its lack of stature in sheer girth, no less daunting than the towering masts. This is an impressive ship we don't see much outside ports like Liverpool and of course London. Thank you, Sir Pendleton. But the old girl's glory years are decades behind her, what with the pace science advances nowadays. There certainly are quite a few bigger and faster

steamers out there breaking the Atlantic waves. An inexplicably longing look became apparent in the captain's eyes, slack wrinkles on his face more notable than earlier now that the beaming had shed. I can scantily imagine scuttling her, come the day. The reed-head American boy spoke truthfully. Our fair prices are indeed only too fair for the 200 travelers in Steeridge, smiled Pendleton. So despite her age, the Silla stands proud and continued service of the people even in her twilight years. So she does. So she does. Part 2. Astray. In the echoes of a stupendous whistle, with sails taut and wills paddling, the Silla left port for the channel, sailing towards the open sea.

Howard Pendleton had spent more than an hour visiting all of 50 or so first-class passengers on board, making sure comfort wasn't a distant possibility at least for the more well-off voyagers on board. Then he moved on to the bow and stern quarters, where the less fortunate of the passengers shall spend the next two weeks. Your rooms are in the middle of the ship, man, the young Irishman from Boston was chewing on an apple when Howard walked by, who had never seen an apple so deformed. You're dressed too nice for this part of the ship, Mr. Ha, you are the young Bostonian from earlier.

Howard Pendleton, he extended his open right palm, financier for the Silla, just here meeting my fellow journeyers. hesitant for a moment, the younger man wiped his hand on his trousers, and shook with the gentleman. Rory O'Hale, dweller of this here rat-infested bough quarters. Just here, eating me apple. Rory was back in his upper bunk flipping through a well-worn dime novel under a dim oil lamp. Being around the affluent had always made him uncomfortable, not that he'd ever had much opportunity to mingle with the upper class of society. But this Pendleton fella definitely seemed less unpleasant than the usual specimen of his ilk, or he was trying his damnedest to not appear as unpleasant.

It was rather amusing watching this English gentleman of some status making his idea of an effort to mix with the poorer folks on this boat. The financier even invited Rory on his visit to the stern quarters, where the women and families lodged. In the end, Rory got a chocolate bar for his service as guide. A sudden burst of commotion interrupted the Bostonian's admiring of his golden packaged confection. He pocketed the candy, hopped off of his bunk, and headed towards the ruckus. One of these bleedant sewer rats killed her, a tailor-suited Englishman was cursing up a storm, face red, teeth gritted, eyes spitting flames, hardly held back by three seamen. I saw that son of a whore talking to my wife earlier, and now she's fucking dead. Where is the godless murdering scum?

We don't know any of that, sir, the seaman stood between the outraged man and the entrance of the bough quarters. Please do calm yourself, the captain is on his way here. Your fucking wife was only telling me how she wanted to suck my pisser, you soft English twat, a burly Irishman jumped up in the crowd. So why the hell would I kill her, for she polished off me, Nabier. I will kill you. Impertinent gutter filth. I demand justice for my Beatrice.

Let go of me. And justice you shall have, Lord Ingham, entered the captain, with Sir Pendleton close at his heels. It is most upsetting that such a horrendous tragedy, befalls our vessel on the very first night of our shared journey. But please, gentlemen, regardless of social standing, we are all civilized people in a civilized society. So may I suggest we keep the all so fragile

but indispensable civility in our ardent pursuit of justice. He paced before the fuming nobleman and stood. Let go of the Lord, gentlemen, we shan't treat our esteemed guests with undeserved disrespect. The irate aristocrat was escorted back to the first-class cabins, and a rotating shift of two seamen was to stand guard at the bow section. Right outside the entrance, Sir Pendleton stood whispering with the captain as he spotted Rory's approach. What are you leaving the quarters for? The guards were supposed to note down every coming and going from here on. The lad has been helping me.

Pendleton nodded and smiled at the guards as they resumed their duty. Mr. O'Hale, Do you wish to help with our effort to investigate the situation? Please, Sir Pendleton. Mr. Oh, Hale is me, pa, the young man gestured with his book. And yes, I have read through this we detective novel far too many times. So I do wish to help if only because it's the thing of most interest on board. Also mayhaps, more chocolate. Admirable enthusiasm, Mr. O, sorry, Rory.

I trust that you are not the way. one behind Lady Beatrice Inham's murder. Pendleton smiled. You jest, sir. This young man seems agreeable enough, interjected the captain. And clever too, by the looks of it. Very well, I shall accompany the gentleman to the scene of this grisly crime. Two hundred and a half souls, not a single policeman, just our luck.

But fortunately, we do have a doctor on board. The trio of unlikely sleuths had just arrived. at one of the midship washrooms as a gentleman-clad in grey suit rose up and away from Lady Beatrice's body. Ah, you're back, Captain. And these two are. This distinguished gentleman is Sir Howard Pendleton, the financier behind the company and our ship, of course. And this young lad is his assistant for the trip, Rory, the captain stepped up before his two companions. And this is Dr. Heinrich Schultz, from the German Empire. Well met. The men shook hands, and turned towards what they were here for. They couldn't help but stare in suffocating silence at what was left of Lady Ingham's face. Nobody could have

recognized the lady if it weren't for her luxurious emerald green satin dress. What on earth happened to her face? Howard wasn't entirely sure if this question had come out of his mouth, and he couldn't look away. It appears someone took something solid and strong, plunged it into the victim's nasal cavity, her nose essentially, and pride open the top of her skull and air of lurking unease betrayed the doctor's efforts to speak with full composure. Then the killer left the fractured bones behind, and took the lady's brain. The air was dense with quiet dread. Took her brain. Howard was regaining command of his own voice. Yes. Sir Pendleton. As you can see, blood spilled everywhere in this narrow water closet.

But her most mindful organ is nowhere to be found. The hollowed face of Lady Beatrice Ingham glared back at her audience with the grimaced of intent. We might need to head back, sir. Rory O'Hale suggested, We're only half a day out. That is not really an option, young man the captain rejected, vehement. That would mean irreparable damage to our business. the ruination of the livelihood of my men.

Not to mention the 200 people who depend on us, who might not have another shot at a new life in America. No, we can't reverse course on account of a single murder. A single murder. Captain, the woman's brain was stolen, the young Irishman sounded almost rude. The captain is quite right, I'm afraid. Sir Pendleton chimed in. We could ill afford the consequences of a failed, voyage. What we also couldn't afford is total panic amidst the ship, the captain asserted.

We need to contain the situation. Contain. Rory gasped. How? How do you plan to contain the Lord widower? Surs. As if on cue, a seaman ran in and interrupted the argument. Bad news, Captain. The men turned around. Lord Ingham jumped. The Cil-A-Mumped. The Cil-Cube. cut through the obsidian surface of the sea under a full moon ghastly. The seaman said the nobleman seemed to have calmed down somewhat and claimed desire for fresh air. And that was how they ended up on top deck, and how Lord Ingham had ended up swimming with turtles and fishes. Hence ended the first day of voyage for the deathbound ship. Part 3, awakened.

Then came a whole week of uneventful calm. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just the rocking of the ocean, only sometimes once. violent, and the chugging of the old engine, only sometimes disturbant. There had been a few instances of violence outbreak among the rabble, but nothing the officers and seamen on board couldn't handle. Those howsoever few privy to the tragic passing of the noble Ingams began to trick themselves into believing some far less horrid versions of events. Whispers abound maybe the Lord himself did it after all. Surely that was the only explanation for the abrupt

cessation of the beastly violence. Then on the eighth evening, another person was found lying in a pool of blood, skull shattered, the oh so important thinking organ cried out and taken. This time, the victim was a Belgian banker, and tuned a Vries, his body was discovered by the earliest arrivers at the first-class dining saloon, slumped on the side of a table, fine China-died rouge. It put a spanner in the works for the grand dinner plan that evening, though admittedly not many of the four dozen diners seemed to have too much of an appetite in light of everything.

Or at least it wouldn't have been mannerly to have it, however ravenous one may truly feel. The German doctor examined the cadaver and confirmed an apparent connection to the previous killing. Same type of murderous tool, indentical modus operandi. The killer was still amongst them. The killer may yet kill again. A heated altercation broke out between the young Irishman and the financier. Sir Pendleton was appeasing but kept reminding the lad there was indeed no go. back. America was only half a voyage away. News of the slaying spread fast, and rumors of other

deaths flew faster. The first-class passengers had begun to demand that the steerage be put on tighter watch, and the more numerous class of people on board had had enough of feeling like prisoners in their own quarters. The seamen on guard duty became armed with rifles and pistols on that eighth night, the watchmen on bow section had doubled to four. And new guardsmen were posted for Stern. The same night, a close associate of the murdered banker, a French actor by the name of Guillaume Pellateur showed up outside the Stern quarters, reeking of alcohol, and brandishing a revolver. The guardsmen didn't hasten enough to disarm the drunk, so a woman with a babe in her arms caught a stray bullet from an accidental discharge, which sobered up

the actor quickly enough. He dropped his gun and began crying and yelling as his victims crashed to the floor and blood gushed out from the swaddle and the mother. He did not have a chance to finish his apologies before a rage-blind father bore down on him and tore open his throat with a cheap dining fork. There was not much hope for containing the goings-on now. The floor boards turned awashed with a dark shade of crimson. Rory O'Hale had tried his very best to rein them in. He had become well-liked among the poorer folks, especially the emigrants from his old country, who in reality made up the bulk of the Silla's passengers, steerage or not. But he was but a youngster barely out of boyhood, and the tangled fury of an angry mob was not

one single man could deter. Any seaman who raised a weapon and fired a shot was slaughtered on the spot. Guns were wrestled and turned, and bodies looted. The looters were pleasantly surprised by the precious oddities in their booty. Someone even stripped a splendid-looking rose-gold pocket watch off from a corpse. Well, the man became a corpse after the giggling looter with the treasure in hand shoved a rusty knife into his jugular. The ocean stirred into a roaring frenzy. The aching machinery deep in the Silla's bowels bellowed like a hungry beast. The mob of riotous men had finally settled from their bestial revelry, women in torn lavish dresses left bruised and wailing across the midship quarters. Their faithful defenders, beaten and dead. Only the

cowardly survived. Captain Phillips and Howard Pendleton were escorted by armed men into the extravagant dining saloon, where all the restrained male prisoners and many of the mob had gathered. A ragged-looking man sat reversed in a mahogany chair, arms rested on top, munching on an exquisitely fine apple. Dear Captain, the looter played with the rose gold trinket betwixt his fingers. How exactly do you people afford something like this, huh? You filthy fucking mutineers. Murderers, the captain howled with steaming rage. It was you who killed those poor passengers, and for what? You think you'll get away with any of this? Well, we can always just have your crew let us off somewhere that isn't Boston Port, the looter grinned with confident delight.

And start our new life. In the new world. And to think how you murdered those people. Their brains. For Christ's sake. Hendleton cried out, repulsed. Wait, the looter chuckled. I have lost count how many rich cunts I have cut up like pigs tonight. But God be my witness, I have not yet developed a taste for brains. Which reminds me. He straightened up from the chair and gave wry applause with a sweeping gaze at his surrounding mates.

Nice job to whichever of you twats did that. Delicious, it was. As much as I wish it was. was, the man hunched back down, glaring with a fading smirk. But it wasn't me. And I do not appreciate being wrongly accused, Sir Financier. A word if I may, gentlemen, a German-accented voice arose, as the doctor raised his tied up hands from the surrendered crowd. I believe I have also seen that pocket watched the day of our departure right when we were boarding. The magnificent rose gold hue I have yet to shake from my mind. I share the,

Apple enjoying gentlemen's concern. If I remember correctly, that watch was in possession of a boarding officer. What is the pay rate for a boarding officer on the Silla nowadays, Captain? A thunderous rumble from underdeck suddenly quaked through the entire hull. The presumably newly rigged electric lighting in the first-class section was abruptly cut off. The dining hall choked in darkness for a brief moment before the lights kicked back on. The Silla had somehow stopped. Part 4, Adrift. Fuck. Have we killed all the engineers, Captain, the looter threw away his half-eaten apple. The ship stopped. Got to fix the engine or something. But the captain looked like he had just seen a ghost. He was barely breathing, visibly shaken. Not a word from his mouth in reply.

The fuck is wrong with you. You see now twat, the looter walked up with a bloody knife in his hand, made as if to kick. Captain Phillips suddenly caught his raised up leg, pulled him onto the floor, held down his arms and bared teeth at his exposed throat. Mier blinks later, the old captain stood back up, spat out a piece of the rogue's throat, blood-slick rusty knife in hands. In a pool of expanding red and the echoes of desperate death gurgles, the captain held up the to his own neck as guns began to get trained on him. We are all, doomed. Then he slit his own

throat. Enough, a young Irish voice thundered through the dining saloon. We must stop this madness. Rory asserted, enough people have died tonight. And unless you all want to perish on this godforsaken boat, we have to stop the killing, fix the damned engine, and be back on our way. Keep your goddamn loot, but stop hurting people. Do you all want to start your lives as fugitives in America? I am in Bostonian, and I can tell you they have some very competent policemen other there. The crowd remained silent, a few eager trigger fingers eased. So please, let us try to fix this fucking horror before absolutely everything gets broken.

The mob agreed. Thank you, everyone. Now Mr. Pendleton, please get it. up. We need engineers. One engineer remained, and his eyes were flooding with inexplicable terror. It's going to be all right, sir. I'm Rory O'Hale, just some Irish boy from Boston. We need your help. Please, don't make me go down in there. The surviving engineers' voice cracked. You don't understand. What don't we understand, dear friend, the doctor interposed. We can't, go in there, please no.

Not the engine room. For fuck's sake, man, we ain't gonna gut you. So just get moving, an annoyed voice rose from the restless crowd. Look, Mr. Engineer, sir. Rory put his hands on the trembling man's shoulders. We'll be careful, we'll bring weapons and men. But we must fix that engine. And the 200 of us can't do this without you.

A long and resigned sigh escaped the man's lips after a few more excruciated wines. Then he nodded. The sea grew even more savage under the pallor of the moon. The scilla drifted atop the ocean crests, in cold dead silence. A group of 20 or so men descended into the heart of the ship, gas lamps in hand, guns at the ready. Rory O'Hale led the pack with Howard Pendleton and Dr. Schultz, the engineer seemingly numb and unresponsive by their side. There it is, the engine room. Rory declared, Don't. Was the only word out of the engineer in what must have been 30 minutes.

We'll be careful, sir. Oh, Jiminy Cricket, get out of the way, the annoyed man shoved aside the engineer, and pushed open the doors to the engine room. Bloody hell. There is nothing here, yelled the bold man setting the first foot inside. The man must have completely lost it. Hope he still has the marbles left to help us fix the yang. An invisible force suddenly gripped onto the man as he stepped further inside the quiet engine room. An indescribable shape began to whirl in the dimness at the center of the engine room, then started to fracture in ways beyond comprehension. Then the steam engine suddenly bursted back to life as the gripped man was slowly lifted into the coagulated air. He did not

make a sound until his head was crushed like a walnut by nothing but air, then his brain matter floated in elegant stream slithering back towards the vague shifting shape. Captain's log December 11, 1879, something came with us on that voyage. We have no godly idea what it is, but we must contain it. For I fear what may come if it's unleashed onto the civilized world. It dwells in the engine department, and I know how utterly insane it must sound, but I can't put into words what it even looks like, and the thing consumes brains. It eats human brains. God forgive us, but we have taken to appease this, monstrous deity, perhaps, in the most time honored and apt manner imaginable. Human sacrifice. As with many gods throughout our species

as history. This one seemed satiated with a weekly tribute of two whole human brains. As long as we keep it going, it should keep calm in its slumber. And for some reason, nobody outside the Silla remembers the tributes after they've been taken. Even our memories of their faces and names have eroded with time faster than natural. Small mercy, perhaps. January 17th, 1881, something had gotten into Jenkins. He didn't want to perform his duty, and through the tributes pocket watch I gifted him last year back in my face. It was a medal for his service and now a symbol of disrespect.

January 18, 1881. Jenkins left the Belgian in the dining hall. Outrageous. How are we going to?