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The Deep
Published 3 years, 4 months ago
Description
Good evening, it's Spooky Boo Rhodes coming to you from the lighthouse in Sandcastle, California on the KSND radio waves. Tonight I have for you a spooky tale about a siren of the sea, something you never want to hear when you are sailing the waves for you might crash ashore and be lost forever. Sandcastle has a number of sirens and mermaids. The sirens sing their mysterious tunes and as the ships wash ashore, the sailors are taken by surprise by the mermaids and disappear forever. It's really a sordid tale and you'll hear more about these creatures of Sandcastle by subscribing to Sandcastle Horror or by purchasing my book Sandcastle Horror Volume I at amazon or possibly at you local bookstore. See more info at www.sandcastlehorror.com
Now let's begin...
The Deep
Written by SpiritVoices
Captain Everett Sinclair stood atop the bow of the S.S. Buttercup, and he thought to himself that he’d likely seen her lower decks for the last time.
It’d started with the crew; and they were all gone, now. Not for the weak of mind, nor the faint of heart, his advert had read, and yet all he’d gotten were men who’d followed the song down into the depths. They’d even left all their belongings behind. He could still see Polari’s trunk in his peripheral vision, its lock rusted and its top half-rotted away from the wind and rain. Captain Sinclair could remember like it was yesterday how the old driver had been caught, midway through dragging it portside. He’d turn to look at it, if only he could.
Because he’d known something like this could happen, you see. There’d been rumors, whispers on the waves, and all the warnings a fellow could feasibly ignore. And oh, if only arrogance were not on the list of skills required to be a crotchety old fisherman, making his way out to sea as if it were a beast he could tame. If he’d just backed down… if he’d listened, even once, he wouldn’t be standing here now. The captain’s fingers flexed on the steel railing, just to test if they still had any feeling. They did—but only just.
It was day twenty-one of his voyage, day eight of his nightmare, and day two of his permanent stasis. His throat was dryer than it’d ever been in his life, and if there’d been anything left in his stomach when he started, it was all gone now. There were enough rations for a feast down in the Buttercup’s belly, but they were too far in to reach; and even if he wanted to make the trek, he couldn’t. He’d been frozen to the spot for the last twenty-six hours, in a constant battle of wills. His options were limited. He could either descend the stairs into the cabins beneath him, or throw himself overboard into the turbulent waters below.
The wind crested through the metal tanker’s splitting decks, just seconds before the ship rolled within the choppy waves. Raindrops pelted against his skin like thorns, leaving him restless, soaked all the way through, and shivering. The nets ballooned outward, and their flags, torn and tattered from being left up too long, flapped desperately in the onslaught. Captain Sinclair squeezed his eyes shut against the weather beyond. The wind and the water were loud, sure—but the sound of his own breathing was louder, for it made its way into his ears and pulsed against his starved brain, making his lungs feel tight and strangled behind his ribs. An experienced seaman like himself usually stood firm in choppy waters like these, but today his stomach tossed along with the waves, and his throat cracked with each painful swallow. His heartbeat provided a steady and uncomfortable bassline, reminding the captain just how alive he was, and how quickly it could all be taken away. Because underneath it all, buried in the whistle of the wind, there was something else, too: the song.
Come follow me, dear sailor,
With us all your dreams come true…
There’s so much to see, my sailor,
And all of it’s just for you.
When they’d first heard those words, just over one
Now let's begin...
The Deep
Written by SpiritVoices
Captain Everett Sinclair stood atop the bow of the S.S. Buttercup, and he thought to himself that he’d likely seen her lower decks for the last time.
It’d started with the crew; and they were all gone, now. Not for the weak of mind, nor the faint of heart, his advert had read, and yet all he’d gotten were men who’d followed the song down into the depths. They’d even left all their belongings behind. He could still see Polari’s trunk in his peripheral vision, its lock rusted and its top half-rotted away from the wind and rain. Captain Sinclair could remember like it was yesterday how the old driver had been caught, midway through dragging it portside. He’d turn to look at it, if only he could.
Because he’d known something like this could happen, you see. There’d been rumors, whispers on the waves, and all the warnings a fellow could feasibly ignore. And oh, if only arrogance were not on the list of skills required to be a crotchety old fisherman, making his way out to sea as if it were a beast he could tame. If he’d just backed down… if he’d listened, even once, he wouldn’t be standing here now. The captain’s fingers flexed on the steel railing, just to test if they still had any feeling. They did—but only just.
It was day twenty-one of his voyage, day eight of his nightmare, and day two of his permanent stasis. His throat was dryer than it’d ever been in his life, and if there’d been anything left in his stomach when he started, it was all gone now. There were enough rations for a feast down in the Buttercup’s belly, but they were too far in to reach; and even if he wanted to make the trek, he couldn’t. He’d been frozen to the spot for the last twenty-six hours, in a constant battle of wills. His options were limited. He could either descend the stairs into the cabins beneath him, or throw himself overboard into the turbulent waters below.
The wind crested through the metal tanker’s splitting decks, just seconds before the ship rolled within the choppy waves. Raindrops pelted against his skin like thorns, leaving him restless, soaked all the way through, and shivering. The nets ballooned outward, and their flags, torn and tattered from being left up too long, flapped desperately in the onslaught. Captain Sinclair squeezed his eyes shut against the weather beyond. The wind and the water were loud, sure—but the sound of his own breathing was louder, for it made its way into his ears and pulsed against his starved brain, making his lungs feel tight and strangled behind his ribs. An experienced seaman like himself usually stood firm in choppy waters like these, but today his stomach tossed along with the waves, and his throat cracked with each painful swallow. His heartbeat provided a steady and uncomfortable bassline, reminding the captain just how alive he was, and how quickly it could all be taken away. Because underneath it all, buried in the whistle of the wind, there was something else, too: the song.
Come follow me, dear sailor,
With us all your dreams come true…
There’s so much to see, my sailor,
And all of it’s just for you.
When they’d first heard those words, just over one