Ghost Ship:
The Horror from Cape Horn
1942
Far from the roar of European battlefields and the frantic protection to convoys in the Atlantic; His Majesty’s Ship; Leviathan, venerable battleship ploughed her way through the vast and indifferent expanse of the South pacific, only days earlier she had navigated the notorious tempest of Cape Horn – it’s icy gales and monstrous waves leaving a psychic chill that clung to the ships very bulkheads even after the sun had returned.
Now, under the oppressive cerulean sky the solitude was a tangible weight that pressed down on the 900-Strong Crew, it amplified every creak of the hull with each whisper of wind.
Aboard the bridge the ship’s captain; Alistair Landsman – a man who’s stern features were etched with years of command and weather experiences, stared out at the vast unbroken horizon, his eyes, typically sharp, held a flicker of something he couldn’t quiet name; a weariness beyond the physical, perhaps a premonition of things to come.
Beside him was the Lieutenant Commander; Arthur Smythe; he was the executive officer who would meticulously log the ship’s position, Smythe was a man of logic and order, he found the unnerving quiet more unsettling than any storm.
The first signs were subtle – easily dismissible as a strain from the long voyage – able seaman; Freddie Mason, a gangly nineteen-year old lad from Plymouth, swore he had head a faint, almost mournful singing from the empty medical bay late during one watch.
Petty Chief Officer; Richard Atkins, a grizzled veteran with a superstitious streak as wide of the Solent, reported a reeking charnel smell that emanated from the aft mess, though the galley had just been scrubbed.
Cold spots appeared in the stifling hear of the engine room that would send shivers down the spins of the stokers; compass needles, unprovoked, would spin wildly for a full-minute before setting north once-more.
These anecdotes initialled were shared with nervous chuckles; they would however begin to accumulate, they would form a tapestry of unease.
Nightmares plunged crew members into vivid dreams of drowning, of being crushed beneath unseen weights and of vacant faces with staring eyes rising from the deep – men would begin to avoid the lower decks after dark, huddled together in groups, their usual boisterous banter was replaced with hushed and anxious whispers.
“It’s the horn Sir” Atkin’s confided to the Captain one morning, his voice low “That place; it is a graveyard, sailors say it doesn’t let the dead go, maybe we’ve picked up a passenger”
Landsman, a man of the Royal Navy, not of folklore dismissed it “Nonsense Atkins, long voyages, isolation and the stress of war, men will see things, just…, keep morale up” yet, even as he spoke those words – a shiver traced down his own spine, he had in fact woken that morning to the distinct impression of being watched, the very warmth of his cabin had been replaced by an unnatural chill, a faint salty smell that spoke of cold decay.
The occurrences escalated – tools in the engineering bay would rearrange themselves, sometimes they would vanish entirely only to reappear in impossible places.
Doors that would have been secured could be found ajar or worse…, they could slam shut with a reverberating bang which echoed through the ship.
One evening a signal lamp on the bridge began to flicker erratically spelling out a garbled, terrifying message; ‘LOST…., COLD….., ALONE….’ Before Arthur Smythe managed to cut its power, his face pale
The crew’s fear festered and turned to paranoia; arguments flared, men saw enemies in their shipmates, nerves frayed to breaking point; tempers would easily flare, watches became agony – men reported seeing fleeting shadow figure darting at the periphery of their vision within the dim light of the gangways followed by sudden drops in temperature.
On one night Freddie screamed, claiming a gaunt, dripping hand had clamped over his mouth as he slept in his bunk – he would be found hours later huddled in a corner babbling incoherently about a ‘Dead Man’s Sea’ – he would be confined to the sickbay but his terror was infectious.
Landsman would feel the tendrils of the unseen, he would hear the dragging of heavy chains across his cabin floor, a low, guttural moan that seemed to emanate from the very bulkheads – he tried to maintain his composure, to project an image of unshakable command, but sleep became a luxury he could no longer afford.
He would pace his cabin – the groaning of the ship around him and the feelings of a presence would grow stronger, more suffocating as a malevolent weight pressed down.
Then came the interference with the ship itself – Navigation became erratic, the ship’s course would subtle deviate requiring a constant, frantic correction; the engines, usually a rhythmic pulse, began to splutter intermittently, their might thrum replaced by an unsettling silence that punctuated by sudden, violent lurches.
Light’s would flicker and die across entire sections of the ship plunging the passages into absolute darkness leaving crewmembers shouting or jumping in fright.
Their radio; the only link they had to the outside world became a conduit of dread – static would surge, overwhelming attempts at communication, then burst into a cacophony of distorted whispers, agonising cries and water-logged gurgles.
Senior Signal Officer; Reginald Wilson reported seeing a translucent, emaciated figure standing behind the radio operator; a young man by the name of Edward before he collapsed into a fit, eyes wide with horror and never spoke another coherent word – the radio that would remain stubbornly and unnervingly silent.
Discipline crumbled; men deserted their posts locking themselves into storerooms or simply vanishing entirely; some would be found in a catatonic state; wide staring eyes that would stare off into space, others had gone mad; babbling about the deep, about souls dragged down to feed the ocean.
Two men, driven by something unexplained would throw themselves overboard, their desperate cries swallowed by the vast and uncaring sea before any rescue could be mounted – Landsman himself would discover Atkin’s in his bunk – he was rigid, eyes open and fixed on the ceiling, a look of profound terror frozen on his face; he had died of fright, plain and simple.
Landsman, his face gaunt and eyes bloodshot stood alone on the bridge Arthur Smythe had disappeared hours ago leaving behind only the overturned logbook and a faint persistent scent of brine and decay; the ship was no longer under human control, the wheel would speed wildly by itself, the engine room below emitted a mournful, drawn-out groan that vibrated through the deck.
The sounds of the ship were no longer mechanical, they sounded organic, like the dying breaths of a leviathan.
Landsman stumbled to the ship’s log – his hands trembling as he picked up the pen, he had to record it, the final entry, as he dipped the pen he froze; a cold, wet hand clamped over his – the stench of salt and death filling his nostrils, his gaze drifted towards the darkened window of the bridge; peering through the glass was a bloated and pale face with hollow black eyes.
It was a face he had seen in his nightmares – a face from the bottom of the world, the last sound Landsman heard was the rasping whisper of “Welcome home”
The Leviathan would be reported lost at sea; No Distress Signal, No Wreckage Simply No Trace of her crew, the Leviathan had simply vanished.
In 1947 though a dense fog was observed by a merchant vessel with curiosity due to its strange unearthly shimmering light as it stretched across the empty expanse of the ocean; slowly, from its heart – the Leviathan emerged, her grey hull was pristine, her brass gleamed the deck-guns still trained outwards.
There was no signs of struggle, no damage, no fire; the lifeboats were untouched; she was immaculate, a perfect replica of that missing British Battleship that had sailed from British shores.
There was however, no one observed aboard her – the decks were empty, the bridge deserted and gangways bare – a distant echo of a mournful wail seemed to carry across the wind to the observing crew of the Merchant ship.
Unmanned, unbidden with no purpose or direction – Leviathan continued her endless journey silently across the vast lonely ocean; a Ghost ship carrying a cargo of nothing but absence and that lingering chill of Cape Horn
Written By: Westley H.
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