Читать книгу Weirdbook #35 - Adrian Cole - Страница 7

THE DEAD OF NIGHT, by Christian Riley

We were against the storm for three days and three nights before our fishing vessel, the Portland’s Pride, finally sank. Failed welds in the hull most likely. She took water in the engine room, tipped from a large wave, and then sank to the bottom of the Bering Sea. Except for me, everyone was trapped inside the galley, or the wheelhouse, and I’m sure that their deaths must have been horrifying.

Just before our vessel went down a wall of water swept me off the deck and threw me into the sea. I was wearing nothing but raingear. The waves handled me like a toy, tossing me every direction. The currents sucked on my body for what seemed like a lifetime. The icy water drank itself into my soul, tempting me with each passing minute to let go, let the sea take me away.

But then their ship appeared from out of nowhere: a golem of steel against the early morning horizon. The crew of the Aleutian Whisper plucked me out of the water just in time, and then I blacked out shortly afterward.

I woke the next morning in a bunk, wrapped in a warm blanket. I lay there for a while, glad to be alive. I felt vibrations from the diesel engine below, pushing us through the mild seas. The storm had broken sometime while I slept, and now the crew was out on deck, fishing for crab. I heard the occasional shout, a laugh, and then the unmistakable pounding of the hydraulic crane swinging crab pots against the rail. Taking a deep breath, I wondered—was it all just a horrible nightmare?

When I looked around the stateroom, I realized that no, it wasn’t a nightmare at all. And then a chill crept back into my skin. I thought about my friends who had lost their lives and of where their bodies now resided—at the bottom of the sea. I said a prayer for them, and then I said another prayer, thanking God for my rescue.

Fortunately, the cold water hadn’t robbed me of any appendages or digits. I discovered this when I climbed off the bunk and made a quick inspection of my body. Although comfortable, I still felt the lingering presence of a dampening cold deep within my bones. It was as if a dull current of sadness had nestled into my soul.

Again, the sounds from the working vessel rang in my ears, as I made my way toward the wheelhouse: the clank and reel of the hydraulic block outside, followed by a few curses from the deckhands; the churn, rattle, and hum from down below, in the engine room. Then, as if someone threw a switch, a loud stereo suddenly cranked through the cabin, playing La Bamba, by Richie Valens. Not the fishing vessel I was used to, but one all the same.

I climbed the stairs to the wheelhouse and there she was—the vast Bering Sea. My stomach turned into a ball of lead at the sight of her, knowing that just hours before, she had been toying with my life.

“Well, looky here!” The captain startled me. About fifty, he had a round face, and eyes that twinkled like fire. Thin strands of silver hair draped from his bald head, brushing his shoulders.

“Back from the dead, are we?” I missed the humor in his words. Seemed like a cruel response to someone who’d just lost a boatload of friends.

“Name’s Bailey.” And then he threw out an open hand. “Your name, son?”

“Jake Sanford,” I replied, shaking his hand. “How long have I been out of it, sir?”

“Just a day, or so. We picked you up—was it yesterday? Shoot, I can’t remember. You know how this crabbing thing works on a man’s mind.”

“Were there any other survivors?”

He shrugged his shoulders then turned back toward the sea. “Nah. Just you, I guess.”

He guessed? I didn’t know what to say in return, so I stumbled over and sat on the bench to the opposite side of the captain’s chair. I looked out the windows, noticing that the Aleutian Whisper had a forward-facing wheelhouse.

“What’s up with the Coast Guard?” I asked. The captain was staring into the horizon, and I saw that the side of his face went sullen, as if he had just had an unpleasant thought. “Captain?”

“Huh? Oh yeah, the Coast Guard. I ah…I alerted them. Yeah, that’s what I did.”

His last sentence came out as a mutter, and it snapped at my nerves like a rubber band. What he should have told me was that the Coast Guard was currently searching the ocean for survivors, dead bodies, debris. He should have told me that the Coast Guard had asked for my name and that he would relay it to them once he found out himself—which he wasn’t doing.

“Go on down and make yourself some food, son. Get comfortable.”

“Are we on our way to port?” I asked.

“All in good time, sailor.” Then, in the blink of an eye, Captain Bailey was out the side door, his back to me and his eyes toward the gloomy sea. His actions were terribly awkward, in those fleeting seconds, it took him to step outside. There was the brisk manner in which he turned away from me, and how he slammed the door on his way out. And then, the swift glance in my direction before he faced the open water. I saw his eyes, and they had turned black as night and sharp as daggers.

Stop imagining things, sailor, I told myself. On the radio now, was Phil Phillip’s, Sea of Love.

* * * *

Down below, there was a porthole in the ready-room door, overlooking the deck. I peeked out and watched as four deckhands in orange rain gear stumbled through the motions of hauling, and stacking pots. I hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary, but I did see that they were pulling up blanks—no crab often makes for a cranky captain.

I turned and made my way down the hall and into the galley. A clock above a television was stuck on ten minutes after four. The digital clock on the microwave blinked “12:37.” Not a big deal, as I thought about it. I knew that some crews ran gear without a working clock in the galley. It’s tough to have Father Time stare back at you when you’re cold, tired, and miserable.

Opening the fridge, I found a mishmash of leftovers and half-empty containers. Nothing looked appetizing, so I rummaged through the cabinets for a candy bar. I never heard the door from the ready-room open, and I jumped at the sound of the man’s voice behind me.

“Hungry?”

“Yeah, I guess I am. I’m Jake, by the way.” I reached out to shake his hand, but he ignored me. He walked over and closed the cabinet doors, then gave me a foul look.

“My name is Taylor. Taylor Bailey… And the food in here is for working crew only. Keep out of it unless you mean to put on some rain gear.” He turned, facing the hall. “Follow me, I’ll show you what you can eat.”

A river of ice ran down my spine. How could this man treat me like this? Or the captain, for that matter? Nothing about the way both of these men acted seemed remotely normal. My boat went down, for Christ’s sake! I lost friends. I barely survived, myself. And now, to be denied the comfort one would expect from fellow fishermen, after being pulled from the sea. To be denied safe passage.

I followed him down the hall and into the small storage compartment next to the bathroom. There were containers on the shelves with various dried goods, batteries, and miscellaneous tools. But at the bottom, and on the floor, sat a dilapidated cardboard box tucked into the darkness.

“You can eat what’s in there,” Taylor said, and then he swept past me, on his way to the wheelhouse.

Baffled, I pulled the box out from under the shelf. Inside was a head of wilted lettuce and some moldy cheese.

“This must be a joke,” I said aloud. Captain Bailey and his brother Taylor—as I now presumed, since they both had the same last name—were just messing with me. They’re probably up there right now, busting their guts with laughter.

When I reached the top of the stairs, I heard the two men cackling, which convinced me of my previous assumption.

“Very funny guys,” I said, walking into the wheelhouse. “Moldy cheese?”

“Go on now, you don’t need to be in here!” the captain shouted. “Didn’t I tell you to get something to eat?”

I stared at the two men for a second, a long second. My thoughts were lost, and it felt as if someone had pressed a hot iron into my chest.

“But stay out of the galley,” Taylor added, grimly.

“By the way, this here is my brother,” said the captain, jerking his thumb, smiling proudly.

* * * *

Things only got worse as the day rolled on. I managed to talk to the rest of the crew, when they came in to use the bathroom, or get some coffee. They were all just as distant and remote as the captain and his brother had been. Some of them seemed cheerful enough, but when I asked them about heading for port, they just shrugged their shoulders and walked away. None of them invited me into the galley for a meal.

In what must have been the late afternoon, I went back to my bunk to rest. I thought about my predicament, still hoping that everything was just one big joke and that now, the entire crew was in on it. I thought this, in fact, moments before I fell asleep. But hours later, when I opened my eyes…

The stateroom was morbidly dark. There were no sounds other than the humming of the engine below. I climbed down and crept out of the room, thinking the crew was asleep. I walked down the hall toward the galley, famished, prepared to steal food. As I approached the ready-room, I saw a man lying on the floor, and my first assumption was that he had passed out after coming inside. But after close inspection, I realized he was dead.

It was Taylor, lying on his back, eyes and mouth stretched open, a face of death staring at the ceiling. I noticed streams of what looked like yellow earwax that had bubbled and oozed out of his ears. And there was a putrid smell lingering in the hall, like rancid milk.

Nerves now rattled, I stepped past the body and approached the galley. I wasn’t sure what had happened to the man, and I certainly wasn’t going to touch him. Briefly, I suspected a heart attack, and that nobody had found him yet since everyone must have been asleep. But then I thought about all that earwax and the smell.

My thoughts spun into a different direction after entering the galley. I found the rest of the deckhands, and all three of them were sprawled on the floor, eyes as vacant and vast as the Bering Sea. And each of them had that yellow goo dripping from their ears.

I choked on my breath and ran for the wheelhouse.

* * * *

Captain Bailey’s head was drooping over the back of his chair. His scraggly hair swayed absently from the motions of the boat. His arms hung low. His eyes stared at the wooden paneling above. His mouth gaped crookedly as if the jaw had become unhinged. And from his left ear…a mound of goop the size of a tennis ball.

I had awoken into a nightmare—a gruesome death that had touched every man on the Aleutian Whisper, except for me. I was both chilled and mystified, and in the grip of this terror, I reacted.

I grabbed the captain’s body and flung him to the floor, tenderness aside. Yes, the man had saved my life, but… But what?

Panic set in, and I quickly surveyed the instruments, the compass, looked for a map. My legs got the shakes, and my imagination got the best of me. I pictured some kind of monster on the ship—a yellow blob, searching for its next victim—so I flipped the mast light switch in response. A blink of the eye and the Aleutian Whisper turned white against the black hollows of the night.

“Some kind of monster,” I told myself. Then I thought that that was just an irrational fear. But still—every man was now dead. Hadn’t I been in this same situation only the night before? The lone survivor.

I reached for the radio, the word “Mayday” clinging to my lips, when suddenly…

“Sissssss…”

A turn of the head and he was there, standing, glaring—with those fire-lit eyes. The pale face of Death now leered at me in the form of Captain Bailey. I froze at the wheel, eyes locked with his. Then, with blinding speed, he grabbed me!

His hands wrapped around my throat, he snarled, his face contorted into a visage of lunacy. He squeezed at my neck with impossible strength. Some kind of monster! The horrific thought broke my initial shock, and then I punched the captain in his nose.

“Haaaaaaa!” The captain hissed, and his jaw dropped open, releasing a foul breath of air. His hands were successfully crushing my trachea, and he had me pressed up against the side-door. I clutched the strip of hair on his head and jammed my thumbs into his eyes. I tried to push him away, but he wouldn’t let go. The captain was killing me.

“Arrgghhh!!” He roared, and again, that breath, stinging my eyes. I dropped my hands and reached for the door handle behind me. I turned it, and then the wind took over.

I collapsed with my back to the railing. The sweep of the black ocean struck instantly with a light mist, swathing across my face, clinging to my hair, while the creature known as Captain Bailey just stood there. He stood in the doorway, scowling, and for sure, I expected him to drop down on me and finish the job. But no; he simply turned and walked back into the wheelhouse!

The icy wind snapped me out of it. I stood and observed through the doorway, studying the captain. I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was a nightmare, as there could be no other explanation. Or so I thought.

I left the dead man as he was, pacing the wheelhouse, and climbed down onto the deck amidship, via the side rail. My body screamed for warmth, I was freezing, my hands shook with fear, and my stomach churned. I needed to get back inside. But I wondered about the others. Would they be just like the captain?

The door into the ready-room gave an aged, metallic squeak as I opened it. I cringed, and carefully slid my way through. I walked toward the galley. They were still there, all four crewmembers, and I was careful not to touch any of them. It seemed my own hands had brought the captain back from the dead, and into the unwholesome state of a mindless sentinel. Obviously, I didn’t dare reproduce this scenario with the others. But I needed to get warm. I needed extra clothing, possibly some raingear.

Like a mouse, I stole my way down the hall and into the nearest stateroom. Rummaging in the dark, I found a wool jacket and a cap. I put them on and crept back to the ready-room, avoiding Taylor’s body. There was a set of raingear hanging on the wall, just above him. Carefully, I reached over his body and grabbed the gear. But as I pulled it away from the hook, a pair of gloves fell from within its bulk, and onto Taylor’s face.

“Muuaaaahhhhh….”

I panicked, and threw myself out the door and onto the deck! I slipped and fell, but swiftly regained my footing then ran behind a stack of crab pots, where I promptly turned and looked back toward the door. The corpse I had just awoken was now sporadically breaking the light from the hall, and the galley, as it wandered the inside of the ship.

Taylor stayed put, however. He stayed in his “area,” and so the hours passed. My stomach churned and toiled with an angry hunger. My mouth went dry. I put on the raingear and was mildly warm, but my body shivered endlessly from fear. Yet despite all this—the hunger, the thirst, or the ceaseless terror—my eyes also grew heavy.

* * * *

“Hey sailor!”

I woke with a start!

“What the hell are you doing back there?” It was Taylor, and he was wide-eyed, alive, breathing the cold ocean air without a moment’s pause—as if the notion of being dead the night before would have seemed a preposterous one, had I brought it up.

“Found some raingear, eh?” He turned and walked back toward the galley. “Good! You can be our baiter then.”

I felt the sudden urge to release my bowels. Had I become a madman? Was I insane? The ability to process this astounding, unending nightmare seemed an impossible task. My mind flailed. “Their baiter?” I whispered into the wind.

Minutes later, the others came out, and before long, the crewmembers were working the deck, getting ready to pick up pots.

“Hey, bait-boy!” Taylor shouted. “Get to work already! We’re coming up on the gear!”

Unsure as to what the consequence for disobedience would entail, I stumbled out from my hide.

“That a boy,” Taylor said, pointing to the bait table on the port side of the boat.

Walking past the man, I did a double take after spotting that yellow goo smeared across his right cheek. My hands trembled violently in response. I must be going insane, I thought.

At the bait table, I took a deep breath. I had done this job a thousand times before, and insane or not, I’d work on autopilot as I considered how to escape this hell. And I would stay out of their way in the process.

But now, and to my complete wonder, the bait table was empty. I turned and walked toward the engine room door. On a normal vessel, with a normal crew, there would be twenty-five-pound boxes of frozen herring stored in freezers down below. I found the freezers, but they too were empty. Baffled, I went back up on deck. How could I be the baitboy if there wasn’t any bait? I saw the bait jars—a few dozen or so hung on a wire across the bait table—but there appeared to be nothing to fill them with.

“Hey, where’s the bait?” I asked one of the deckhands. And again, I got that dead response: the shrug of the shoulders, the broken eye contact.

A crab pot ascended onto the launching table with a clamor of noise, and two men grabbed it with dull weariness—as if they had been doing this task for all of eternity.

It was absent of crab, of course, but I did my job nonetheless. When the captain commanded us to ‘put her back in,’ I climbed into the pot and replaced the empty bait jar with a different empty bait jar. I climbed out, helped tie the door shut, and then watched as the pot went over the side once again. Then I looked at their faces—they were distant, remote. I looked at the immeasurable, gray sea. I looked up at the wheelhouse…

The purest form of madness was here for my taking.

* * * *

Twice, we dined on stale bread and strips of beef jerky in the course of the grim day. The crew consumed this food in silence, like dumb cattle, and then moved back outside with a mindless shuffle. And in the cold Alaskan air, we hauled our gear. I hung empty bait jars into pots. I coiled wayward rope and cleaned the boat to make myself look busy, as my mind wrestled for a means of salvation. I observed the crew as they bustled about on deck. And always, I looked out toward the sea. Without pause, I would have leapt into the icy waters and swam for any vessel or shoreline on the horizon. I would have killed for such an opportunity.

But to my anxious dread, the day slowly came to an end. It was the evening that lurked on the horizon now, and I wondered what this would mean. I thought about the night before. And as the first stars appeared in the amethyst sky above, I was quick to make myself a shadow amongst the outer edges of the boat. I hid.

And sure enough—they died.

* * * *

With soft footsteps, I skulked my way to the wheelhouse via the side railing. I avoided the main compartments—the galley, ready-room, and staterooms—where I knew the others lied in death, yet in wait. And when I reached the wheelhouse, I looked through the side door window and spotted the captain, once again in his chair. Like before, his eyes were staring at the paneling above.

My heart sank, as I had hoped to find him at best, dead on the floor. But he was in his chair, and because of this, it would be difficult, if not impossible for me to take control of the ship.

I went back down on deck and decided to brave the interior. I was hopelessly tired, hungry, and cold. My clothes were damp. My thoughts were floundering through depression, searching for a way to escape this hell. Bait-boy for life? Perhaps even for all of eternity, once I finally died myself.

I realized I needed a cohesive plan. I went down into the engine room, found a dark corner to hide in, and waited. I stirred over my situation and its incredible absurdity. I was a prisoner on an aberrant ship with a supply of aberrant men who slaved mindlessly throughout the day…only to die at night. Yet in their death, they could also wake.

At last, it would be a few more days of relentless hell before I put together a plan. And on the fifth night aboard the Aleutian Whisper, I was prepared to set this plan in motion. I thought hard about what I needed to do, and I prayed for the courage and strength to carry out my will the following day. I would begin during the lull of picking up and dropping gear. My timing would need to be perfect, of course.

* * * *

Gray, for as far as the eye could see. The boundless ocean that surrounded us was cast in this dull shade of maniacal terror. And the heavens above, sheets of muted silver as they were, only mocked my torment—a torment consisting of nothing but gray.

This was how it looked aboard the Aleutian Whisper the following afternoon when that lull I’d been waiting for finally presented itself. I had to be quick, while the men dawdled on deck, preparing for our next set of gear a few miles away.

“Gotta use the restroom,” I said, passing Taylor on my way to the cabin. He nodded, and then I opened the door and crept into the ready-room. My knees were limp with fear, and my mouth dry with the taste of a rising conflict looming on the horizon. This was the hour—but could I go through with my plan?

From the wheelhouse, the radio was playing Elvis Presley’s, All Shook Up. I found the irony unnerving, but took advantage of the radio volume to dampen my climb up the steps. Absently, my hand went to the pocket of my coat. It was still there.

Captain Bailey sat in his chair, as usual, staring at the open sea. From his peripheral vision, he could have spotted me. I was prepared for this, but to my enormous luck, he turned away starboard side.

I tiptoed up the final steps and took a position behind the man. I stood less than a foot away, holding my breath. Could I really do this?

I doubted myself, actually. I was on the verge of giving up, but then, amazingly, to the far horizon, I spotted land! It was all I needed, the final push up that hill of terror. Quietly, I reached into my pocket and pulled out the ice pick I’d found earlier. I stared at the back of Bailey’s head. I took notice of his defectively thin hair, but more importantly, of his shiny, bald scalp. I took notice of the skin and skull, as it stared back at me, leering, laughing, whispering that forever more, I’ll be a prisoner on this ship. Bait-boy for life…

“AAAHHHHH!” From the crux of my scream came a mighty blow to the back of that head! And with the sound of a crashing melon, Captain Bailey fell to the floor, blood spilling out of his punctured skull. I did it! I killed the man!

My heart ran wild. My entire body trembled as I made a quick sweep of the wheelhouse. It’s common for a captain to keep a weapon of some sort near him. I had hoped for this to be the case and was thrilled when I found the revolver clamped underneath his chair.

I grabbed the gun, pausing only briefly to give Captain Bailey’s fallen body a moment’s notice before I made my way back down the stairs. I had others to kill.

* * * *

“Hey, Benny?” I shouted through the opened door of the readyroom. I had seen this guy go up to the wheelhouse on more than one occasion, so I hoped he would fall for my ploy. “Captain wants to see you.” Then I shut the door and ran down the hall. I stepped into the shadows of an adjacent stateroom and waited anxiously. What if Benny went up to the wheelhouse via the side railing? It was unlikely, but possible all the same. Matters would turn profusely complicated if he did. I would be forced to use the gun sooner than expected.

But then I heard the creak of the door as it opened, and adrenaline shot down my spine like liquid fire. I heard the door shut. I heard Benny curse. I heard the movement of his body as he ambled down the hall toward the wheelhouse. Intuitively, I pulled myself further into the darkness, then I heard my own breathing, which seemed so loud. My awful breathing, I thought, just before I spotted Benny arrive at the steps.

It had to be swift and silent. It had to be—NOW!

In a blur, I moved out of the shadows and behind Benny. I raised my killing hand, ice pick dripping with blood. And with my other hand, I grabbed Benny’s hood, twisted, pulled, and yanked back with tremendous violence.

He didn’t even have a chance to gasp. I brought the pick into his head and chest a hundred times—or so it seemed. More than enough to kill the man, with all the blood pooling out of him, and the disfigurement of his face.

Left with a sudden urge to be sick, I ducked back into the stateroom and began to dry heave. My job was nowhere near finished. I needed desperately to compose myself, so I took a few minutes in the darkness, breathing deeply. Then I went to the sink in the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face, thinking about my next victim.

It was Stovich. The small guy, not too strong as I’d observed. I knew I could overwhelm him with my strength. And so I did, when he came down to the freezers to help me bring up more bait jars. With a three-foot length of rope, I wrung the last breath out of the man. I was amazed at how simple it was—like lifting a heavy box onto a shelf or climbing a short flight of stairs.

Finally, I was ready to use the gun and end my torment. I had seen the next step of my plan a hundred times, in the movies. It would begin with a casual stroll toward their proximity—the two men left on deck. I would make myself busy, perhaps find some rope to coil. And then, as smooth and swift as the hydraulic block used to pull crab pots up from the ocean, I would simply walk up to the first man and put a bullet in the back of his head. Then I’d unload the remaining cartridges into the last man before he realized what had just happened. I’d kill the last man—Taylor—before his stupid face would turn into the scowl I’d seen back in the storage room when he offered me moldy cheese.

* * * *

Seconds after the first man’s brain blew out of his left eye, I stood on the deck and stared in dumb horror.

Click, click, click…!

Taylor’s face twisted into more than a scowl, as there was something much heavier than anger in his eyes, his bent brows, his quivering lips.

Click, click, click…!

He came at me, a cannonball of fury. I fell with a thump, landing on the slick deck. My hand that held the revolver smacked into the base of a crab pot, and the gun slid down a scupper and into the sea.

Taylor cursed as he laid one fist after another into my gut. I gripped his hair and tried desperately to push him away.

“Think you’re a killer, eh?” he shouted. “I’ll show you how to kill!” He reached up and scratched at my eyes. I screamed, and then one of his fingers fell into my mouth. Clamping down, I bit, chewed and ripped away at it. I heard an awful snap, followed by a howl of pain.

“Son of a…!” Taylor cried, pulling away from me.

I got to my feet and searched the deck for a weapon, or place to run. But I was too late. Again, he was on me like a charging bull. He smashed me into a crab pot, against its ribbed siding. Then he reached for my throat. Terrified, I realized he meant to strangle me—and I knew from experience just how easy that would’ve been. I knew he’d kill me in seconds if he got his hands around my neck.

I made a quick shift of my hips and used the slick deck to my advantage, sliding between his legs. The void left behind caused Taylor to fall forward and smash his head into the steel girder of the crab pot.

When I stood, he was blinking and rolling his eyes, and there was a naked gash on his forehead, leaking blood. “I’ll…kill…you.” Those were his last words before I sent him unconscious to the deck with a smashing fist.

* * * *

The time it took to kill four men…

The time had transpired with some effort, but before I knew it, I was struggling with my greatest challenge yet: getting the dead into the crab pot before they woke again.

Taylor, now bound with rope, moaned as I shoved him in with the rest of the crew. Far to the horizon, the sun was a sliver of orange fire, sinking deep into the frozen sea.

“Why are you doing this?” he mumbled.

Running controls on the hydraulic crane, I spotted the shadows of night rising from the northeastern corner of the world.

“Let us out!”

A gull passed through the ship’s rigging before circling back to perch high on the mast.

“We saved you, dammit! We pulled you from the ocean! You’d be dead if it weren’t for us!”

I brought the pot onto the launch table then stepped away from the controls. For a long minute, I stared at Taylor’s twisted body as it lay on top of the others. His back was to the ship, and he thrashed about in vain to turn around so that he could see me. He cursed, spat, and begged, but when I finally threw the control switch, he was the first one to go in.

And just when the pot crashed into the ocean, not surprisingly, I saw hands move. I saw fingers grab at the cage, and bodies wriggle against one another. I saw Captain Bailey look up from the mouth of his cold grave. I saw his eyes: beads of fire burning a hateful path straight to mine. And those dead eyes of his burned for a full fathom, before disappearing into the blackness of the Bering Sea.

My subsequent conflicts were long and arduous. Close to land, I hurried to gather gear, water, and food, then stowed everything into a motorized dingy. Once ready, I set the Aleutian Whisper on a westerly course then struck for land in my little boat. And as I drifted away, from the wheelhouse came the sounds of Elvis Presley’s, Don’t Be Cruel. At last, I was liberated from the ghostly terrors of that abominable ship and her abominable crew.

But was I, really?

* * * *

Thirty years later and I now live in the basement of a colonial-style house near Seattle, Washington. I’m known as the recluse of the town, the old man who keeps to himself. In the evening, I seal my door with three padlocks, fearful of what might happen if I don’t. And always, in the small hours of night, I hear the dampening sound of a crab pot slamming into mud. I see squirming cadavers as they jerk, pull, and claw for a way out. I see them, in the darkness, in my mind’s eye, in my terrible dream that has woken me each and every day since that awful night. And in my ruined thoughts, I picture the dead crewmen stagger to shore, at last, broken free of their grave at the bottom of the sea.

But in the end, none of these terrors compare to what I must cope with once I rise from my bed: my single horror, as spawned from the night before, and from the cold depths of my subconscious…the mound of yellow goo I must cleanse away each morning.