Dark Seas, Dark Skies Page #4

I wrote this story because I enjoy horror and history, and wanted to combine the two genres in an eerie setting which I am familiar with.

• History
• Horror
• Fiction

								

As Boris saw Nikolai pace over to the desk and fling open the logbook, he made a small, exasperated sound. “Nik! What’re you doing? We’ve got . . . we’ve got to block the door! Help me!”
“It’ll hold,” Nikolai snapped back at him. The scratching had intensified. He knew in an instant that a second, or perhaps a third creature had joined the first. “It’ll hold.”
The pages flew beneath his fingers as he traveled back in time. He passed missions he’d participated in, fruitless sweeps of an empty sea, repairs, repairs, minelaying, repairs, and finally the date which he had joined the crew of the Stariyy. He turned the page, eyes scanning the captain’s neat Cryillic print. Nothing . . . nothing . . . nothing . . . it was all the same tedious routine he’d gotten to know so well. He turned another page.
And then he saw it. An entire entry blacked out in marker pen. The thrill of discovery brought a spark to his eye the moment he laid eyes on the concealed passage, but his heart sank at the instant realization that it was unreadable. Whatever had been written there had been done so with great regret. He sighed heavily, biting his lip.
Then an idea struck him. A flame of hope kindled in his chest, and he stoked the newborn flames. Lifting the logbook’s page to eye level, he turned it up faced the light so that it deflected off the imprints initially made by the pen; turned the marker ink shiny and, sure enough, the ghost of the captain’s penmanship stood out as starkly as if it had been only just written. He drew a sharp breath. There they were — clear and readable letters.
So he read. And read. But as he read, the spark in his eyes dimmed, his face fell, his curiosity faded; faded and gave way to an entirely different emotion.
Regret.
Poignant regret that he’d ever opened the pages of the logbook. A great sinking feeling washed over him. It was nausea; sheer disgust. He felt it like a lead weight in the pit of his stomach, weighing him down, down . . .
The scratching sounds intensified. Boris, breathing heavily and clutching his wounded arm, had his shoulder pressed to the door. “Help me!” he pleaded, teeth bared.
Nikolai looked at him. “Boris — that door’s watertight! They can’t get in.” The look in Boris’s eyes suggested otherwise. Nikolai grimaced. “Leave it, alright? I’ve found something. Something . . . terrible.”
“What?”
“Didn’t you ever hear them?” Nikolai replied, his tone meek and grim. “The rumors about this ship? About what happened before we came onboard?” He raised his eyebrows. “Didn’t you?”
Boris, visibly quaking, shook his head. “No, but–”
Nikolai cut him off, motioning to the book clasped in his own clammy fingers. “You simply must see this. You must. Please.”
Boris hesitated, eyes darting between Nikolai and the door. The scratching sounded positively desperate at that point. Nikolai supposed there must have been ten of the creatures vying to get to them. Boris, drawing a deep breath and clenching his jaw, took his weight off the door and stepped forwards. Nothing budged. He shot Nikolai a concerned glare before limping to where he stood, a trail of blood following. Nikolai noticed then that his knee bore the marks of their interlopers as well. 
Boris stood beside him and squinted at the logbook, still held aloft by Nikolai.
“What d–” he began, but Nikolai cut him off, looking him dead in the eye.
“Read it.”
Boris did so, brow knitted in concentration, eyes scanning the glistening text as the creatures’ scratching grew and grew into a frantic crescendo outside the door. He read and read . . . 
The passage went as follows:
					   #
July 10th, 1904 - We intercepted a vessel today, which did not respond to our signals of warning, and the identity of which was totally indistinguishable owing to the sea of fog which surrounded us at the time. The vessel’s nature was not known, either; only that it was large. We did not dare approach for fear of it being a battleship. In all my dreadful judgment, I ordered it torpedoed. The vessel duly sank.
Yet, when we approached to gather survivors, it was soon realized that any efforts of rescue would be in vain. For a horrible sight confronted our eyes. 
The bodies of civilians surrounded our vessel. Not one was alive. I myself saw the fruits of my orders in a babe, not two months old, float face-down past the conning tower.
We made off in great haste. 
No detail of this incident is to be reported to the admiralty.
					   #
Boris finished reading and looked at Nikolai, ashen-faced not only from loss of blood. He opened his mouth to speak–
Creak.
Nikolai’s blood ran cold.
He turned, slowly, just in time to see the lock twist and the door swing inwards.

End
								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes