The Last Voyage of the Crescent

The Crescent was an old, weathered fishing boat that had seen better days. Her wooden hull groaned with each wave, and the salt had long since claimed the luster of her once-proud name painted on the stern. Captain Elias Thorn had owned the boat for nearly thirty years, and she was as much a part of him as his weathered skin and silver beard.

It was late October, the time when the sea was neither friend nor foe but a fickle mistress with moods as changeable as the wind. The crew aboard the *Crescent* consisted of four men: Captain Thorn, his first mate and longtime friend Jonas Briggs, a young deckhand named Sam, and Marcus—an experienced but reclusive fisherman with a shadowy past.

They were headed out for one final haul before the winter storms closed in, the promise of a big catch luring them further from shore than usual. The sun was setting as they reached deeper waters, the sky a blend of fiery orange and deep purple, casting long shadows across the deck.

"Looks like we're in for a calm night," said Jonas, squinting at the horizon. He was a stout man with a gruff exterior, but he trusted his instincts, and they had rarely led him astray.

"Let's hope so," Captain Thorn replied, though his tone was cautious. He could feel something unsettled in the air, a tension that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. But he dismissed it as nerves. After all, they’d been at sea for decades, and the *Crescent* had always brought them back home.

As the night fell, the men settled into their routine. Marcus, as usual, kept to himself, working quietly at the bow of the ship, his sharp eyes scanning the dark waters. There was something about Marcus that the others couldn't quite figure out—a secrecy, a haunted look in his eyes whenever the past was mentioned.

The night passed slowly, the gentle rocking of the boat lulling them into a false sense of security. But as midnight approached, the wind began to pick up, and the sea grew restless. The once calm waters now churned with a growing ferocity.

"Storm's coming," Sam muttered, glancing nervously at the clouds gathering overhead. He was young, barely twenty, and still green despite the season spent at sea.

"We'll be fine," Jonas said, though his voice lacked its usual confidence.

Suddenly, Marcus, who had been silent for hours, spoke up. "We need to turn back. Now."

The others stared at him in surprise. It wasn't like Marcus to speak out of turn, and his tone was urgent, almost fearful.

"Turn back? We're hours from shore," Captain Thorn said, frowning. "We need this catch, Marcus. We can’t just—"

"Listen to me," Marcus interrupted, his voice rising. "There's something out there. Something bad."

Jonas scoffed. "You losing your nerve, Marcus? We've weathered worse."

But Marcus wasn't deterred. "I'm telling you, there's something in these waters. I've seen it before."

The captain hesitated. He had learned to trust his crew’s instincts, but Marcus’s words made no sense. Before he could respond, the