The Last Message in a Bottle

The storm had passed, leaving behind a bruised sky and a restless sea. Sand clung to my boots as I walked along the shore, scanning the debris scattered by the tide—broken shells, tangled seaweed, and the occasional piece of driftwood.

Then I saw it.

A glass bottle, half-buried in the wet sand, catching the first light of dawn. It wasn’t unusual to find trash washed up here, but this one was different. The glass was thick, old-fashioned, and inside—a rolled-up piece of paper.

My pulse quickened. A message in a bottle.

I dug it out, uncorked it with trembling fingers, and carefully pulled out the paper. The edges were yellowed, the ink faded but still legible.

"If you find this, I am already gone. My name is Daniel Whitmore, and I am writing this from the deck of the SS Aurora on June 12, 1923. We are sinking."

I nearly dropped the bottle.

A Ghost from the Past

The SS Aurora was a real ship—a passenger liner that had vanished in the Atlantic a century ago. No wreckage was ever found. No survivors. It had become one of those maritime mysteries whispered about in coastal towns.

I read on.

"The storm came out of nowhere. The hull is breached, and the lifeboats are gone. I don’t expect to make it, but if this bottle reaches land, I need someone to know the truth. It wasn’t the storm that doomed us. It was the man in the black coat."

A chill ran down my spine.

"He came aboard in Lisbon. Never spoke to anyone. The crew said he wasn’t on the manifest. Last night, I saw him standing on deck as the waves crashed over us. He wasn’t holding on. He wasn’t afraid. He just... smiled."

The handwriting grew frantic.

"The ship is going down. I can hear the others screaming. But he’s still there. Watching. Waiting. If you find this—do not look for the wreck. Do not search for him. He’s not—"

The message ended abruptly.

The Obsession Begins

I should’ve left it alone. I should’ve reported it to some historical society and moved on. But I couldn’t.

I spent weeks researching the Aurora. Old newspapers confirmed its disappearance. Passenger logs listed a Daniel Whitmore—a young journalist returning from Europe. And then, in a faded maritime report, I found a single, chilling detail:

"One survivor claimed to have seen a figure in a black coat walking on the water as the ship went down. The man was dismissed as delirious. He disappeared from the hospital the next night."

I needed to know more.

The Diver’s Warning

I tracked down an old diver named Harlan Voss, one of the few who had ever searched for the Aurora. When I showed him the message, his face paled.

"Where did you find this?" he demanded.

I told him. He grabbed my arm, his grip like iron.

"Listen to me. That wreck is cursed. Every diver who’s gotten close... they either vanish or come back wrong."

"What do you mean, wrong?"

He hesitated. "One of my buddies found a piece of the hull back in ‘78. When he surfaced, he kept saying, ‘He’s waiting down there.’ Two days later, he walked into the ocean and never came back."

The Expedition

I should’ve listened. But I couldn’t stop.

I chartered a boat, hired a crew, and set out for the last known coordinates of the Aurora. The sea was calm at first. Too calm.

Then, on the third day, our sonar picked up something massive below us. A shipwreck.

As we suited up to dive, the radio crackled to life—nothing but static. Then, faintly, a voice:

"Turn back."

We ignored it.

What Waited Below

The water was icy, the darkness suffocating. My flashlight barely pierced the gloom as we descended. And then—there it was. The Aurora, preserved like a ghost frozen in time.

We swam through a shattered porthole into what must have been the first-class lounge. Debris floated in the stale water: chairs, suitcases, a child’s doll.

Then I saw him.

A man in a black coat, standing perfectly still in the middle of the room. His face was pale, his eyes hollow. And he was smiling.

My blood turned to ice.

I signaled to the others—Get out. Now. But it was too late.

The radio in my earpiece screeched, and then that same voice, clear as day:

"You shouldn’t have come."

The lights went out.

The Only Survivor

They found me three days later, clinging to a life raft, half-mad with dehydration. The boat was gone. The crew was gone.

The coast guard asked me what happened. I didn’t tell them. They wouldn’t have believed me anyway.

But sometimes, at night, I hear the static on the radio. And I know—he’s still out there. Waiting.

And he’s not alone anymore.