A Chilling Tale

Thomas pulled his hand back from the ladder with a gasp. Even through his gloves, the cold burned.

Huffing on his fingers, he felt the curious eyes of the crew on his back, and their question muttered from the railings, what is he doing??

Thomas scratched at his beard (a chestnut bristle he was inordinately proud of) quite preoccupied with a puzzle of his own. How else was he going to get up there?

He tilted his head and leaned back to take in the size of her, the little boat rocking under his feet as if in answer.

The sails far above him flapped, lacklustre, as if they couldn't be bothered to stir. He shivered again, and this time, not just from cold. The sails put him in mind of a flag at half mast, or a funeral shroud.

Somebody walked over his grave.

Gritting his teeth, he came to a decision. If he rowed back and told them they'd have to board her deck to deck, he'd never hear the end of it. He tried again, setting hands and feet to the ladder, and hissing at the scald of the ice.

Fingers of ice spidered their way along the hull. He got to see it up close. It was quite pretty really.

The deck, when he reached it, felt silent.

Oh, there were sounds alright: the wind, a half-hearted snap from a sail, and the creak of boards... but these were only sounds. They went in through his ears to his brain in a perfectly normal way. Underneath them, a thick silence lived, and didn't breathe, and probed it's way to his bones... Like the ice spreading, vine-like, over the hull.

Thomas was not alone.

For a moment, he thought the boatswain was about to call out to him, because look! Arm raised as if in greeting, and mouth open. Surely, a splinter of a second away from hailing him. The moment dragged on intolerably, and Thomas realised the man wasn't going to say anything, or move. Not now, and not ever.

Thomas glanced around the deck, seeing other still and silent figures. One knelt by the wheel, his grip ice-locked and his expression strained and desperate. A boy peered out of a round window, his youth unsettling and his gaze empty.

What possessed Thomas to take step after groaning step? Why did he peek in the kitchen at the Cook slumped against the bulkhead, apron stiff, and the meal he he'd been preparing ruined and preserved for all eternity? And, with his skin freshly goosefleshed and his nerves even more stretched, why did Thomas advance to the Captain's quarters? What answers did he expect to find there?

The Captain sat at his desk with his pen in his hand, unmoving. Unbreathing.

Thomas's last nerve broke and he fled.

His crew mates gaped at him before he ever told his tale. Their faces pale and eyes wide. They knew already that he'd seen something aboard that ship... But how did they know?

The story died on his lips, and he stuttered instead,

"What? What is it?"

Someone shoved a mirror into his hands and, unthinking, Thomas looked into it.

Hair, beard, and skin had lost all colour. He looked deathly pale all over, his hair and handsome beard pure white.

He stammered out what he'd seen in a hoarse voice, his breath failing. Before his tale was half done, the ship was turned and moving away, though not as quick as any of them would have liked.

The ice reached his heart before they reached the shore again. They rolled him up and dropped him overboard, unwilling to touch him, and spoke about him only in whispers after too much rum.

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Thank you for reading! This is based on the legend of The Ghost Ship Octavius. See you tomorrow!