𝖘𝖍𝖎𝖕 𝖔𝖋 𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖗𝖔𝖗

Ship’s Logbook: 12 August 1944

If you are reading this, we have already perished.

The horrifying circumstances we presently endure have become nearly unbearable. Our ship has now been stranded at sea for nearly two weeks. Hope for survival, there is none. Relief from this horror, there is none. Our engines have become disabled, radio contact is severed, and we now flounder perilously deep within dark enemy waters. We languish in terror like a fly inexorably snared in a spider’s web. Our adversary is gleefully monitoring our slow, frightful demise. Of this, I possess little doubt.

Perhaps this is all part of fate’s cruel design to break our spirits before snatching our souls.

The veteran crew is salty and battle-hardened. They work tirelessly to keep our ship afloat, but supplies are few, and rations are waning. Angry swells drum out a bitter requiem against the ship’s damaged hull. Sharks, growing more impatient with each passing day, encircle us, eagerly awaiting their next meal. If the sea and elements do not claim us, madness soon will. The sun scourges us by day, and by night, fear stalks us, preying upon our forebodings, snickering delightfully at our futile efforts to prolong our miserable lives.

“O, death, why must you mock us so? Why must we face such cruel torture? Is it not enough that we suffer under such rigorous conditions? Are the gods somehow displeased with us? Have we not already paid sufficient penance for living the free-spirited lives of sailors?”

Most of us have come to terms with the grim reality that fate is manning the ship’s helm, steering us malevolently toward our terminal destiny. Today, 11 crew members cast themselves overboard in hopeless surrender, unable to bear the terror of languishing on this floating death trap and unwilling to remain aboard to be captured by an evil and ruthless enemy. This brings the tally now to 38. Many others are contemplating the same fate. I do not blame them. Rations are in scarce supply, and hope remains even scarcer.

I, however, refuse to relent to fear. I am the Ship’s Commander, after all, and I will remain steadfast until the end. I am resolute in will and determination. I will either be swallowed unwillingly by the sea or meet a violent end, opposing the enemy with every ounce of my strength and honor and with a savage strain of stubborn defiance. I will never be captured. I will never capitulate to the enemy.

I harbor no fanciful delusions of survival; I understand perfectly the gravity of our situation. I will soon succumb to the perils of this ordeal, but my strength of spirit shall never waver.

You are probably wondering how we have come to find ourselves in this watery graveyard. We recently set sail brimming with confidence and full of vim and vigor. We could sense that the tides of war were changing in our favor. Our enemy no longer holds the upper hand. Recent victories at sea have put our enemy on the defensive, and we have taken every initiative to seize that momentum. We all long for this war to end, to return home, and to regain our footing with reality. The war has taken an enormous toll on everyone, and three long years at sea can drive a man to the brink of madness.

We were in pursuit of an enemy vessel. She was severely damaged and limping toward friendlier waters when we eventually caught up to her. We shelled the enemy ship relentlessly and sank her quickly, but we sustained considerable damage in the engagement.

Fires erupted in our engine rooms.

We suffered a direct hit broadside, and our mighty lady was listing thirty degrees to port. We quickly sprang into action to extinguish the fires and save the pumps, but the engines and electrical systems suffered catastrophic damage.

Now, we labor in darkness, and we wait. Not for rescue — any hope of that has long vanished. Rather, we wait in solemn surrender for an inevitable visit from death. For death, though uninvited, is a familiar and honored guest.

Ship’s Logbook: 13 August 1944

Our fresh water supply is running dangerously low. We are rationing “sips” of water, but even with that, our drinking water will not last much longer. We took on supplies and rations only to sustain us for a short mission, seeking to lighten our cargo in exchange for maximum speed. The tides of war now forsake us. We endure the ill effects of the saltwater air and unyielding sun, but most of all, we suffer the anguishing effects of diminished hope.

A lack of water can quickly bring even the bravest men to their knees, but a lack of hope will just as soon devour a man’s soul.

The crew grows more agitated and violent by the hour. I have heard hushed murmurs that they curse me for our dire predicament, insisting that I led us too deep into enemy waters in pursuit of an already-floundering enemy vessel.

“It is our job to sink ships, dammit! We swore an oath. We are naval warriors! I will offer no apologies for doing my job!”

The ship’s crew is growing weary, and I doubt we can hold on much longer. I spent the majority of today locked inside my cabin. I am beginning to wonder if I may ever safely emerge. Nobody has dared to voice anything directly to me – yet, but all eyes are upon me when I venture about, and, trust me, they are not friendly eyes.

Ship’s Logbook: 14 August 1944

Paranoia and desperation are close cousins to madness, and their long, diseased tentacles infect the crew like a plague. Sailors have gathered on deck in frenzied anguish. Tempers have reached a boiling point. We have gone from a small smattering of sailors throwing themselves overboard to men now throwing others overboard amidst accusations of stolen rations. Nobody is safe.

From time to time, I hear sailors wrenching and clawing at my cabin door, trying desperately to invade my secluded sanctuary. I keep my service revolver locked and loaded, just in case, but even that would do little to slow an angry mob.

I am beginning to believe I may be the only sane one remaining aboard this ship!

Ship’s Logbook: 15 August 1944

By day, I remain hidden in my cabin, in desperate solitude. However, my gravest concern is not the solitude. Nor is it a lack of rations. It is not the angry, restless crew or the ravenous sharks gathering beneath us. It is no longer even the enemy I fear most.

By night, ghastly phantoms wander the ship. In lonesome wails, they sing out to me. I don’t know how, but they have found me, and they have furtively crept their way into my cabin. They lurk among the shadows of the night, the tormented souls of the unfortunate sailors lost under my command. They seek to avenge their deaths. This I know – and this I fear. I hide, quietly entombed in my cabin, seeking to evade their wrath, though I am certain they hearken to my every whisper. Listening intently. Waiting. Lingering just beyond the peripheral fringes of the pale moonlight. Carefully watching me, biding their time. Haunting me! Terrorizing me! Tormenting me!

They delight in my agony. I sense it. Deep within the very marrow of my bones, I feel it – I know it!

“Why must you taunt me? Why must you drive me thus to madness? Go away at once!”

I do not fear war or death. I have scoffed in the face of danger. I pride myself on having nerves of steel. I am a man of action – a fighter! How, then, am I to defend myself against an angry mob of vengeful ghosts?

This is how I spend my nights – awaiting my death. Longing for it, even. Anything to escape these hideous specters.

“Scoundrels! Demon Dogs! Depart! Haunt me no longer! Leave this world! DEPART!”

“God help me, I must escape! Do not allow me to die in the company of these insolent and detestable apparitions! I refuse to remain aboard this confounded ship one moment longer!”

“To the sea – I must retreat! TO THE SEA!”

~~~~~~~

SPLASH!!

Over the Ship’s loudspeaker: “Man Overboard, Starboard! Man Overboard, Starboard! Divers report!”

~~~~~~~

Ship’s Logbook: 16 August 1944 (Entry by the Executive Officer)

Over the past two weeks, the Commander was confined to his quarters under the Naval Surgeon’s care. The Commander was injured during a skirmish we had several weeks ago, and he suffered from infection, a high fever, and delusions ever since.

He scribbled madly in the Ship’s Logbook. He was convinced that the ship was sinking and insisted that he was being haunted.

Early this morning, with scarcely a hint of warning, the Commander hastily bounded from his quarters with a shriek and flung himself overboard. Rescue crews quickly went into the water in a desperate attempt to save the Commander’s life, but to no avail. His body has yet to be recovered, and he is presumed dead. Funeral arrangements will follow.

⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆ ⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆ ⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆ ⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆

Thank you for taking the time to read my haunted little tale!

⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆ ⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆ ⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆ ⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆