The Plague of the Deep

The Erebus, a massive cargo vessel, had been navigating the vast and desolate waters of the Southern Ocean for weeks. The crew, a hardened group of twenty, had grown used to the monotonous rhythm of the waves and the constant hum of the ship's engines. The isolation was routine, the cold biting, but nothing they hadn’t faced before. That was until the day they discovered the ancient artifact.

It began with the storm. A tempest more ferocious than any they had ever encountered battered the ship, forcing it off course. The sky was a roiling mass of dark clouds, lightning streaking across the horizon, the sea churning like a beast awakened. The crew fought to keep the ship afloat, but the storm had its own plans, driving the Erebus toward an uncharted island that rose ominously from the sea.

Once the storm subsided, Captain Reynolds ordered an expedition to the island. A small group of men disembarked, their boots sinking into the wet sand as they made their way inland. The island was barren, save for a strange, jagged rock formation at its center. It was there, hidden among the rocks, that they found it—a black stone idol, weathered by time but still emanating an aura of malevolence. The idol was a grotesque depiction of a being unknown to them, with too many eyes and tentacles coiled around its form like serpents. Its gaze seemed to follow them, even in the dim light.

Despite an uneasy feeling that settled in the pit of their stomachs, they brought the idol aboard, believing it might fetch a high price from collectors. That decision would seal their fate.

The first signs of the plague appeared three days later. It started with Thompson, the ship's engineer. He complained of a fever and an unbearable itch beneath his skin. At first, the crew thought it was just the flu or some reaction to the cold, damp environment. But then the rash appeared—an angry, dark red that spread across Thompson’s chest and arms, pulsating as if alive. His eyes became bloodshot, his pupils dilated, and he began to mumble incoherently about voices in the dark, calling to him from the deep.

Within hours, Thompson's condition worsened. His skin began to blister, black veins snaking their way up his neck. The crew watched in horror as his flesh seemed to rot away before their eyes, revealing sinew and bone beneath. His body twisted unnaturally, joints snapping and realigning as if reshaped by some unseen force. When he screamed, it was not a sound a human should make—a guttural, alien howl that echoed through the ship’s corridors.

Panic spread as more crew members began to show similar symptoms. The cook, Johnson, was next, followed by Martinez, the navigator. Each one succumbed faster than the last, their bodies contorting into grotesque forms that defied nature. Their faces elongated, jaws unhinged, teeth becoming jagged fangs. Limbs stretched, bones cracking and reshaping until they were no longer recognizable as human.

As the plague claimed more victims, Captain Reynolds struggled to maintain control. The ship became a floating nightmare, the once familiar creaking of the hull now accompanied by the inhuman shrieks of the transformed crew. The air grew thick with the stench of decay, and the walls of the ship seemed to sweat, a viscous, dark substance oozing from the metal as if the Erebus itself was rotting from within.

Reynolds soon realized that the transformation was more than just physical. The infected crew members began to speak in unison, their voices a low, guttural chant in a language no one recognized. Their eyes, once filled with fear and pain, now gleamed with an unnatural light, as if they were gazing into another world. They spoke of an ancient deity, one that had slumbered beneath the waves for millennia, waiting for the right moment to rise again.

It became clear that the idol was not just a relic, but a conduit—a link to this ancient being. The plague was its way of reaching out, claiming new vessels for its return. The crew were no longer just men; they were becoming something else, something monstrous, bound to the will of this forgotten god.

Desperation set in. Reynolds ordered the idol to be thrown overboard, hoping to break whatever curse had befallen them. But it was too late. The infected crew, now fully transformed into horrific, twisted creatures, resisted violently. They had become zealots of the ancient deity, protectors of the idol, their minds lost to its influence.

In the end, only a handful of crew members remained untouched, barricaded in the engine room. They could hear the others outside, their bodies slithering and scratching against the walls, chanting the name of their new master, calling to him from the deep.

As the days wore on, hope faded. The surviving crew knew they could not hold out forever. The ship was adrift, lost in the vast ocean, cut off from any hope of rescue. The plague had turned their once safe haven into a prison, a temple for a god they could not comprehend.

On the final night, as the last of the uninfected huddled together, they felt the ship lurch. The sea outside was calm, but the Erebus moved as if something beneath it had stirred. The chanting grew louder, a cacophony of voices that filled the ship, drowning out all other sounds. And then, from the depths, they heard it—a voice, ancient and powerful, answering the call of its devoted followers.

The last thing they saw before darkness claimed them was the idol, glowing with an unholy light, and the creatures that were once their friends bowing before it, awaiting the return of their god.