Despite his reluctance to idle, Morgan would have found himself standing in the stuffy cockpit of the modest fishing trawler, even without obliging his duty to the captain. Sweltering heat radiated from the window from which he stood at. He squinted intently, looking past the glinting waves as they cast sunlight through the glass. In the distance, it was a mere speck on the horizon that rotated senselessly, roaming the ocean solely by the rolling arcs of water beneath it. The current was pulling the bumbling stray vessel closer, and as it approached, he knew it wouldn’t be long before the captain would want to do something about it. So, he dug into his pockets for his crumpled packet of cigarettes.
Captain Pike sat beside him fiddling with the radio, the buzz of frequencies whirling from the speaker as she twisted the dials. To his left attached to the ceiling corner, a small metallic fan trembled on its highest setting, stirring the air, cooling their sweat glazed skin. His gaze was broken by the captain as she clicked the radio’s mouthpiece back onto its mount. She leaned back in her chair and ran her fingers through her frizzy grey hair.
“No response,” she said.
Morgan slipped a cigarette in his mouth and spoke through it. “You think the storm the other week has something to do with it,” he said.
Her eyes remained fixed on the distant boat. “We’re going to have to take a closer look,” she said.
“How are we going to reach the quota you set if we spend all day looking at ghost ships,” he asked, pointedly.
She spun around in her chair to face him; her frown was only intensified by the wrinkles charting her face. “What, you’re not even a bit curious?”
“I’d rather just get the work done; plus, I can’t be staying late today.”
She pulled herself up out of her chair and stood tall. “Look Morgan, we were caught in that storm. We nearly couldn’t afford the damage too. So, count yourself lucky you get to come out here at all because that boat could’ve just as easily have been us. If there are people on that boat, they almost certainly need help, and if there’s not, well…” She eyed the boat.
“Finders keepers.”
“You’re not actually suggesting that we— and what about our safety? It’d be dangerous to board.”
She glared at the unlit cigarette on his lip. “Dangerous for those that may still be aboard as well.”
Morgan sighed and shuffled toward the door. “Well, I’m having a smoke before we do anything.”
“Let your sister know you’ll both be boarding the boat.”
Morgan turned back to face her. “But she— you—” Her crossed arms were more than enough for him to know it was no use, she was the captain. Defeated, he pushed through the cockpit door and meandered on deck to make use of his cigarette.
Morgan slumped in the only brittle garden chair on deck; its plastic as worn as himself. Like a smouldering mast with its sail burned away, the cigarette jutted stiff between his lips adding specks of ash to the tally of grey whiskers scoring his dark beard. He surveyed the deck, despite the familiar crew tinkering away at their odd jobs, it seemed unfamiliar. Perhaps because it had been adorned with a new machine that now overlooked the deck. Before it was lost to the sea in the recent storm, the trawl winch had the ship’s name printed on its sides. He couldn’t help but notice it hadn’t been printed on the fresh replacement, its metallic reels without a single scratch. It was out of place on the small ship where the faded red hull was flecked with peeled paint and patches of rust from decades of service and lashings from the sea— Wildfire Willie had rarely known a day at sea without its nets sprawled and its deck flush with flatheads, trevally, or school whiting.
The old trawler had been defiled by new machines and a crew that had fallen out of routine. His cigarette didn’t do nearly as much to help his tense shoulders to relax than the dependable faded green garden chair he sat on. It had somehow managed to survive the storm and continued its important work of seating Morgan for his pensive cigarette breaks.
He glanced at his sister. Sarah was meant to be closely shadowing him when she had pointed the bumbling husk out to him and since she was not yet familiar with the procedures of the trawler, he had left her to inform the captain. It seems that during that time she’d only grown more enamoured with her findings. The back of her scruffy black bob faced him as her hands clenched the starboard rail and, without falling into the ocean, she was leaning out as close as she could possibly be to the seemingly unmanned ship that loomed ever closer.
He muttered something she was quick to interpret thanks to a childhood of growing up together.
“So, we’re boarding it,” she said, excitement building on her cheeks.
He grumbled affirmatively.
“If you’re worried because the storm was a lot for my second week, I’m telling you right now, I can definitely handle climbing onto another boat. Besides, it’s exciting and mysterious,” she said.
“Eager?” he said, exhaling a puff of smoke. “There’s still a lot that could go wrong. We might not like what we find.”
“Like what?” she said, offended by his pessimism.
Morgan got up and ambled to the rail next to her, flicking his cigarette butt into the sea. “I don’t know. Pirates,” he said.
She laughed, letting her hands slip off the rail. “Encountered many pirates out here have you,” she said.
“Not really, but look at it,” he said, gesturing at the boat. It was close enough now that Morgan could make out some of its peculiarities.
“What d’you mean?”
“It must have at least three types of fishing machines on it. Even at this distance I can see it has trawl winches, long lining reels and even the kind of kits you’d see on a cargo ship.”
“Is that weird?”
The door to the cockpit swung open and Captain Pike’s frizzy grey curls poked through the doorway, followed by her small face. “Alright you two, you’d better get ready to head across. We’re just about close enough.”
Water lapped at the life rafts sides as it bobbed towards the ominous ship. Morgan sat with his back to it and Sarah sat across from him steering the outboard motor to their destination. He watched as the faded Wildfire Willie logo with its decorative flame decals on the old trawler’s hull grew distant in a way that seemed to align with his sinking stomach. His grip tightened on the collection of tools the captain had set them off with.
“I get the first aid-kit,” Sarah said, “but what are those poles for?” She gestured at the two rods with long hooks fixed at the ends Morgan had been holding.
“They’re gaffs, they’re for lifting large fish out of the water,” he said.
“And large fish are going to be a problem on this ship,” she asked, playfully.
“Just in case of pirates,” he said.
She chuckled. “Maybe they’re one in the same: Big fish pirates.”
Morgan noticed her smile fade and her eyes squint as she glanced up at the ship, then steadily widened. He turned to get a look but was immediately struck by how imposing the vessel had become now that they were closing in on it; he gripped the raft’s side to subdue the sudden sense of vertigo and turned to face Sarah again.
“What, what is it, what do you see?” he said.
“There’s someone up there.” She pointed up at one of the cockpit windows.
Morgan turned once again. “I don’t see anything.” He scanned the array of dirty windows but couldn’t make out any distinct shape. He questioned her with raised eyebrows as he faced her again.
“I swear I just saw someone.”
“You definitely saw something.”
A strong iron odour wafted around them as they pulled up to the side of the ship. The pilot ladder hung flat against the hull’s patchwork of various metal panels. Some seemed brand new, others scaley with rust. They bound the little raft to the bottom of the ladder with some sailor’s knots and began to climb. Morgan could see an array of other ladders and ropes dangling from the rails above, some that were frayed and rotted were swaying freely, knocking against the panels with a soft metallic clang. Others were as strong as the day they’d been manufactured and fastened sturdily, such as the ladder they were currently on. He ascended, careful not to drop his gaff on his sister following close behind. The first aid kit remained snug on the life raft; Morgan knew the captain had handed it to them for the façade of seeming well intended and he didn’t think himself a dishonest man.
Morgan’s boot sunk into the soft rotted wood of the deck, it was damp despite the blaring sun and to his surprise, it held his weight. It was strewn with mismatched fishing and boating machinery mounted across the whole ship, webbed together with cables and ropes rendering each respective motor, reel and crane unusable. They weren’t the only pieces of junk on deck, the whole area was littered with piles of boating gear. They found themselves stepping over piles of fishing rods and life-rings; they were ducking beneath strung up fishing nets and life jackets. He found himself growing irritated at the clutter, despite his admiration for some of the more ‘reliable’ archaic nautical instruments in the mix. With all its bits of old navy steering wheels and crumpled sails, it was a maze they were both stumbling through.
“What the hell is all this crap,” Morgan said.
“You’d think they’d want to tidy up a bit,” Sarah said, brushing a net away from her face. “What are we doing here again?” she said, uneasiness creeping into her voice.
“We’re here trying to fatten up Pike’s wallet after she spent all her money on that new winch,” he said.
“Really,” she said sarcastically.
Morgan knocked a pile of fishing traps over and he froze as the clutter loudly scattered all over the ground. “Okay,” he said, continuing to carefully tread over the obstacle he’d just made. “We’re trying to see if there’s anyone here who needs help. Or at least that’s what we’re telling ourselves.”
Sarah quietly stepped over the traps behind him. “Well, someone’s definitely put in a lot of effort to collect all this stuff.”
“Looks more like hoarding to me.” Morgan peered through a dusty window; it wasn’t as messy inside, but there appeared to be large masses dangling from the ceiling, “This where you saw them,” he asked. “I don’t really see a way inside.”
She fiddled with her fingers and looked through the window behind him. “I think so. But I don’t know, there’s so much junk around, it could have been anything.”
“Fair enough. Ah, looks like there’s a door on the other side. We’ll go around.”
They weaved, ducked, and shoved their way through the stacks of paddles, the tons of anchors and the walls of wooden barrels littering the side deck, before finally reaching the cockpit door. It was left ajar, it was dark as Morgan peeked through, he couldn’t make much out thanks to the clutter obstructing his view.
He tried to pull the door open, but it was stiff. He felt the judgment of his sister behind him. So, he wedged his gaff through the gap in the door, the pole began to bend as he slowly pried it open, he felt the rusted hinges giving way, but he reeled back as the gaff gave way first with a crack. He looked Sarah in the eyes and held up the snapped half that remained in his hand, she blinked at him. He dropped it on the ground and returned to the door. He gave it another pull; thanks to the initial levering of the broken gaff, he was able to push it fully open. The smell of sour sweat gushed out from the cockpit as the door croaked open.
He turned to Sarah. “Looks like it’s been a while.”
“Maybe no one’s here after all. Should we head back,” she said.
“Although.” Morgan’s nose twitched. “It can’t have been that long.” There was another smell creeping out of the room, something familiar beneath the strong odour of sweat— Cigarette smoke.
Morgan crept in on the creaking worn timber floor, his sister was close behind. There was less junk on the floor in the room compared to the deck. Likely because it all appeared to be lining the walls and ceiling, hanging in fishing nets. They were bulging with grey plastic devices, radios, compasses, and nautical equipment; Morgan guided them away with his forearm as he slowly moved through the room.
Moving a net of canned food revealed a bench lining the wall. He ran his fingers along the sun-bleached veneer, tracing the dry warped bubbles and splits that had formed from a lifetime of exposure. It had been abused by the salty air and an endless cycle of drying off from water that would spill in through the broken windows and rotted holes. He noticed Sarah’s hand recoiled at the chalky dry texture as it made her shudder, he glanced at his own hand still on the bench, the skin was leathered from years at sea. He continued, his finger tracking along the splintering edge of the bench before his attention was drawn to the dinette table tucked in the corner, he stopped.
“What,” Sarah said, “What is it?”
Morgan pointed at the table. “You’re right. I think you did see someone in here.”
The source of the smell, a lone cigarette rested askew in a dusty glass ashtray on the table, a ribbon of smoke still slithering out of its burning tip.
“It’s still burning.” Sarah’s eyes darted around the room. “So where are they?” she said, her eyes suddenly stopped.
Morgan followed her gaze to an opening in the floor. “Down there I’m guessing.”
It was a metallic staircase that led deeper into the hull of the ship. Morgan began to move towards it but felt a tug on his arm as Sarah grabbed him.
“Wait.” She whispered. She looked pale. “Look, there’s not even a steering whe—”
They both jumped, startled, Sarah let out an audible gasp as a buzz of static projected throughout the room, a crackling voice emerged.
“Hello, this is the Captain of the Wildfire Willie, is anyone there?”
Sarah took a deep trembling breath as Morgan tracked the noise down to one of the nets full of devices. He pulled it from the hook on which it hung and knelt as he rummaged through until he pulled a grey handheld radio from it. The small screen displayed the frequency it was tuned to; he held down the button and spoke.
“Captain, it’s Morgan.”
“Morgan.” Her voice crackled. “Is anyone there?”
“We haven’t found anyone yet, but there might be someone below deck.”
“Ah, maybe they couldn’t hear the radio if they were below deck.” The speaker buzzed. “Well keep on calling out and keep me updated, okay.”
“Okay. Over and out.”
Morgan looked up at Sarah, he could tell they’d both made the same realization. They remained there silently looking at each other as the captains’ words ran through their heads. We’ve been keeping as quiet as possible, could it have been instinctual, he wondered. Surely, we’ve just been absent minded, he assured himself. He finally stood up.
“We just didn’t think there was anyone here, that’s all,” he said.
“We haven’t called out once.” Her eyes were wide. “Morgan, this is freaking me out.”
“Look, why don’t you go wait in the boat. We’ve only got one gaff now anyway.”
She looked at him with worried relief.
He smiled. “I’ll be fine,” he said, “I’ll just duck down, have a quick look and if I don’t see anyone, I’ll be right back.” He held out his leathery hand.
“Okay.” She handed him the remaining gaff and weaved back through the nets to the door. He watched her blurred silhouette through the dusty busted up windows until it disappeared behind the piles of marine bric-a-brac littering the deck.
Even Morgan’s quietest footstep rung out with a clang along the metallic steps. The sound travelled down and around the curved walls that obscured the way ahead and whatever was producing an intense bright light that bounced up from the bottom. His grip was tight on his gaff as he readied to swing for anyone that might come into view. Those clanging footsteps transitioned to a thud as he descended; the steps had turned to polished timber on the lower part of the stairs. He paused to peer down past his boots into the shiny steps. They were remarkably perfect, not a scuff or mark to be seen — save for his own confused rugged face staring back up at him from his reflection. They were the absolute antithesis of the stairs he had just been on, and the deck for that matter and that trend continued as he carried on; the walls turned from the grimy rotted wood panelling to a smooth, pure white, hard panel wall. It was spotless and only intensified the bright light from below. Morgan squinted to protect his strained eyes before stumbling out at the bottom step.
Bright overhead lights clinically lit the hallway. It seemed to go on for an impossible length, longer than the boat’s size Morgan had observed outside. He dismissed it as an illusion due to its relatively featureless walls. Even so, the polished timber floors and smooth white walls extended far, and without any doors, save for maybe one Morgan could see in the distance. Beyond that, he couldn’t really make out the end of the hallway, it became simply too dark to see. The design seemed as if ripped straight from a modern cruise ship. The mismatch to the rotting exterior caused an itch to form at the back of Morgan’s throat; he gave up trying to make any sense of it.
As he moved ahead, he began to reconsider his decision to continue down instead of leaving with Sarah; this thought dispelled as he imagined the captain’s disapproving glare if he’d returned prematurely — likely accused of having a “man-look” too. He picked up his pace.
Eventually a dark room came up on his left. He could see straight into it as the wall dividing it from the hallway was tinted glass, which was odd considering it would leave anyone using the shiny black ceramic toilet to be very exposed. Aside from the glass wall, the only thing that made it remarkable was that it was the only room Morgan had come across so far. He dismissed it and continued further down.
Morgan had begun to stride down the hall as he grew tired of its monotony. His pace began to slow as the intense overhead lights that had been gliding away behind him reduced in frequency. The way ahead grew dim, before long there were no lights, and it was just dark. He could no longer make out the walls. It was pitch black.
He stood still, staring into the dark. He realized how quiet it had been throughout the hallway, because now he could hear something in the blackness ahead. It sounded like the soft trickling and lapping of unseen water. The sound reverberated like droplets in an underground cave. He wondered if the bilge was broken, if the ship was sinking, but he considered how he would be thrown as the boat rolled were that the case — the ship had been perfectly steady the whole time.
As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he couldn’t find the walls no matter how hard he focused, instead he could only see the peaks of the water beyond that glinted in the dark. He tried to focus on the other side of it, but it extended out infinitely, and he realized that the walls were no longer visible not because it was dark, but because they were simply no longer there, the only walls were the ones just behind him. The entire area had opened into this vast dark space full of water as if an entire black ocean had been stuffed into the bowels of this ship.
Suddenly he felt the flow of icy cold-water skim along his boots, he instinctively jumped back, and realized the water was much closer than he’d thought. As he stood, he began to see the soft ripples of water immediately before him. He crouched down and extended his gaff into it to measure its depth. He expected it to collide with the floor; pressing further, it instead kept going down, he couldn’t feel the bottom. He lost grip of it as he jolted back at the sound of a splash out in the vast blackness of the boat.
He stood, frozen and transfixed, his chest tightening as his eyes darted around the wet infinite void ahead, desperately trying to identify the source. His gut knotted. A woman’s voice murmured in the distance, somewhere out there in the dark. His eyes were wide, and goosebumps rippled out across his arms as a shiver surged through his spine. He stepped back, who could possibly be out there, he fretted. Another murmur, a different voice, emerged from the dark, followed by a measured laugh and it hollowed out the remaining sense of duty Morgan had left. He knew it was wrong, and his legs were screaming for him to run. He quietly stepped backward, keeping his wide eyes trained on the vast darkness. Without another thought, he turned heel and sprinted back down the hall.
The overhead lights returned to view and flew by, Morgan’s breath was heavy as he forced his stiff joints to swing at a range that he’d not experienced since he was young. The loud clomping of his boots skittered throughout the walls, and he could see the glass of the toilet room coming into view and the bottom of the stairs just a while ahead. But something caught his eye at the bottom of the stairs, he struggled and scrambled to a stop, pain shot up his knee and he fell onto his hands, his eyes shot back up at the stairs. He could see a pair of legs descending.
He didn’t know who the legs belonged to, but they were too small to be Sarah’s legs. With moments to spare, he stumbled through the tinted glass door into the toilet room. He pressed himself up against the cool black tiles of the wall, rubbing his sore knee and fighting to catch his breath.
He waited; his eyes unwaveringly set on the hallway through the glass. From his dark little room, the time seemed so slow. He tensed and pressed himself closer to the wall, begging it to conceal him as the figure came into view. He slumped, his shoulders relaxed, it was a small boy, ginger hair, and pale white skin, almost as smooth as the walls of the hall— save for the spatter of red that blotted his leg and was slowly soaking into the cuff of his shorts and sock.
Morgan thought of his own child waiting at home, how he’d never let her in a place like this, he wondered how any parent could let their child in a place like this. As the boy sauntered past heading toward the black ocean at the end of the hall, he suddenly stopped in the middle of the glass, right behind Morgan’s exhausted reflection. The boy’s head turned, and his blank gaze met Morgan’s wide eyes, the buzzing of the radio in his pocket had betrayed him.
“Morgan, do you read me?”
The captain’s voice rang throughout the room, as their eyes remained locked, the boy looked just as scared as Morgan. At the exact moment that the boy’s leg twitched and before Morgan could get a word in, he had taken off, sprinting down the hall, the patter of his footsteps quickly fading. The captain’s voice was serious.
“Morgan, I need you guys to come back now.”
Morgan stumbled out of the room and heard a faint splash at the end of the hall.
Where does any child go when they’re afraid, he thought, what do I as a parent hope my own daughter would do if she were afraid? At this thought, he limped as quickly as he could toward the stairs, pain shot up his knee and his grunting drowned out the buzzing of Captain Pike’s damning voice.
“Morgan, there’s something in the water.”
As he reached the bottom of the stairwell, over his shoulder he could see an extremely distant figure at the other end of the hall scuttering rapidly. He hobbled up the stairs back onto the metallic steps and into the smell of sour sweat.
“There are black shapes.”
He gritted his teeth as the nets hanging from the ceiling in the room on deck swung back and forth while he stumbled through them to the door. With fresh salty breeze entering his lungs again, he wrestled the rigid door shut.
“Like pipes, they’re coming from the abandoned ship.”
He could see the trawler in the distance as he shuffled through the side-deck past all the piles of junk, trying not to tangle his legs in the spools of rope. A glimpse of Sarah’s face came into view through a small gap in the labyrinth of scrap metal and cable; she hadn’t returned to the lifeboat but was instead still on deck.
“Sarah, there are people,” he called out, “We need to go back now!”
She turned but couldn’t seem to spot him through all the clutter. “We can’t, the lifeboat’s not in the water,” she called back.
“Where is—”
Morgan faltered back as a deafening sound blasted throughout the area, the deck rattled as a wave of pressure flew across them. An enormous orange fireball grasped up into the bright blue sky in the distance. He leaned over the rail and his heart dropped below into the sea as Wildfire Willie sat on the sea engulfed in flame, a plume of smoke dredged the sky and replaced it with swirls of black. He could see the undulating dark shapes extending out from the ship under the water, like long arms seizing what remained of Wildfire Willie’s burning frame. He turned back to the deck of the ship and stumbled along, steadying himself on any ropes and machines he could grab.
“Sarah, are you okay?” he said, calling out.
She whimpered. “No.”
“Are you hurt?” He limped further along, catching glimpses of her black hair through the scrap and machinery.
“The ship, it’s gone. The crew…”
Finally, he turned to find a way around, he gripped the edge of some warped winch machinery as he rounded the corner to support himself and paused. Right next where he placed his hand there was a red printed logo, Wildfire Willie. He let go of the machine, bewildered, it was the same winch that had been lost in the storm. He shuffled past it into an opening amongst the clutter. He saw Sarah now, she sat before him, fumbling around with the first aid kit, while still in the lifeboat that was now miraculously on deck.
His voice croaked as he found the words, “Sarah… What happened?”
Blood trickled out of her abdomen. She scrambled through the bag while trying to avoid disturbing the protruding broken gaff poles that were firmly lodged in her body, the one Morgan used on the door. She let the bag slip from her hands into the puddle forming beneath her.
“I don’t… I don’t think…” Her eyes drifted up to Morgan. “I was in the boat, there was a boy.”
He felt his sore knees grow weak and his stomach twisted at her pleading expression, and what could her big brother do. He took a step toward her but then her expression changed. He didn’t think she could get paler. Her eyes grew wide, gaping, in a familiar way, like when she’d seen the face in the window when they arrived. Her lips trembled too, as a thin stroke of red slipped down her chin. She was looking past him, just over his shoulder. He went to turn, but its slimy arm was already sliding across his neck, its slender fingers brushing across his beard before it tensed, restraining him close against its cold, wet body. He desperately clawed at the arm to pull it off, but his hands slipped across it like pulling at slick oiled fish. All he could see was Sarah quiver as she bled out, watching on in horror as pressure built against his spine, his stare locked to hers. He clenched his jaw as he desperately thrashed. It was hard and thin, pushing hard, his back arched as far it could, but the arm and its stringy taught muscles fastened him tight, he was pressed to his limit, something cracked, he shook and jerked. At last, he croaked and screamed, a cascade of his own blood flashed across the deck and his sister. Resigned, he slumped, his insides burned, he couldn’t move at all, and watched as the red hook and bloodied pole of his gaff slowly extended out from his chest. Finally, as it jutted out of him at its apex, he watched on, struggling to focus his eyes on the hook as it glistened in the sun.
The arm slowly slid off his neck and released him, then with shuddering speed the hook plunged back towards him as whoever had gripped him slid the pole back. Its sharp end pierced his chest, and he jolted back off his feet with enormous force. His limp body crashed onto the floor and the blurred silhouette of his dying sister vanished behind the piles of scrap. He fixated on his legs that dragged along deck leaving a bloody trail. He swore he passed his favourite brittle green garden chair as his vision faded. Soon, his nostrils filled with the smell of sour sweat, and he could hear the heavy breathing of his assailant, and he felt his body rhythmically thump down as the hook heaved him along by his chest. Pulled and pulled as his limbs grew cold, then it was all cold, he felt his body engulfed by water. Nerves extinguished, numbness dampened, and he was weightless.
