Phantom Ships

The boat rocked back and forth, making Cyrus queasy. Standing at the guardrail of the Lysandre Quinn, he looked out at the churning, frigid expanses of Lake Superior. Below him, icy-blue waves pounded against the side of the boat, rusting the steel and spraying the deck with breathtakingly cold water. It was a calm night, as far as nights on the Great Lakes go, and the moon was shining brightly in the clear starry sky. The northern lights rippled against space, and the midnight hour was silent. No islands were in sight, and the boat was completely alone in the water. Cyrus exhaled, sending a cloud of frosty breath into the air. A geologist travelling from Duluth, Minnesota to a convention in Chicago, Illinois, Cyrus MacHudson was regretting his choice to take a boat. “Beautiful starry nights!”, his friends had told him. “The weather is great for the lungs!” “You’ll see one of the best waterways in the nation!” “The wildlife there is amazing!” So far on this several-day trip, Cyrus had thrown up twice from seasickness, hit his head on a pipe, and slipped in an icy puddle, soaking his clothes. “At least they had been right about the gorgeous nights”, Cyrus thought. “They truly are magnificent”. His thoughts were interrupted by a sound coming from the opposite side of the deck. Cyrus turned and saw one of the crewmates standing at the starboard side, singing to himself. “The cold winds, so cruel, take but don’t give. They send the sailors to rest with the fish. You can never tame a lake this big, for the shores of Michigan belong to God alone.” “God, what a creepy song,” thought Cyrus. “So unhappy and without rhyme.” The singing sailor looked to be about forty-so, but it was hard to tell in the dim moonlight. He had a bit of a beard, and was dressed in the regular uniform of a ship’s engineer. He clasped in one hand what appeared to be a flask of whisky, and clenched the guardrail tightly with the other. He was evidently lost in thought, as he didn’t notice when Cyrus approached him and jumped when he said “What brings you out here this time of night?” “Huh!?” the sailor spluttered. “Oh, crap, just you, that geologist fello’, right? For a second I thought you were the Cap'n' or som’thin. “ He took a swig of what was definitely whisky and continued. “Just thinkin’. About the stars, the lights, the fishes, this watery Hell we live on.” Cyrus was taken aback for a moment. “You mean the Lakes? I would have thought that you of all people would know that Man conquered them a long time ago. Why, after they built that canal up in New York, the watery waves fell beneath the might of progress! Ships cross these lakes safely every day, there’s no need to fear these meager puddles!” The sailor turned to him and stared. After a few moments of silence he said “You truly are a geologist, ya’ know that? Starin’ at the rocks all day, convinced of humanity’s might. No’ the lan’ don’t move, don’t got waves. The lakes is surrounded by lan’ so why should we fear them? Ha! I laugh in the face of whatever man calls these ‘puddles’. I know better. They’s livin, they’s hatin’. Them lakes can never be conquered, ya’ hear? No matter how many boats they throw on them, nature will always have the upper hand.” With this sentiment, he took another swig from his flask. Cyrus, slightly embarrassed, remained silent for a few moments before looking at his watch. “Well, what do you know? It’s tomorrow already, the midnight hour passed us by. It’s November tenth, 1905 now.” The sailor said nothing. After a few moments, Cyrus was about to make an excuse to leave, when the sailor suddenly spoke. “Tell me, ya’ ever seen one of them phantom ships?” Cyrus was definitely convinced that this man was drunk. “A ghost ship? No, no, I don’t think I ever have.” “No, I ain’t talkin’ ‘bout some ghost ship, I mean the phantom ships that pass in the night.” “Tell me,” he continued, “Ya’ ever wonder what happens to all them sailors who perish on the lakes? They keep doin’ their job, sailon along in the great beyond, only, when night falls, they come and sail with the rest of the livin’ world.” he nodded. “Yup, they pass regular boats in the night, usually without the crew bein’ ever the wiser.” He turned back toward the water. “That’s what I’m lookin’ for. The phantom ships.” He paused again, before turning back to Cyrus. “Tell me,” he said curiously, “Ya’ ever heard of the Bannockburn?” “Yes, actually, I think I have. Wasn’t that a boat that wrecked some decades ago?” The sailor nodded. “Only, It didn’t wreck. She vanished, sailed through a crack in the lake. None of the men were ever seen again. She’s been sighted several times since, preluding to some disaster. The other mates take her as a bad omen, but me?” The sailor shook his head, “I’d pay all the tea in China to see her, to see that ship.” He took another swig of his whisky. “To see my brother again.” “Was he on that ship?” “Yep. Never even got to say my goodbyes.” “I’m truly sorry.” “Don’t be, ya’ didn’t have nothin’ to do with it.” “But still, to lose a brother like that, to not even have a body to bury, never knowing how he died or where he is…” Cyrus’ voice trailed off. “It’s hard, it sure is. Ya’ try to get through it the best ya’ can. Heck, that was decades ago, and I’m still tryna’ get over it.” Both men stood their silently, watching the waves below. After some time, a strange thing happened. Cyrus became aware of a blue-green mist blowing over the deck, and felt a shiver run up his spine. He turned to the sailor, and saw him scanning the horizon. “Their here! Their here! The phantom ships that pass in the night! Their here!” He began pointing excitedly over the deck, and Cyrus turned to see what the sailor was gesturing to. Over the horizon, a dark cloud of the fog rolled across, blocking out the stars and moon. Out of it, poured hundreds of ships, all a translucent blue or green. Cyrus stared in awe as he read the names of the ships, and noticed that they were all the names of wrecks. He ran to the side of the boat, and a look of fear crossed his face as one of the ghostly vessels sailed straight toward the center of the ship. “She’s going to hit us!” Cyrus cried. His voice was only met by joyous laughter from the sailor, who stared wide-eyed at the ship, arms open, mouth grinning, chanting “The Phantom Ships! The Phantom Ships! The souls of those gone still haunt these frigid lakes!” Cyrus coward in fear as the ship barreled toward them. “This is the end” he whispered, as he sat huddled at the railing. He took one last look at the translucent green freighter plowing toward him, the words “Carl Bradley” etching themselves in his mind, and held his breath. He noticed a chill come over him, and smelled the waves of the lakes permeate the air around his person. Braving a quick glance upward, Cyrus was astonished to see the ship passing right through the Lysandre! He stared in wonder at the see-through walls that presented themselves around him, and looked over to see the sailor dancing joyously through the essence. Cyrus stared wide-eyed at the scene around him. Above his head, ghostly sailors went about their normal duty, appearing not to notice the ship they were sailing through. Cyrus laughed. Eventually, the ship completely passed through them, and the sailor ran to the opposite end of the boat to watch it sail off into the horizon. “What say ye, dreaded spirit? What does thou know, o’ tortured soul?” he called mockingly. To both Cyrus and the sailor’s surprise, a ghostly figure ran to the rear of the ship and called “Beware! For the lakes will rage again, and sailors will perish! Avoid the water on the 27th, but if you find yourself on the Lake during the day of the 28th, sail for land. The green light will guide you. Crawl ashore when the waves die, and burn the drums! That is the only way to assure your survival!” And with that haunting sentiment, the ship plunged into the depths, the fog dissipated, and the sky was clear once more. Cyrus and the sailor had gone to bed immediately after that event, and they fairly avoided each other the remainder of the trip. If they did happen to meet, they only talked of trivial things, such as the weather, and the fish, refusing to discuss that night altogether. After they reached shore Cyrus tried his hardest to stay on land through the 27th, but aside from the Lysandre there was no boat that could take him back to Duluth until the next season. Reluctantly, Cyrus once again boarded the boat on the dawn of the 25th, fearful of the spirit’s call. The winds began to blow on the 26th, and were soon followed by rain and snow. Cyrus stayed inside his cabin the entire day, keeping a life jacket close by. The boat began to sink the next day. Some time during the early morning of the 27th, a large “boom!” was heard, and was soon followed by all sorts of bells, alarms, and cries from the crewmates and other passengers. The engine had exploded, and the ship was in flames. Rushing to the top deck, Cyrus wasted no time, making the preparations to launch a lifeboat all on his own. All around him, people shouted and screamed, and some even jumped into the lake. Behind him the helm was in flames, the captain and the other crewmates that would steer the vessel were nowhere to be seen. Cyrus was just about to send the lifeboat into the churning waves below when a voice called out “Wait! Stop! Wait for me!”, and the sailor from the night of the 10th came running towards him. Both he and Cyrus leapt into the raft, their faces stinging from the cold and the rain, and pushed themselves away from the sinking wreck. As they looked back the boat slowly became a small dot of light, which grew smaller and smaller until it was gone, leaving the two men alone with the full fury of a November storm. They could have been floating their for hours or only a few seconds when they spotted a green light off in the distance. The sailor evidently remembered the ghost’s warning as he immediately reached underneath his seat and grabbed two oars, throwing one to Cyrus and shouting “Start rowing!” above the drone of the wind and rain. The two men began furiously paddling, with the gale actively pushing them back with every clap of thunder, every smashing wave. They rowed, and rowed, and rowed, and rowed. They rowed for three hours. Their arms felt as though they would fall off, but still the men kept rowing, fighting desperately for their lives. Eventually, the green light disappeared, and they came upon a black rock with a dark, empty tower perched above it. The waves suddenly turned, and dashed their boat against an outcropping, smashing it to smithereens. The men were swept away pulled into the depths of the lake. Cyrus began rapidly groping and grabbing in the darkness, searching for anything, anything at all to grab onto. Just when he thought that he would pass out, he felt something cold and hard cut into his hand. He grabbed firmly and pulled himself up onto a sharp, pointed rock a few meters off the abandoned lighthouse. He looked around in the darkness, and saw the vague figure of a man holding on to a rock similar to his not three feet away. The sailor had made it. “Can you hear me?” Cyrus shouted, trying to be heard against the storm. “Yes, I-I can!” the sailor shouted back. “Don’t let go, do you hear? Just keep holding on! Help will arrive soon, I’m sure of it!” His words seemed to be lost to the sailor, who gave no indication that he heard Cyrus anymore. The two men held for what seemed like an eternity. The icy wind and rain cutting like knives into their faces, the waves crushing them against their rocky prisons, the darkness surrounding them only broken by flashes of lightning. And above it all stood the lighthouse, cruel, dark, and imposing, watching down on them like a vulture eyeing a dying animal. They held for seven hours, the storm refusing to let down. At some point, the sailor turned to him, and Cyrus knew instinctively what he was about to do. “NO!” He shouted, but it was too late. The sailor let go, tumbling into the furious lake to join his brother in the crew of sailors lost on the sea. Cyrus was alone. He must have passed out, and by some miracle managed to keep his grip on the rock, for when he opened his eyes they were blinded by the sun. The waters were completely still, and the day was warm. The storm was over. Cyrus made his way to the light, where he searched in vain for a way to get into the locked building and signal the Coast Guard. After hours of walking in circles around the small rock he stood upon, he remembered the last thing that the spirit had told him. Looking to the shore, he saw a lighter and a drum of oil, the only remains of the Lysandre, washed up on shore. A Coast Guard rescue vessel saw Cyrus’ fire within the hour, and he was soon saved. He watched as the dark lighthouse vanished into the horizon and told his story to the Coast Guard, who gave him hot chocolate and tended to his wounds, omitting the bits about being warned by ghosts. “You sure are lucky.” one of the medics commented as he wrapped Cyrus in a blanket and bandaged an arm bloodied by the rocks. “If we hadn’t found you, you would have been trapped on the Stannard Rock, the most isolated lighthouse in the world. It seems that the keeper was swept out to sea, and you would have been all alone and that little prison.” “You’re right, I am lucky.” mused Cyrus. “ It would have been just me and that dreaded fleet of ships that sailed to the bottom of the lakes.” As he watched the familiar harbor of Duluth come into sight, Cyrus could have sworn that the waves made the shape of a hand, a hand tough and beaten from years of working on the lakes, waved to him to assure that all was fine in the beyond, and disappeared, though it must have been a trick of his tired mind. Cyrus passed out.