The Ghost Ship Leviathan by Pat Sutphin

Author:Pat Sutphin [Sutphin, Pat]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2023-12-06T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 12

They make their way down the corridors, cautious and quiet. There’s been no sign of the creatures since the bizarre experience on the lift, but their mark is everywhere. In the red glow of the emergency lights, the scene before them resembles the remnants of a massacre. Blood stains the floor. It drips down from the ceiling above, leaving puddles of putrid turmoil in its wake. Liquid landmines of lost souls. The walls, pristine only minutes ago, are now scuffed and scarred with the scratches of desperate victims.

“What is going on?” Catus whispers, loud enough for only Purloin and Mallet to hear. “This hall was clean a moment ago. How could this happen without us noticing? I hear very good. My ears would have heard.”

No one responds. Mallet resists the urge to correct Catus’ grammar, a lesson he learned long ago. There are more pressing issues to deal with. The only shared thought among the group is escaping this ship, preferably without alerting any of the passengers of their presence. An erroneous dream, especially with this bunch.

Purloin raises a hand to halt the group. The door to their right is slightly ajar, and from within, a haunting melody drifts into the corridor. Purloin glances at Catus, who readies his weapon. Mallet takes a step back, distancing himself from the room. He knows he’s no good in a fight. The best he can offer is some cover fire, but even that is unreliable. Mallet fixes things. Breaking them is Catus’ job.

Purloin counts down with his fingers. With a heavy heave, the door swings open, revealing a room shrouded in a darkness that seems to devour any hint of light. Catus cautiously enters, his eyes struggling to adjust. But his sense of smell is unafflicted. The air hangs heavy with a putrid stench, like rotting vegetation fertilized with blood. There’s a metallic sting to the decay that causes his snout to crinkle. Still, something else catches his attention. It’s faint, but distinct. Sweat masked by a cheap cologne. The bitter floral scent stands out among the contrasting acrid tang of mold.

Catus’ ears perk forward, focusing on the sounds of the room. An unsettling silence grips the area, broken only by the soft music emanating from the far corner.

A figure huddles there, a mere silhouette against the inky blackness. As Purloin steps in, the red glow of the corridor cascades into the room and casts shadows on the wall, twisting the shapes into grotesque forms. Horrors fueled by their imaginations. As the light reaches the figure, it reveals a man cowering beside a desk, a small music box clutched tightly in his hands.

He shifts back and forth in his hiding space, unable to control the twitches of his extremities. He babbles incoherently, words falling from his lips with no sensible cadence. His eyes, wide and unblinking, dart around the room as if he’s witnessing terrors only he can see.

An unsettling sight for any man to witness. Purloin aims his weapon toward the man, but a giant paw slowly pushes the barrel down.

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