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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Sunflower_Seed02 on 2023-06-24 07:53:53+00:00.
June 1st, 1892
The diary of Captain Jackson Hayes.
We are stranded. Our ship, the Mayflower, drifts, or more often remains motionless, a dot on the vast expanse of water. The water pledged us immense power and duty; it was meant to carry us far on its majestic journey. I gaze outside, and it taunts us. It taunts us, and there are no gulls to join in its mocking laughter. Land has vanished from our sight since our departure. The distance fills me with apprehension. I fear for my men.
According to my records, we set sail two weeks ago. Can it truly have been only two weeks? The storm that arrived assaulted us with fury, seizing our rudder, reducing it to splintered fragments, and tearing open the sails with vengeful force. It also claimed most of my ink, splattering it across the cabin, and now I have no water to spare for its cleansing. I could employ the sea salt, but I refuse to grant it any power. I cannot even bear to lay my eyes upon it.
Some of my men have resorted to fixating on the vast expanse before us. At times, they claim to witness fish and creatures lurking beneath the crystalline waters. Other times, they defecate or retch into it. Our intended destination was South America, yet I fear we may as well be on a quest for a phantom.
June 3rd, 1892
I’ve commenced using one of the kitchen knives to etch tally marks on the wall of my chamber. I am no longer certain of the dates in this diary. However, I must maintain the facade for the crew that I still have a grasp on things. Henry, the cabin boy, claims he has been keeping count as well. Yet, when I ventured into the crew chambers, his tally marks far surpassed mine.
The days blur together, along with the oppressive heat. Good Lord, the heat bears down upon us. The men are doing whatever they can to salvage the sails, but there has been no wind since the storm. Even if we managed to repair the sails, there would be nothing to propel us forward, and they would only return charred and parched. Today, Malakai entered, his skin so severely burnt that blisters had formed—large, swollen sacs filled with fluid protruding from beneath his skin. He howled in agony as he scratched them, for they were intensely itchy, with skin peeling and inflamed. Another crew member suggested he plunge into the water, but even that feels warm.
We are enveloped by it, shimmering in the sunlight, yet refusing to provide us respite through gentle rocking. We are encircled by that which we cannot drink. And what little we can, we are rapidly depleting. Henry has confided in me that some individuals are consuming more than their allotted ration, but what can I do? A captain is nothing without a seaworthy vessel.
June 6th, 1892.
During the night, the ship emits groans and squeals as if it is writhing in agony. Have you ever heard a rabbit scream as it meets its demise? That is how the Mayflower sounds. The men have begun to whisper. We are not alone in these waters. There exists some form of creature lurking beneath the surface, residing at depths too profound for our gaze. However, during the night, when visibility fails us, it ascends to the water’s surface and strikes our bow with immense force. Its blows send powerful shockwaves coursing through our bodies, causing our teeth to grind together. I have heard that the men no longer find rest in hammocks as it renders them unconscious. Instead, they slumber on the floor like livestock. Terror spreads like wildfire. What kind of monstrosity haunts these waters? Into what have we ventured?
June 9th, 1892.
I have beheld it. Last night, I ascended to the ship’s deck and extended my neck to peer over. The moon, a mere sliver, cast its light without hindrance by clouds, for no clouds have graced the sky. Yet, it emerged. It was a sight that filled me with dread. Initially, I mistook it for some form of whale, given its bloated and immense form. However, my eyes soon perceived the decay that sprouted from apertures torn into its back and sides. From the decomposition, barnacles and seaweed clung to the creature, shrouding it in an ominous cloak. Yet, its head was unlike that of a whale. It possessed an abnormal size and shape, with long, spindly tentacles extending far in front of it, exhibiting an inquisitive motion. At the extremity of each of these protruding, monstrous appendages appeared to be blades, resembling the inside of a whale’s mouth, yet fashioned for rending and tearing flesh. Its eyes, if they were indeed eyes, were hollow sockets emanating a phosphorescent glow. I observed as it maneuvered its body, then recoiled in terror as it dealt another blow to the ship’s foundation. The men’s screams pierced my ears as I succumbed to a fit of retching. The stench, the foul odor permeated from the breach where the creature emerged from the water’s depths. It carried the putrid scent of decay, of decomposing fish and death.
June 12th, 1892.
The stench of decay lingers, ingrained beneath my fingernails despite my relentless efforts to cleanse it away. The crew, too, bears witness to its foul presence, and I dread that madness is gradually seizing hold of us all. Malakai’s sunburn worsens with each passing day. Pus oozes from the unhealed bumps, and he emits anguished screams when the ship sways.
Henry, always a quiet and dutiful cabin boy, has fallen into silence. A nervous twitch has afflicted him, his fingers trembling incessantly. I am informed that he remains the sole occupant of his hammock, tightly wrapping himself within it to the point of suffocation, while the other sailors have resorted to securing themselves. Henry’s eyes have sunken, leaving only the faintest trace of blue in his irises. He does not utter a word, nor does he request his ration of water. It is necessary to practically compel him to ingest it.
I fear for Malakai, and I fear for Henry, but above all, I fear for my own sanity.
June 15th, 1892.
Tensions escalate amidst the encroaching madness. This morning, a disagreement ensued when Malakai, barely maintaining his balance, accidentally collided with another crew member while clutching his water ration. The precious liquid spilled and, in a frenzy, at least five bodies scrambled atop one another in a desperate scramble to reclaim it. The other crew member narrowly evaded the chaotic commotion, but Malakai, unable to extricate himself, was overwhelmed and trampled. Even after the others moved on, Malakai remained prone on the ground, his eyes shut. He still breathes, yet offers no response. Pus seeps through his shirt, saturating the floorboards. Due to the putrid stench emanating from his presence, the other men refused to have him in their quarters, and so they bound him to the kitchen table. It was not a precaution against him rising, but rather a measure taken to prevent him from being involuntarily dislodged.
Henry’s behavior has taken a further turn for the worse, his eyes reduced to narrow slits of phosphorescent blue. He incessantly mutters to himself, though his words remain unintelligible. According to one of the men, he spent the entire night on the deck, fixated on the ocean. The crew maintains a cautious distance, striving to cleanse themselves of Malakai’s odor. We cannot endure any more divisions among us.
June 18th, 1892.
In the dead of night, I am jolted awake by piercing screams. Initially, I presumed it was yet another assault from the creature, battering the vessel and unsettling us. However, the men are in a frenzy, their cries echoing throughout the ship.
Outside, I witnessed a horrifying sight. Henry brandished a knife, sprinting with purpose. To my belated realization, the cook, who stood guard at the kitchen door, became his unfortunate target. Henry drove the blade deep into the cook’s abdomen. I pursued Henry, only to find him standing over Malakai’s lifeless form, engaged in a chilling chant. I watched in dread as he ruthlessly plunged the knife into Malakai’s throat.
I yearn for the strength to have intervened, even if it were merely a desperate scream. Yet, I stood motionless, fixated on the cascading blood pooling across the floor, staining Henry’s boots, inching closer to me. Henry, momentarily ensnared in some trance-like state, paused. With caution, I approached, reluctant to startle the boy, and gingerly took the knife from his grasp. I was at a loss, uncertain of what to do next, but the other members of the crew knew.
They seized Henry’s body, and the boy exhibited a fleeting moment of shock akin to an electric shock. Then, he commenced a frenzied frenzy, viciously thrashing and biting. The crew and I stumbled over the cook’s lifeless form as we ascended to the deck. As if compelled by a singular emotion, we acted as one collective entity, propelling Henry towards the precipice of the ship. He realized his fate too late, just as Axel, the burliest of our crew, seized his arms and cast him overboard. I wish I had uttered something, pleaded for mercy on behalf of the boy, or exhibited any semblance of compassion. Yet, I remained silent amidst a seething mass of vengeance.
June 19th, 1892.
As we move about the ship, we tread upon the stained remnants of the cook’s and Malakai’s blood. None of us dares to approach the ocean to cleanse ourselves of it. The incessant swaying persists, although it lacks the rhythmic cadence of natural waves. The creature is deranged, of that I am certain. The crew is divided, with half believing that the creature drov…
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