"Mark it, Smith," said the skipper. "4:08, a foghorn on the wind."
"Aye," said Smith, moving through the cramped cabin to the log. "A Single call, or three?"
"I don't know," said the skipper before turning to face out toward the ship’s bow. The thick glass of the cabin windows was slightly fogged over, but the night had been clear, if not pitch black. No stars. No moon.
"Sunrise at 5:02," said Smith after verifying it in the log. "It'll be good to have daylight at our backs."
"Aye," mumbled the skipper. "Aye it would be nice."
He'd turned to one of his moods again. This had been a strange trip and Smith watched his captain for a moment longer than he would have, hesitation be damned, were the sun to be shining above or the night to not been so dark. He turned to the back of the cabin. It was a small space, helm and console at the bowside of the room, and behind a curtain currently open, their mess and beds. Oh, there beds. Smith looked towards his think mattress and blanket with a longing that sat firmly in his gut, before he turned to the mess and lifted the coffee pot. Empty again. He started a small flame on the gas burner as he filled the percolator with water for another batch.
The boat lurched as if it snagged on something.
"Calm that flame!" cried the skipper as he raced towards the mess. Smith was there first and turned down the burner to no more than a trickle.
"Sir?" He said. The skipper's face was gaunt in the dim light of the cabin. He had only allowed the light of a single oil lamp within the cabin and ensured all lights on the boat faced forward. Smith thought the man looked terrified.
"Tis a bad night for light to be close to us. these seas..." the skipper put his hand to his head, wiping away sweat from his brow as he trailed off. Smith simply watched, unmoving. "Cook your coffee, sir, and be done with that flame as quickly as you can."
With that, the skipper turned and looked at the helm and its maps. "I'll go check the cargo." And he was gone, out the door and into the cold darkness of the night about them.
An hour till sunrise. That's all there was, thought Smith, and hour till daylight and they would be fine.
He set the percolator atop the small flame and waited. He looked to the helm and the maps sitting thereon, but knew it would be no use. Smith was a man new to the sea, new to fishing. He'd joined with the skipper for this job and this job alone. The Skipper said it would be a test and the payment for which far outstripped all the other listings for a greenhorn fisherman that Smith had seen and applied for. No one wanted him but the skipper, and Smith knew he owed the man something for that trust. The percolator began to bubble and perc, and Smith turned the flame even lower.
He wondered at that lurch. the skipper seemed perturbed by the flame of the stove than any damage to the vessel. They couldn't have run aground, they'd sailed far too long out for that to be the case. Smith had no idea where they were, but he knew they were beyond any of the other fishing boats that left port with them. But what of the foghorn? The skipper had left them all behind and sailed them on a course that he was secretive of until he realized Smith's entire lack of knowledge of navigation. "you're a good man, Smith," said the Skipper when he realized Smith knew nothing of the sea: "An ignorant hard worker. You're just what I needed. If this venture succeeds, we'll be well paid and the two of us will have the only line out for our catch." He'd leaned in close then, coffee and tobacco staining his breath to the point Smith could taste the air. "We'll be rich, Smith, rich in more ways than you even imagine. Work hard and listen to me and we'll make it through all of this."
The percolator bubbled brown and pulled Smith from his reminiscions. He had no more than turned off the flame and begun pouring a mug for his skipper than the man returned. Cold air rushed in from the darkness about the cabin as the man entered. He looked almost skeletal in the dim light. His long slicker jacket floating off his body as if there was no meat to hold onto it anymore. Smith wondered if he was eating enough. They had naught but dry snacks since their catch and starting the return journey.
"Good, good. Keep the flame out," said the skipper. "I think we ought to keep only the bow lights on now. He dimmed the cabin lamp further so Smith could only see shadows about them. Beyond the cabin glass, the bow lights shined bright yellow light on the dark seas ahead. The water and the sky were separated only by the whites of the waves breaking as the small fishing boat cut through the sea.
They hadn't stopped sailing since they had caught the big one. Whatever the skipper had been looking for. He'd drawn it up from a depth that Smith didn't think possible. There was so much line let out that he couldn't even guess at how much water stood between their boat and their catch, let alone the seafloor.
The skipper hadn't let him see the catch though. As he drew in the line, minutes then hours passed, and he had Smith prepare the trawl-net. "We'll drag her behind us, gentle and steady, but we cannot let her out of the water." said the skipper as Smith worked. The sun had been setting as they caught whatever the skipper hunted and Smith only remembered seeing dark waters as the boats captain pulled their fish into the trawl net. He sent Smith to draw up the sea anchors they had been using and prepare the boat to sail. "We'll sail through the night now."
A foghorn cried out in the darkness. Smith heard it this time and he relaxed. His skipper wasn't imagining things.
It called once.
Twice.
Thrice.
Yet the skipper did nothing but state. "Mark the log, Smith. Foghorn on the distance at 4:37"
"Sir, there were three bellows."
"I heard."
"Aren't we required to help them?"
The skipper turned to Smith and it took all within the man to not recoil at the sight of his captain. The skipper’s eyes were sunken into his face, the dark bags beneath them heightening the effect in the dim light. The man grinned without mirth as he spoke: "That's what they wish, yes. Help."
"Shall we at least reply?"
"All we shall do, Smith, is pray. Pray and sail. Forward we go, and silent at that." With that, the skipper blew out the light in the cabin. In the darkness it felt as if the boat lurched forward, sped up, if only a little.
Smith forgot about the coffee as the skipper leaned forward and looked at his charts atop the helm, leaning so close in the darkness that he became an odd, inhuman shape to Smith's eyes. The man did not wish to admit how frightened he was.
"Dim the bow lights, Smith."
"Sir?"
"I know our course. We can sail in the dark for a time. It’s safer that way."
Smith paused, frozen, gaping at the captain of the boat.
"Smith," said the skipper. There was no anger in his voice. There was no emotion left at all. "Do as I say and dim the bow lights."
A foghorn cried out in the night. Was it louder now?
"We are not the only anglers at sea." The skipper turned back to his charts, rubbing his forehead then his coat. How could the man sweat in this chill? Smith shook his head. There was warm coffee waiting for him in the cabin after his work. He didn't know the sea like his skipper and he should not dispute the man.
He stepped out into the night and the cold night air pressed down on him like the edge of a knife. They were going fast, motor behind them tilling quietly as it churned up the sea into a white froth, barely visible without the starlight above. It felt quieter out here. There was only the crash of water and the rush of wind about Smith and it seemed as though the darkness of the night even sucked up the sound of the world.
He walked forward on the wet metal deck towards the two lights mounted at the port and starboard sides of the face of the boat. He could not see into the cabin to watch the skipper, but he dimmed the lights to less than a third of their full power before looking up at the strange empty sky. In the darkness he had hoped to see something of a star behind a cloud, but there was nothing. It was as if the clouds above had blanketed them. It was like the night would never end.
Another cry of a foghorn.
One. Two. Three.
Smith looked in the direction of the sound, clear in the quiet of the night and saw a light in the distance.
He turned to the cabin to motion to the skipper, but the man had already rushed out of the cabin. "Hush the lights Smith!" he cried in a harsh whisper.
"Sir?" asked Smith, but the skipper had already rushed to the first of the bow lights and turned off the power entirely. Smith turned and did the same on the other and they were left in darkness.
The boat moved with a slight lurch, as if it sped up once more, and all Smith heard now was the water rushing beneath their feet as they moved forward.
The skipper was staring outward, towards the cry of the foghorn and the light in the distance. It was not much more than a star on the horizon, but it was a light. It looked like another boat.
"We may have to quiet the engine," whispered the skipper.
Another three cries from the horn of the other boat.
"What's wrong with the other boat, sir?"
Smith recoiled as the skipper turned to him, gaunt face in the darkness, death on the air around his mouth and spoke: "We're being hunted."
They both turned then, back to the light on the horizon.
It moved, side to side, the foreign vessel. Smith pushed out thoughts of the skipper’s words, but to no avail. He couldn't watch the light in the distance without a fright in his heart. He understood why the skipper was sweating in the dark cold night now.
"Kill the engines," said the skipper, but the man moved as if it were an order to himself. Smith followed but did nothing but watch as the skipper cut the engines and the small boat was surrounded by silence. The final rush of water breaking about the bow hit and then all was quiet. The pair left the warmth of the cabin and looked to the horizon.
"What men would hunt us?" Smith said. His voice shook despite the effort he put into masking his fear.
"We are not the only anglers in the sea," said the skipper. His eyes never leaving the horizon.
The light was growing. Smith could make out a boat in the distance, not that different from their own. It was a small, single cabin fishing boat. Metal, painted to hold off the corrosion of the sea. Its lights were on and bright, lighting up the water about it in the distance.
Its horn bleated out in the distance. Louder now.
Once.
Twice.
Then it ceased. The boat had been turning left than right then circling back. It was not sailing to a destination. It was searching.
"It wants us to call back," said the skipper. His breath clouded out beyond his mouth in the dark cold. Smith had stopped noticing the chill as he focused on the boat in the distance. "It searches for light and sound. It hunts well in the dark."
It.
Smith choked on his words as he started to ask the question forcing its way out of his mind.
Their boat lurched beneath them. The skipper was surefooted, but Smith would have fallen overboard had the man not caught him by his collar. Smith spurted out a thanks, but the skipper wasn't looking at him. He looked aft, towards the trawl net hanging behind the boat.
Another lurch. Backwards. Their boat turned portside, pulled from the net. The back of the boat turned towards the other boat in the distance.
"Engines, Smith!" cried the skipper and he ran towards the cabin. "Make sure the nets are clear of the engines!" Smith ran to the back of the boat. Instinct fueling him as he checked that the nets had not pulled themselves under the boat and would get caught in the till of the motors.
"Clear sir!" he shouted before the boat lurched once more, the net pulled tight and the boat moved backwards, the flat of the aft side hull ramming the water and splashing Smith with the cold salt of the sea. The Engines sputtered and started and the boat froze. Still, it did not move forward nor back.
"Smith, Inside!" cried the skipper in a harsh whisper. Smith complied and entered the cabin. The warmth that had been inside the small room had leaked out with their exits and entrances. Smith saw his breath coalesce in front of him as he panted form the short sprint inside.
"It will chase us now," laughed the skipper. "Nothing to do but run."
The man's grin put a knot in Smith's throat and he could not speak. He looked out the glass of the cabin and saw the boat in the distance had grown.
It was closer now.
It was getting closer still.
The skipper rummaged around his coat pocket and pulled out his pipe. "Nothing to do now, but see if we can outrace it," he said as he packed the tobacco. "Anglers are fast, but I think our engines should hold." He lit the pipe with a flash of light from a match followed by the thin glow orange flow as the tobacco lit. There was a hitch in the boat's movement as the light flared, but then the engines smoothed out and continued.
Smith's jaw dropped slightly. He rubbed his eyes and shook his head, hiding his disbelief before succumbing to it. "Sir?" he said. The skipper looked at him as he exhaled pipe smoke. Smith stepped towards the logbook. a clock hung on the wall there. in the thin light from the pipe Smith read it. He thought he saw the hands in the light from the match, but he had to confirm.
"Sir, its 5:38 in the morning."
the skipper looked it him without speaking.
"Sunrise passed us by almost half an hour ago."
The darkness of the starless night had yet to cease though. There was no glimmer on the horizon.
"We sail in the darkness for this voyage, dear Smith. I thought I had mentioned that when we received our bounty." He took a draw from his pipe, the glow of the small flame growing and the boat slowed again. "Though the bitch of a catch fights us now. Hungry devil."
"Sir, what did we catch?"
"Check on the angler for me, will you Smith? I'll confirm our charts. If we leave these waters quick enough, we'll lose the beast at our backs. We shall reach shallower seas soon, but I don't know if we'll win this race."
With that he turned to the charts, reading them by the light of his pipe. Smith left the cabin and looked behind them.
A fishing boat followed them. It was closer now, and gaining. The bow lights of the boat shined on them, bright and full. They did not yet light up the deck where Smith stood, but they would. The boat following them was fast.
"We won't lose them sir," said Smith as he entered the cabin.
"Damn it all," said the skipper. He turned to Smith, gaunt face locked in a smile about his pipe, teeth holding the wooden stem as smoke left the corners of his mouth. "I am no Ahab, my dear Smith. But I will fight. Ready your knife to cut the trawl net."
Smith looked at his skipper, wordlessly the question hung in the air.
"We'll lose our catch, but not our lives."
"Sir, what is that boat following us? Is it why the sun will not rise?"
"It is no boat," said the skipper. "ready your knife."
The skipper walked out of the cabin into the night and Smith could only follow. At a draw of his pipe, the skipper glowed orange in the light once more and Smith saw the net move behind the boat, slacken then tighten again. The boat that followed them was closer still. Smith could hear the wake crashing before it now.
"There's many hunters in the sea, Smith. Some follow sound, some see light, some ignore the fishermen above them and some..." he trailed off, looking at the boat behind them. "Some revel in the hunt."
Smith noticed a second wake behind them. Something behind the boat that followed them broke the surface of the water. "Something follows them!" he cried in a hoarse voice.
"That is, them," said the skipper.
The wake behind the boat following them rose, as if at the skipper's words, and Smith wasn't sure, but he could swear he saw spines rise out of the water.
"All a manner of anglers in the sea," said the skipper. "It's jaws would crush the boat and bleed us dry before we even hit the surf."
Was there a sadness in his voice?"
"Cut the net, Smith," he said. "I will not have us lose our lives." The skipper began to saw at the rope holding the portside of the trawl net. After a moments' hesitation, Smith did the same.
The spines behind the boat grew larger cutting their own wake. They were taller than the fishing boat. They must be at least ten stories tall were they on land.
With a jerk, the net was free and Smith and the skipper's boat flew forward.
"She was fighting us more than we know," said the skipper. Sadness still blanketed his voice.
The trawl net sunk beneath the surface of the water and the boat behind them slowed.
Then it disappeared entirely.
"They'll be hunted now," said the skipper.
Smith turned to look at the man, confusion on his face. His confusion only grew when he saw before the boat, there was a sunrise peeking out in the distance. A sliver of light fighting against the darkness. He would have smiled at the light, but this sunrise was to the west of them.
"You may wish to watch this, Smith."
He turned and acknowledged what the skipper saw. The trawl net was gone, but there was a dark spot in the seawater ahead of them, darker than Smith would have thought possible, yet familiar. Had that darkens been following them?
The shadow in the sea was swimming away from them. It swam towards the missing boat in the distance. As it moved away, the sun seemed to rise in the west and the day grew brighter.
Smith saw the boat again finally. In the distance it looked vacant. Dead. It was no real boat.
With a suddenness that made Smith jump, the boat seemed to be pulled upwards, as if a marionette string hung from its cabin towards the sky, then it jerked below the sea surface. The string pulling the little boat down into the depths. He saw it then. The fish, not the boat, that hunted them. Smith remembered horrific pictures of monstrosities in the depths with lights dangling from a probiscis at the center of their face, hanging in front of the gaping maw where they hoped to lure prey. There was no light at the end of this monster’s face. There had been a boat.
For only a moment, Smith wondered what they had caught, what the darkness had been. The skipper’s words pulled Smith out of thought.
"No more angler," he said, before becoming silent once more. The pair looked ahead, quiet as their boat's engines pushed them towards the lighter skies to the west.
Thanks for giving that a read! Cosmic horror is a genre I want to spend more time in. I listen to music while I write, and there is something so perfect about Lovecraftian music for writing, I want to spend my time in the depths of this ocean just to keep listening. No promises yet, but I’ve got a lot of stories drafted up for October that weren’t done by then. How’s a spooky fiction January sound to everyone?
Love ya!
Max