Creepypastas

Log of Captain Kyle Wright

And the bastards were wearing gas masks; big ugly, bug-eyed things that made them look like damned aliens. They pointed the guns at me, laser-sights trained on my head. Laser-sights. Not a damned one of them said a word. I threw my hands up, palms out, clearly not armed. I was in a solo sailboat, for God's sake. I wasn't an armed pirate with a peg leg and a fucking eye patch! Yet they kept the guns pointed at my damn head. After what felt like an hour a loud speaker crackled to life. "Don't come closer. Turn around. Go back." In a heavy accent. That's all it said. The guns didn't move an inch. The damn lasers were still on my head. But I wasn't about to get shot. Not over a damn GPS! So I turned tail and ran. And I didn't look back. I didn't even start thinking about the whole thing until hours later. It had scared me shitless. Why the hell were they on an American ship? Why the hell were they armed? Why the hell were they wearing gas masks?

Then stuff got really strange. The next morning I was headed east, making great time. I sailed right through the night, trying to put as much distance between me and those bastards at Christmas. The sunrise was astounding and I kept thinking, "This is too beautiful, way too beautiful. Something is wrong." This feeling of dread sank over me and hung there like a cloak. I tried to keep my mind off the incident at Christmas, as I calmed down more and more I realized that the details of that encounter didn't add up. Something was going on. And it was bad, I could feel that much.

Then I saw the ship and my mind could focus on nothing else. It was just a pillar of smoke, that was all I could see at first. Just a speck on the vast blue horizon. Oh, how I wish I had just brushed it off as a mirage or a small island fire, anything. But instead I felt drawn to it, I needed it to latch onto. It would give me something new to focus on instead of the many questions swirling around my head like rotten soup. So I changed course and the speck grew bigger and bigger off my bow. The smoke grew more distinct against the sky and with it an ominous feeling. Dread. Yes, it was dread. When you're on the sea, ironically it is fire that worries you the most. Water, water, everywhere but not a drop to drink. In this case it was not a drop to extinguish the flames. The flames are always hungry, ready to consume everything. They only get thirsty once you are a charred set of bones on the deck of the dying carcass that was your boat. This dread helped me forget the incident from earlier. I had to prepare for the death that was ahead, for a fire at sea almost always has death surrounding it.

When I came within looking distance I saw it was a fishing trawler. The nets were engulfed, the flames climbing higher and higher. The center mast was completely engulfed. The deck was a furnace. I stared through my binoculars and was horrified to see bodies writhing on the deck, black shadows against the raging inferno. At that moment my radio crackled to life. The boat was angled with its bow facing me and I could see the boathouse, the only thing that had escaped the fire so far. The radio mast was visible barely through the think black smoke. A static filled radio transmission broke through my speakers. Some native islander tongue lashed out, screaming at me. I had no idea what the words were, but I could here the desperation in the voice, the fear. Words are not universal, but the impression they leave are. Whoever was speaking was scared shitless.

I scanned the boathouse and saw a single man inside. He was waving his arms frantically at me as he shouted into the radio. I reached for my mic to reply when the second strange thing happened.

Two men ran up the stairs from the deck, both alight. The flames shone brightly on their backs and arms, they looked like two stuntmen out of a Hollywood movie. They charged at the door to the boathouse and started to bang furiously. The voice on my radio started with a new torrent of screaming, shouting in a string of incomprehensible phrases that sent a chill through my body. He was praying it seemed, praying to me. Asking me to save him.

But I just stared, mouth agape, watching the two flaming men break down the door and burst into the boathouse. The radio stopped, static filling the silence on my boat. I watched in horror as the two flaming men jumped atop the single man and then all three were out of view, dropping to the floor. Only the tips of the licking flames could be seen through the windows.