The Whispering Deep

I’d been desperate when I took the job. The fishing boat was small and ragged, much like its crew, but it promised three square meals and a paycheck, so I boarded with little hesitation. The captain, a wiry man named Arlen, met me at the dock. His handshake was firm, his eyes distant, and his words few. “Welcome aboard,” he muttered, his gaze fixed on the horizon as though it held answers to some unknown question.

The first few days were uneventful, though the crew’s peculiarities became increasingly apparent. Captain Arlen spent most of his time in the wheelhouse, his hands gripping the wheel as if it were the only thing anchoring him to this world. He stared straight ahead, his lips moving soundlessly, his expression blank. Waves crashed, gulls cried, and storms brewed on the horizon, but he never flinched, never seemed to notice anything outside his cabin. There had been no accidents yet, but I doubted he was the reason for that.

Then there was Cole, the fisher. A mountain of a man with calloused hands and a voice like gravel, he was the kind of person who commanded attention without trying. He didn’t speak much, and when he did, his words were clipped and final. On most nights, he kept to himself, tending to the nets or sharpening his knives. But on the nights of a new moon, I’d catch him standing at the bow, staring out to sea. His shoulders would be tense, his breath steady, and his eyes fixed on something I couldn’t see. Once, I followed his gaze and thought I saw a faint glow in the water—a shimmering reflection of a full moon that shouldn’t have been there. When I asked him about it, he simply said, “The Leviathan.”

He said it like a fact, like the tide or the wind. “You’ll see it one day,” he added, then returned to his silent vigil.

The last crew member was the navigator, Ewan. If the captain was distant and Cole was unsettling, Ewan was something else entirely. He never left the lowest deck, a cramped, damp space that reeked of salt and mildew. His cabin was filled with strange books—volumes with spines cracked and pages stained, written in languages I couldn’t decipher. His tools were archaic: a battered sextant, a compass whose needle spun lazily, and maps that seemed more decorative than functional. Yet somehow, we always reached our destination.

What unsettled me most about Ewan was how he navigated. He never communicated with the captain, never surfaced to check the stars or the sun. Yet, every time we set sail, we ended up exactly where we needed to be. I’d asked him once how he did it, and he’d merely smiled, his teeth too white against his gaunt face. “The sea knows,” he said cryptically, his fingers tracing symbols in the air. “And it whispers to those who listen.”

One night, I found myself on deck during one of Cole’s moonless vigils. The sea was calm, the air thick with tension. Cole stood at the bow, his silhouette sharp against the starlit sky. I hesitated, then approached, my boots scuffing against the wooden planks. He didn’t turn, didn’t acknowledge me until I stood beside him.

“What are you looking for?” I asked.

“Not looking. Waiting,” he replied, his voice low. “It’s out there. Watching. The Leviathan doesn’t just swim; it’s… aware.”

“What is it?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he pointed to the water. I followed his finger and felt my breath catch. The sea shimmered, rippling unnaturally. The glow was faint at first, then grew brighter, pulsating like a heartbeat. Shapes moved within it—vast, shadowy figures that defied logic. I blinked, and the vision was gone, leaving only the dark, empty sea.

“You’ll see it clearer next time,” Cole said, turning away.

After that, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the boat was a trap, a lure cast into the depths to draw something unimaginable. The crew’s oddities weren’t quirks; they were symptoms of something far greater. The captain’s vacant stare, Cole’s Leviathan, Ewan’s cryptic whispers—they were pieces of a puzzle I wasn’t sure I wanted to solve.

As the days passed, the atmosphere grew heavier. The sea’s whispers became louder, a symphony of murmurs that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. Shadows moved beneath the waves, too large and too deliberate to be schools of fish. Ewan’s cryptic drawings covered the walls of his cabin, lines and symbols that seemed to shift when I looked away.

Then, one night, the storm came. The sky split open, rain lashing against the deck as waves rose like walls. The captain stood in the wheelhouse, his knuckles white against the wheel. Cole manned the nets, his eyes wild, his shouts lost in the wind. I went below to find Ewan, but his cabin was empty, his books scattered, his maps soaked.

When I returned to the deck, I saw it. The Leviathan. It rose from the sea, its form indescribable, its presence overwhelming. It wasn’t just a creature; it was a force, an entity that defied comprehension. Its eyes—if they could be called that—locked onto me, and I felt my mind unravel. My very being laid out for the sea to wash away in it’s salty grasp.

The storm ended as suddenly as it began. The Leviathan vanished, leaving no trace. The crew was silent, their faces pale, their gazes distant. No one spoke of what we’d seen, but I knew it had changed us.

The next morning, Ewan had returned, soaked but unbothered, his usual cryptic smile in place. The captain resumed his vacant steering, and Cole muttered prayers to the sea. Life aboard the boat continued, but nothing felt the same.

And me? I’m still here, trying to piece together the fragments of my sanity. The sea whispers to me now, and I’m beginning to understand its language. I fear what it’s trying to tell me.

Hello again dear reader and welcome back to another short story of mine! I didn't really go out of my comfort zone for this one but I hope you enjoyed reading it! As always, have a good day/night!