The Curse of the Revenant

The ship held a warning for those who would board her

Author prompted AI by Imagine

It wasn’t the storm that worried me. It was the sinister stillness that followed. Signed: Sir James Langley, Captain, His Majesty’s Ship Revenant

Log of the Revenant, Commanded by Captain James Langley

April the 13th, in the Year of our Lord 1788

The tempest struck in the early hours with a fury I have seldom seen in all my years at sea. Lightning flashed with such violence it nearly blinded us, turning night to day, and the wind howled like the devils of Hades themselves had risen to tear the Revenant, herself a sturdy Man-of-War, apart. My men shouted above the din, fear in their eyes, but I held my post, knowing a captain must be steady when the sea rages.

Yet, as suddenly as it had come, the storm vanished, leaving us adrift in a sea of glass. A sinister stillness surrounds us. The air itself is thick and stale, as if the very breath of life has been stolen from it. The men huddle together, uneasy, casting fearful glances at one another. The silence weighs upon us, pressing in like a curse. I swear, I have not felt such dread in all my years.

This uncanny stillness, however, was but the first sign of our undoing.

April the 14th, 1788

A strange rat has been scuttling about the hold. It is larger than any I’ve seen. The men talk of omens, muttering that the creature has been hiding there, feeding off our stores unseen, biding its time. At first, I thought it no more than superstitious drivel; every ship has its rats, even the Revenant.

But this rat… I have seen it myself now. It watched me, unblinking, its coat the colour of fresh blood, eyes black and hateful. It bears a size unnatural, almost as large as the ship’s fearless cat, Bluebeard, and moves with an unsettling silence.

Then came the sounds in the night — gurgling, low growls that had no earthly source. Each time I sent a man below to investigate, he returned pale, stammering of shadows shifting in the dark. Yet, none could catch the beast, as if it vanished whenever eyes lay upon it. Bluebeard is fearless no more, as he cowers in my cabin, refusing to leave, no matter the enticement.

April the 15th, 1788

I write now in haste, for my men are vanishing. One by one, they disappear in the dark of night, leaving naught but the signs of struggle — splintered boards and claw marks upon the walls. These are not the marks of a common wharf rat. No, this was as though some beast far larger had descended upon them.

Near the aft hatch this morning, we found several brass buttons from the missing cabin boy’s tunic. Blood stains are evident upon them. From that moment forward, the remaining crew refuse to descend below decks, murmuring that the beast has grown to a monstrous size, nearly twice that of a man. They say it comes in the dark, unseen, and then, as if by some witchcraft, it slips back into the form of the accursed red rat and scurries away.

I do not know what to believe. As a man of the sea, since I were but a boy, I am no stranger to tales of the unholy, but I am a man of reason. And yet…something in that storm, some strange power, has touched this creature, turning it into a demon of strength and size beyond reckoning.

April the 16th, 1788

My first mate, Carter, a most loyal soul, is gone. He went below at dawn, armed with a pike, determined to slay the beast once and for all. An hour passed in silence before we heard his scream — a bloodcurdling cry cut short. At the same time, Bluebeard, trembling in the corner of my cabin, lets out the most unearthly scream before falling silent.

Condemning my fear, I descend into the hold, lantern in hand, searching in vain for any sign of this most ungodly creature. I swear upon my honor, something watches me from the shadows, eyes burning red as coals. I swung my lantern, but it was gone before the light could touch it. All I saw was a smear of blood and a ragged piece of Carter’s doublet.

Whatever this thing is, it possesses an intelligence and cunning beyond any creature of the natural world. My men are in such a state of fear it may be as deadly as the beast itself. Two more vanished in the night, leaving me alone in this cursed silence. I dare not venture into the hold again, for I feel it awaits me there, lurking in the dark, a thing not meant for this earth.

April the 17th, 1788

I fear my time draws short. As I write, I am the last aboard, for the beast has claimed them all. It hunts with a fury, a hatred that no human mind can comprehend, slipping between the shadows, always just out of sight. It waits, ever patient, knowing I cannot fight a creature that evades my every blow.

To whoever finds this, know that the Revenant bears a curse upon her now — a beast born of blood and lightning, a creature that cannot be killed by mortal hand. The thing that haunts this ship is no rat but a demon of the abyss, twisted into the shape of its prey, biding its time in the shadows until it may feast once more.

If you find this vessel, sink her so that the sea may claim her bones. Do not step aboard, for this dark creature will bring ruin to any who dare tread upon her cursed deck.

July 6th, In the Year of Our Lord 1828,

Log of the privateer vessel, Cutthroat, sailing from Botany Bay. Captain T. Swan, Commanding

The Man-of-War, Revenant, adrift, with no sign of her crew. The captain’s log contained a drivel clearly written by a man gone mad with drink.

The ship, a naval vessel thought lost for these long years, lay silent. Her frayed sails were limp, and her deck stained an odd black, was slick with seawater.

There was no sign of life except for the usual rats, scurrying about, having filled their bellies all these many years from the ship’s ample store of grain. The bosun laid eyes upon what had to be the ship’s cat. He remarked it was a curious-looking creature with the reddest eyes and fur.

We prepared her for sail and claimed her as salvage, leaving a skeleton crew on the much smaller Cutthroat. We then set a course for the Cape, intent on selling the remains of her cargo.

As we make our way, the men claim to hear a strange growling coming from the hold. Gunner’s mate Lee, a teetotaler sent to investigate, has not returned. I have dispatched a group of my most trusted scoundrels to find him.

In 1872, what remained of the Cutthroat’s log was found adrift in an empty jolly boat bearing the name Revenant off the Cape of Good Hope. Neither the ship nor any of its crew was ever found. A scurvy red cat, however, was discovered in its hold and was taken aboard the brigantine Mary Celeste.

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