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The Haunted Shipwreck Shaina Tranquilino September 25, 2024

The ocean was still that morning, a glassy expanse stretching into the horizon, as divers Jon and Tasheena prepared their descent. They had heard the rumours, of course—stories whispered in the shadowy corners of taverns near the docks about The Carina, an early 19th-century cargo ship that vanished without a trace nearly two hundred years ago. According to legend, it was perfectly preserved at the ocean’s floor, waiting for someone—or something—to bring its tragic past to light.

Jon tightened his oxygen tank and gave Tasheena a nod. "You ready for this?"

She adjusted her mask and grinned through the glass. "Born ready. Let’s find that ship."

The two divers plunged into the depths, the sunlight refracting through the clear water above them, growing dimmer the deeper they swam. After a half-hour descent, the shadow of something massive loomed ahead.

“There,” Jon signaled, pointing to the dark shape emerging in the murky water.

As they got closer, their headlamps cut through the gloom, illuminating the ghostly outline of The Carina. To their astonishment, the ship looked as if it had only recently been submerged. The wood was intact, ropes still hung loosely from the masts, and the sails—though worn—remained tethered. There was no sign of coral or barnacles overtaking the hull, as though time itself had forgotten the wreck.

Tasheena's voice crackled through the communication system. “This can’t be right. Ships like this shouldn’t be this well preserved. It’s… untouched.”

Jon was about to respond when something caught his eye—figures. For a fleeting moment, shapes moved just within the edge of his vision, like shadows passing through the dark corridors of the ship.

“Tasheena, did you see that?”

She turned her light toward the spot where he was staring. “See what?”

“I thought I saw… never mind.” He shook off the feeling. “Let’s head inside.”

They entered through a gaping hole in the ship’s hull, likely torn open when the vessel went down. Inside, the eerie preservation continued. Wooden crates were stacked along the walls, barrels remained lashed in place, and the captain’s quarters were still furnished as if awaiting the return of its master. Jon and Tasheena exchanged glances, both feeling the heavy silence that clung to the wreck.

Tasheena approached an old ledger on the captain’s desk. She flipped through the brittle pages, marvelling at the fact that they hadn’t disintegrated over time. But as she read, her face paled.

“Jon… you need to hear this.”

She began to read aloud from the final entry, dated August 12, 1821:

We are lost. Cursed, perhaps. The crew grows restless, their eyes haunted by something unseen. We hear voices in the night, calling from the deep. They speak in tongues we do not understand, yet we cannot help but listen. Men have begun to disappear, claimed by the sea or by something far worse. We make for land, but I fear we shall never reach it. Should anyone find this log, know that we were not meant to survive.

Jon felt a chill crawl up his spine. “So the ship’s crew went mad?”

Tasheena shook her head slowly. “I think they were haunted.”

As the words left her mouth, a sudden movement in the water behind her made Jon's heart stop. Slowly, he turned, raising his light.

At first, there was nothing—just the dark, still waters of the sunken ship. Then, from the shadowed corridor, a figure emerged. It wore the tattered remains of a sailor’s uniform, its face gaunt, hollow eyes staring blankly ahead. But it wasn’t alone. More figures drifted from the darkness, their forms translucent, their movements unnaturally slow, as if trapped in a dream. They floated toward the divers with an unsettling calm.

“Jon…” Tasheena whispered, her voice barely audible over the comms. “We need to get out of here.”

Jon backed toward the opening they had come through, his heart pounding in his chest. “Don’t look at them. Just move.”

The ghosts of The Carina drifted closer, their eyes following the divers. One reached out a hand, its fingers brushing past Jon's arm. A sharp coldness pierced his skin, and he flinched, kicking back with a surge of panic. He could feel the weight of the ship’s tragic past pressing in around him, the despair of the lost crew clawing at his mind.

Tasheena had already reached the opening, turning to signal Jon when her light caught something else—movement from within the captain’s quarters. A tall figure, wearing a long, sea-soaked coat, stood just inside the room. The captain. His face was drawn tight, skin pulled back over bone, eyes glowing faintly with an eerie blue light. He stepped forward, and though no words passed his lips, Tasheena felt his message reverberate through the water.

Stay. Join us.

“No!” she shouted, swimming toward Jon.

He reached for her, their hands just brushing as something cold and invisible tugged at her legs. Tasheena gasped, thrashing, trying to pull free, but the spectral grip tightened. Jon grabbed her arm with both hands and kicked furiously, propelling them both toward the surface.

The ghostly crew followed, their hollow eyes staring after the divers with an ancient sorrow. But they did not leave the ship. They could not.

As the surface broke above them, Jon and Tasheena gasped for air, tearing off their masks as they climbed back onto their boat. For several minutes, neither spoke, their eyes locked on the still water below.

Finally, Tasheena broke the silence. “They wanted us to stay. To join them.”

Jon nodded, his face pale. “We were lucky to get out.”

They both knew that the crew of The Carina hadn’t been so fortunate. Bound to their ship, they would drift forever in that watery grave, waiting for the next unwary souls to stumble upon their cursed wreck.

As the boat sped back toward the safety of the shore, Jon glanced over his shoulder at the calm sea behind them. Though the sun shone brightly, casting shimmering light across the water, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching from below—waiting, patient as the tide.

The Secrets of the Abandoned Theatre Shaina Tranquilino September 30, 2024

The wind howled as Mia, Lucas, Sarah, and Ben stood before the crumbling façade of the abandoned Crestwood Theatre. The moon cast long, eerie shadows across the street, and the decaying building loomed over them, as if daring them to step inside. Crestwood had been closed for nearly fifty years, ever since the tragic fire that had burned it down during a performance. Rumour had it that the final show, The Phantom’s Masquerade, had never reached its conclusion. The fire had erupted without warning, claiming the lives of several cast members and the director. Ever since, people in town whispered that strange things happened inside the old theatre. Shadows moved on their own, strange melodies drifted out into the night, and lights flickered through the boarded-up windows—despite there being no electricity.

"Are we really doing this?" Sarah asked, her voice trembling.

Lucas grinned, shaking a flashlight in his hand. "Come on, it'll be fun. What’s a little ghost hunt between friends?"

Ben, always the practical one, folded his arms. "I don’t know. People say this place is cursed for a reason."

Mia, the quietest of the group, felt an odd pull toward the building. She didn’t know why, but something about the Crestwood had always fascinated her, even frightened her. It wasn’t just the tragic fire; it was something more, something… unfinished. Without a word, she walked toward the heavy, broken doors.

Inside, the air was thick with dust, and the remnants of a once-grand theatre lay in ruins. Red velvet seats, now torn and decaying, lined the sloping floor leading to a stage draped in thick cobwebs. A broken chandelier hung precariously from the ceiling, swaying ever so slightly in the cold draft.

Mia shivered, but it wasn’t from the cold. "We shouldn’t be here," she whispered.

Ben scoffed. "No kidding."

"Let’s just take a quick look around and get out of here," Lucas said, clicking on his flashlight and shining it across the rows of forgotten seats.

As the beam swept across the darkened theatre, something glinted from the stage. It was faint, barely noticeable, but enough to make Mia’s heart skip a beat. Without thinking, she moved toward the stage.

"Hey, Mia!" Lucas called after her. "Where are you going?"

She didn’t answer. Her eyes were fixed on the spot where she had seen the glint. There was something there—something waiting.

The others followed, reluctantly climbing onto the stage behind her. Up close, the smell of old smoke still lingered in the air, as though the fire had never truly gone out. The curtains, now tattered and singed, fluttered slightly as if moved by an unseen hand.

"This is giving me the creeps," Sarah murmured.

As they reached the center of the stage, Mia suddenly froze. There, lying at her feet, was a charred mask—half burned, half pristine. It was a prop from the final performance of The Phantom’s Masquerade. She bent down to pick it up, but the moment her fingers touched the mask, the theatre changed.

The air grew thick, and a deep chill swept through the building. A low hum of music began to play, distant but growing louder. The friends exchanged uneasy glances as the ghostly melody filled the room.

Suddenly, the dim emergency lights that lined the aisles flickered on, casting a sickly glow over the seats. Lucas swung his flashlight wildly, but it wasn’t his light that illuminated the room—it was something else. The theatre was coming alive.

Then, they heard it.

Soft whispers. Laughter. The distant applause of an invisible audience.

"Oh my God," Sarah whispered. "Do you hear that?"

Mia clutched the mask tightly, her heart pounding in her chest. "We need to leave. Now."

But before they could move, a shadowy figure emerged from behind the torn curtains. It was dressed in a tattered costume from the show, its face hidden beneath a mask identical to the one Mia held. The figure moved with a slow, deliberate grace, as if it were still performing the role it had been cast in all those years ago.

"It’s a ghost," Ben gasped, backing away.

The figure turned toward them, raising a hand as if beckoning them closer. Its mask glinted in the dim light, and behind it, Mia could swear she saw hollow, empty eyes staring back at her.

Suddenly, the stage beneath their feet began to shake. The wood groaned as if under immense pressure, and the faint smell of smoke grew stronger. Flames—tiny at first—licked at the edges of the stage, curling around the old, decaying wood.

"We have to go!" Lucas shouted, grabbing Mia’s arm.

But she couldn’t move. She was rooted to the spot, her eyes locked on the ghostly figure. The whispers grew louder, the laughter more intense. The ghost raised its other hand, and with a sudden, violent gust of wind, the flames surged higher, engulfing the stage.

"No!" Mia screamed, finally breaking free from her trance.

She threw the mask down onto the stage, and as it hit the floor, the flames vanished. The theatre fell silent. The whispers stopped, the music faded, and the figure disappeared into the shadows.

The friends stood frozen, staring at the charred mask, still lying on the floor where Mia had dropped it. The air was thick with tension, but the theatre was quiet again. Too quiet.

Without a word, they bolted for the exit, not daring to look back. Outside, the cold night air felt like a relief, though their hearts were still pounding with terror.

"What just happened?" Sarah gasped, clutching her chest.

"It was them," Mia said quietly, staring back at the dark theatre. "The cast. They never finished their final performance. They’re still trapped in there, reliving that night over and over again."

Lucas shook his head, disbelief in his eyes. "We have to tell someone—"

"No one would believe us," Ben interrupted, his face pale. "Besides, I think it’s better if we just… let them be."

Mia nodded, her thoughts still lingering on the mask and the shadowy figure that had haunted the stage. As they walked away from the theatre, the wind picked up again, carrying with it a faint, haunting melody.

The final performance of The Phantom’s Masquerade was far from over.

And it never would be.