Xanthous

A Story by CrazyDiabetic

Horror-Lite short story with Lovecraftian themes

May 8^th, 1850

I am recording this testimony for posterity’s sake. My name is Bartholomew Carter, and my profession is that of a ship’s navigator. I was recently hired by one Samuel West, the captain of the H.M.S. Defiance. Over tea, he explained that he had been charged with heading an expedition to find the North-west Passage, and that he had all of his officer’s positions filled, save for the one he was offering me now. I of course jumped at the opportunity. It is rare that I get the chance to ply my trade, and such an expedition, if successful, will certainly help to improve the standing of my name and reputation here at home. As the captain continued, my excitement grew. He explained that, barring the discovery of the passage, we were to try to find any traces of a previous expedition led by one Sir John Franklin. Franklin’s ships, the H.M.S Erebus and Terror, departed roughly five years ago and have not been heard from since. I, however, did not let this gloomy talk shake my resolve. According to Captain West, all preparations have been made and we leave in two weeks time. I will start my own preparations immediately, and will be ready when the time comes to depart. I plan to keep this journal with me, and to write in it as often as I can. How exciting!

June 15^th, 1850

We’ve been on the sea for a month now. The HMS Defiance is as sturdy and seaworthy as any in Her Majesty’s navy, even more so if you ask me. The lads were simply ecstatic as we set sail from England. To think, we could be part of the expedition that discovers the North-west Passage! Or something even greater! It’d be like living forever, in a way. Imagine my name recorded with all the other crewmen, mentioned each time someone thinks of what we’ve accomplished. I suppose we need to accomplish something first though. I must be careful not to put the cart before the horse. Captain West seems hopeful that this expedition won’t be like the others that have set out, returning with nothing to show for, or worse, not returning at all. I cannot help but think of the Terror and the Erebus. We have roughly followed their planned route while staying slightly more south, as to avoid the biting cold of the arctic. The Captain says that we won’t be able to keep that trend up for long, and that we will have to swing northward sooner rather than later.

August 1^st, 1850

Good Lord preserve us. It’s the height of summer and it’s appallingly cold outside. I’m thankful that my duties as navigator keep me below deck for most of the time. I manage to stay warm while the rest of the crew has to deal with the biting wind and freezing rain that seems to cut at your very soul. In the rare moments that I am topside, I’m reminded of the ninth circle of hell as described in Inferno, with Satan himself and the Sanhedrin encased in ice. I’ve lost count of how many fingers and toes, and even entire hands that have been lost to frostbite. Danforth tries his best to recover what he can, but the old sawbones can only do so much. He’s many hundreds of miles from his comfortable practice, regular tools, and examination rooms which do not constantly sway and interfere with precision surgeries. I just can’t believe that the same Lord who gave us such beautiful, balmy weather back home deigned fit to let this frozen hell exist. I keep telling myself and the lads that it’ll all be worth it, that we’ll find something out here that will let our names live on through history. Most seem to share this sentiment, though I can’t say I haven’t noticed a few furrowed glances my way. To blazes with them! I won’t let their soggy spirits dampen my mood. Although I must say, I wouldn’t mind a moment of hell’s blazes if it meant respite from this blasted cold.

September 23^rd, 1850

Tensions have been running high among the crew, officers included. This blasted cold seems to have numbed people’s patience to the point of nonexistence. Crewmen who, only a few months ago were singing and eating together, have taken to bickering and arguing over the smallest pittance, and the comradery that the expedition began with has worn down into an almost hostile air of isolation and solitude. Danforth guarantees the rest of the officers that the crew are only experiencing mild cases of cabin fever, and that some time topside is all they need to remedy it. There is little chance of this happening, I’m afraid. The men only go topside when absolutely necessary, and even then the captain has to cajole them into performing their tasks. One in particular, O’Hagan, is especially defiant in his attitude towards the officers. I can hear him speaking loudly to the rest of the crew during the night, but the content of these tenebrous, almost sinister sounding meetings is muffled through the floor. Nothing good can come of it, I’m sure.

November 24^th, 1850

Something very strange happened today, and I’m not sure what to think about it. We swung due south about a month ago to where the ice isn’t as bad and the cold doesn’t quite reach your bones. While it was a good morale boost for the crew, some of them don’t seem to have quite recovered. In the head, I mean. Doc Danforth’s prescription of sun and fresh air may not be doing any good, and the events of today leave me even more concerned. This morning, the Captain and I were finishing doing some surveying above decks and, unfortunately finding nothing in the way of land, he called for the anchor to be weighed. Deckhand O’Neil then cried out that something must have caught on the anchor, and the Captain ordered the rest of the crew to help remove it once it surfaced. As the anchor laboriously rose, it became clear that the great metal hook had pierced through something, which was now rising onto our ship along with the anchor. The…thing, which had latched itself to the anchor was some sort of statue. I’m no geologist, but the stone of the thing was a pale, sickly green, perhaps jade or limestone. Algae and barnacles covered its surface, giving it a slimy, almost leprous look. The figure itself appeared to be humanoid, although its time at the bottom of the ocean had weathered away any discerning characteristics. I think that was a Godsend, for the one thing that hadn’t eroded made that dreadful statue terrible enough to look upon. Its eyes, seemingly inset into the figure’s face, were an awful, brilliant yellow with veins of some unknown black and red substance running through them. I dare not think of the face to which these eyes belong, though I will admit, my mind has conjured up various terrible images in the hours since this morning. I’ve never heard the deck so quiet before, nor the sea itself for that matter, as we all stared upon this antediluvian nightmare we had just invited into our lives. The waves, and even the wind seemed to quieten. No birds cried, and it seemed as if the boards of the very ship stopped their creaking and moaning, as though to make a sound would attract the statue’s baleful attention. The Captain gave a good laugh after a moment though, berating us for our moment of weakness. He says it’ll make a fine prize for when we get back to England, and that the historians will talk themselves blue trying to figure out the thing’s origins. This image gave us all a chuckle, but I could still see in the faces of the men as they moved to haul the statue away, and in the face of Captain West as well, the same unease that still fills my head. All except for O’Hagan, now that I think about it. He seemed almost willing to get near the thing. Let the two of them be bedfellows, I say. I find it hard to believe, no, don’t want to believe that this wretched thing with jaundiced eyes is what we will be remembered for.

December 1^st, 1850

It’s been barely a week since we’ve brought that hateful thing aboard and half the crew has gone stark-raving mad! I don’t think these are cases of Danforth’s “cabin fever”, either. Just a day after dredging up that statue, three men up and threw themselves overboard. Those who knew how to swim went in after them, but we never recovered any bodies. A couple of days after that, almost half the crew took to sitting in the hold around that atrocious icon. Just sitting and staring into those cracked, golden orbs it calls eyes. O’Hagan started this bizarre practice, and I shan’t say I’m surprised, spooky b*****d that he is. The Chief Mate tried to get them to spend more time topside, as the Doc ordered, but no good came of it. Tonight, though, those same crewmen staged a mutiny, and such savagery I’ve never seen in a man in my life. Not only did they go after other crewmen, none of whom were lost luckily, but they went after the ship herself, gnashing and clawing at rail and board with reckless abandon. In the scrum, I swear I saw O’Hagan perched on the mast, screaming something at the top of his lungs. I caught only snippets of it, something about the Xanthous Gate and the stars aligning. His cries reached an ungodly pitch which only served to drive the mutineers to further fervency, and it was in these moments that I lost what O’Hagan was wailing about. Nor do I want to know what. However, with the mutineer’s attention and ministrations so divided, the uprising was put down swiftly, but we are now presented with a new problem. Where do we keep the mutineers? We cannot keep them topside, as they may do something more ghastly than those three poor souls did a few days ago. We certainly cannot keep them with the rest of the crew, and this ship has no brig. That leaves the hold, where that timeworn figure with the bloodshot, yellow eyes sulks. The Captain says that we return for England in the morning, though I’m not sure that’s a prudent decision. Maybe locking the mutineers in with that malevolent effigy will cause some harm to their minds that cannot be repaired. Maybe being unknown isn’t so terrible a thing when compared to the prize we are returning with.

December 3^rd, 1848

One peek. Surely no harm can come of it? Who can blame man for indulging in vice every now and then? The hold is watched day and night, though it will be a trifle sneaking close to it. I can hear the prisoners. They call, beckon me to join them and their relic. The others don’t hear them, but I do. I hear a lot of things now. One peek won’t hurt…one look at its eyes…

Dres….4, 85??

The gate the gate the gate all must gaze allmust see! Capt. says no but it will be! Must be! Believe so then and believed so still! Its eyes, the gate!

Out of time, outside time

Cold hold, home is close. Home is warm, home is yellow like the Gate!

X̨ A̸ ̴N ̸T͝ ͞H̕ O͜ U S̴ ! ! !