Captain's Log: Feb. 7th, 1984

There was only one rule: Don’t open the door. Captain’s orders.

As far as rules go, this one was easy. Life on the ship was routine, and after that unfortunate affair with a galleon of navy ruffians, we had more work than hands to do it. No one gave much thought to the odd door tucked at the back of the hold. Most assumed it was a smuggling hold, and the men—experienced seamen—knew better than to ask questions.

At least, until the disappearances began.

First, the cabin boy. Eager to please, the lad went down to fetch another barrel. Never came back. Then it happened again, this time to Cookie, gathering provisions for dinner. Just gone. No trace left behind.

The men grew restless. The only place left unsearched was the “smuggling hold,” and I could hear them already deciding who would be the one to break the Captain’s rule.

Poor bastards never had a chance. Before the latch was fully lifted, from an impossibly small crack in the door, a tentacle shot out, coiling around Shivers and smashing him against the wood. In the blink of an eye, it multiplied—two, three, six—and just like that, it was free.

The Captain’s familiar, Russel, was loose.

God help us all.