The Widow's Call

The mirror showed a reflection that wasn’t my own. Percy obscured the foreground, followed by Donaghue, and finally myself in the rear. We rocked in the belly of a merchant vessel bound for the Royal coast; the mirror was the first piece of cargo stumbled upon in our pursuit of transport treasure.

“Pretty,” Donaghue muttered. He reached out and ran a finger along the trim.

“Heavy,” I corrected. “Let’s find the loot before we leave port.”

He fell back into stride and followed Percy into the dark.

I grabbed the cover cloth and draped it over the mirror; its frame was a splendid, yet grotesque style of craftsmanship. Something about its sloped edges and exaggerated proportions was unsightly to my eye. Even the material it was made from proved unrecognizable; a slimy green substance that seemed like both a stone and a metal.

More sinister still, I found the reflection playing host to shadowed alien entities. Black phantoms with glowing eyes loomed on the railing behind me, and a pulsing darkness crawled across the ceiling above.

I turned around and saw nothing of the sort - not even a candle ebbed in the blackness. The only light was allowed by portholes in the hull, which made for strange shadows between crates and casks.

“Aye, Padwhack,” I whispered.

Donaghue looked back at me.

“What do you make of this?”

I gestured to the mirror.

The Irishman lumbered over to my side and peered into the glass.

“I see a cretin,” he explained. Donaghue angled himself until he could see both his own body and the figure behind him. Without turning around, he raised a finger and outlined the shadow that wasn’t there. “D’ya see it?”

I nodded and pointed out another one hanging from the ceiling. He frowned, and the color drained from his face.

We turned in unison and found the same placid umbra.

“You boys drunk?” Percy hissed from somewhere nearby.

“Curst!” Donaghue said with a jump. He kept a steady eye on the shadowman nearest him.

“This caught my eye, wanted a second opinion,” I explained.

Percy materialized out of the darkness and looked the glass over. He noticed the differences immediately, with a smug little smile. This was natural, though, as he was the only professional thief amongst us.

“Any guesses?” Percy asked. He didn’t bother to turn and check the space behind him. “It’s not cursed.”

Donaghue’s eyes wandered over to us.

“It’s a magician’s mirror. Look at the showy frame, and the cheap fluid trapped under the glass,” he explained as he pointed out the amorphous shadows. I couldn’t argue with him - it did resemble ink of some kind.

We loosened up under Percy’s reasoning. He flicked me in the forehead and nodded deeper into the hull.

“Satisfied? Let’s get to work.”

The cargo was easy to navigate; slender walkways interweaved between towers of wooden crates. They were stamped with vague lists of contents, mostly coffee and tobacco, with rows of lumber filed in between. None of it earned a second glance as we plunged into the deeper recesses of the ship.

Freight keepers wandered with strobing lamps - a fright to avoid. Discovery meant imprisonment, if not a water-laden death.

Bygone relics much like the mirror punctuated many of the endcaps. Percy slowed to inspect some of the finer pieces. Like the mirror, the craftsmanship stood out as more than foreign; even Donaghue arched an eyebrow at the otherworldly creations.

“Are these a personal shipment?” I asked.

“Probably for a collector,” Percy mused. “Too weird for anything else.”

Around one corner we nearly collided with a crew member - he fumbled both a lantern and ledger, ripe with the scent of whiskey. Percy, the smallest of our lot, folded himself over and disappeared in a pyramid of cask barrels. Donaghue lept behind a piece of furniture and pulled the drape over top himself. I stood dumbfounded as the crewman approached.

The only camouflage around me was one of the distressed collectables. Putting my faith in darkness, I shimmied behind the curio and hugged it tight - my black coat and trousers finished my vanishing act.

Our maneuvers were amateur - he’d have caught us outright if he'd been sober.

It was only after I pressed against the backside of one of these artifacts that I found a clue to its creator. There wasn’t a date of any kind, but lengthy etchings in a language I could only call gibberish. I was reminded of newspaper headlines of seaward cults up and down the New England coast - long since raided and interrogated by various government agencies.

The words conjured a sense of dread with only a glimpse - a glimpse that discerned nothing.

Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn…

It was chiseled in overlapping columns that stretched down to the floor. Upon better inspection, the artifact was a malformed statue of hideous nature. Crouched upon a rotten buttress was what I could only describe as an aquatic gargoyle; a veil of tentacles sagged from its face, and a cluster of eyeballs protruded from its brow. I was nestled in the space between its wing flaps.

The crafting medium was the same substance as the mirror frame; green and unsightly.

The cargo keeper stopped amidst our hiding places and cast long looks at the ceiling. I held my breath as he crooned in a stupor.

“Ye foun’ tha fortune o’ the ancients,” he muttered to himself. “Tha las’ shipmen fro’ Port Innsmouth.”

He tucked the ledger under one arm and produced a dingy flask from his waistband.

“Ya lads shuldnt’a come ‘ere,” he said between slugs of liquor. “Ya sealed yer fates, anway.”

The keeper stumbled into the darkness, unaware of us or otherwise, I don’t think any of us could be sure.

I slid out from my place behind the statue and checked the pathway.

“Clear.”

Donaghue spilled out from under the sheet in a breathless heap; Percy crawled over him as he exited the casks.

“What the hell was he talking about?” I asked.

Percy dusted himself off and said, “Drunk nonsense, I presume.”

“He knew we wer’ aroun’ him,” Donaghue exclaimed as he got to his feet.

I nodded.

“That’s what I thought - he was talking to us.”

“He wasted his time talking in puzzles,” Percy concluded. “The clock is ticking: I’m not riding this boat to Britain.”

He was right - committing for the entire voyage was another death sentence. The crew would untomb us in a month to find three starved and mummified corpses from the abundance of salt in the air.

I gulped at our potential prospects and followed Percy deeper into the ship’s body.

The hunt turned up nothing of value. I’d heard a rumor on the local campus about a hoard of gold being shipped overseas; The Widow’s Call was to be laid with Royal bank vaults brimming with bars and bullions. The rumor led me to recruit Percy and the Padwhack, as my plan kept a simple structure: board the vessel, locate the vaults, and fill our pockets before stealing back into Gravsmith by the grace of a lifeboat.

The cargo didn’t contain any hidden treasures, bloated only with cheap merchandise and bizarre antiques. A sullen panic birthed itself in my abdomen; not a crisis of worry, but enough to bring discomfort to my subconscious. It occurred to me that the gold may not be obtainable - vault mechanisms are cutting edge. What hadn’t occurred to me was finding nothing at all.

Percy checked his watch and shook his head.

“All for nothing,” he spat. “Time to go.”

Donaghue started the slog back to the exit with a shrug.

“Let’s do one more lap of the place,” I encouraged.

Percy shook his head - he was done with the whole operation.

“I told you once, I ain’t goin’ to London.”

I sighed and followed him toward the deck door.

We passed through the same storage areas, which I kept combing over in the hopes of finding a clue. The rocking of the ship threw the light in a way that manipulated the shadows into slender phantoms. They swallowed up my companions in black waves until I became lost in the labyrinth.

I stopped to survey the crossroads; the patter of the crewmen above made it impossible to track anyone by sound. Only blackness rippled, and there my panic surged into something tangible. The pressure of the ocean outside the hull became apparent to me, as did the finite amount of oxygen below deck. Anxiety lathered my throat with a stinging bile, and what little air I swallowed was rank with must and mildew.

The lack of control spun my head until I succumbed to seasickness.

“O’ lort ‘ave mercy,” the same crewman muttered somewhere behind me. “Yew lot are wors’ off than we thought.”

I scrambled out of the porthole light and did my best to hide.

The decky laughed; a dry, hoarse groan.

“Tha’ ain’t gonn’ do, laddie,” he said with that drunken drawl. “Yew’ll be eatin’ each other befor’ tha end.”

I tried to follow his voice but he was a specter in the dark; untraceable. I scrambled in the direction of the deck door and left the cackling drunk behind.

Regardless, his words rang in my head like a fog horn. I couldn’t hear his voice, but with the occasional whiff of alcohol, I knew he was close.

As I crawled along, a pair of hands scooped me up from behind and dragged me into the dark; big, sweaty paws that wouldn’t let go. I fought near breathless to get free, but my assailant was Herculean.

“Stop fussin’,” the Irishman whispered in my ear.

I went limp immediately.

He dragged me until we were in place of the mirror once again. Percy waited with his arms folded across his chest.

“Finally,” he said.

I told them about how I became separated and my encounter with the crewman.

“You lead the way, then,” Percy chuckled and pushed me toward the deck door. “We’re close now, just ‘round the way.”

Falling backward, I caught my reflection in the mirror; ghouls moved just behind me. The inky shadows of the ceiling contorted into flailing tubes and tentacles.

Donaghue turned to look at it, unprompted.

“It’s worse’n before,” he exclaimed. “Thar ain’t an illusion.”

“Who keeps uncovering the damned thing?” Percy asked.

I threw a hand in the air and said, “Forget the mirror. Follow me.”

“Right,” Percy snapped.

We moved toward our freedom, charging up the short staircase before the deck door. I took the knob and pressed a finger to my lips; our escape required supreme silence, loot or otherwise. They nodded behind me and waited to see what lay beyond.

The knob resisted my touch - securely bolted.

My eyes widened at the development. I could see new textures in the scarred wooden door that were reminiscent of fingernails. What fluids lay in my belly slowly began to cool until they festered into ice.

“What are you waiting for?” Percy hissed.

I couldn’t bear to open my mouth without any solution. The frost crept up from my stomach passages into my airways.

“Come an, boyo,” Donaghue cheered shakily.

I turned and went stiff at the sight around us: dozens of African transports stood motionless in the dark. They filled every space up to the staircase, a pool of hateful, unblinking eyes that resisted the motion of the ship.

“Do you-” I began.

Neither of them reacted to the crowd of ghosts, for that’s what they had to be. I could see the hands of those nearest me, and the destruction wrought upon their fingertips. The hallucination made me wonder about what past shipments consisted of.

“It’s locked,” I cleared my throat and focused on my companions.

They looked me over, as did the surrounding spirits.

“You alright?” Percy asked

“Aye,” I reconciled. “Here’s the new plan.”

A banging sounded on the other side of the door. It jarred me enough to flinch, and when I opened my eyes the ghosts were gone. We nestled down and waited to see who knocked.

“We can hear you gabbin’ in there,” the captain shouted. “I gather you find yer predicament?”

“Open the door, Daniels!” I pleaded. “It’s me! It’s Oannes Higsby!”

Only silence came for a time.

“None of you ‘eard that,” I heard him say sternly to his crew. He turned back to shout, “It’s a shame it had to be you, lad, but our hands are tied. The nature of the consignment demands it.”

He went on to instruct his men to keep the door locked and guarded for the rest of the voyage.

“As I said, new plan,” I whispered.

I laid it out concisely, and quietly enough so that the haunted belly of the ship might not overhear me. Two people had advised me of my doom, and by sheer force of will I was getting off alive.

I’d also made the mistake of giving up my name; escape was my only option.

“Percy, you’re going to pick the lock. After you do, come and find us so we can storm the ship together,” I explained, and nodded to the brooding Irishman. “You’re gonna want this big fella in the fight when you open the door.”

Percy nodded and dropped to one knee before the bolt mechanism. He produced a set of picks and went to work without a word.

“Are we lookouts?” Donaghue asked.

“No. We’re going to look for another door.”

We slunk by the mirror yet again, and this time everything was different; our skins were milky pale, pocked with bruises and lacerations. The shadowy fiends multiplied behind us, dancing into a frenzy.

Donaghue whimpered a prayer as we moved along. For as docile as he was, the Padwhack was a giant fellow; I felt a little safer with him behind me.

We scoured the body from wall to wall and came up empty-handed. One door appeared before us but was nailed shut from top to bottom.

“Don’ think Perc can pick that one,” Donaghue chirped.

I feigned a smile and continued to search for a way out.

Around one corner I came upon a shadowy figure down the lane from us; he shuffled around the frame of a camera stand. It was an old timey contraption with a tripod and cover cloth. The photographer assembled his equipment with a hurried agitation.

I held a hand up and signaled for us to stay hidden.

Donaghue squinted up at the newcomer and shook his head.

“Who the fook is da’?”

I shrugged and watched him work.

My first thought told me he was an insurance agent; something about the camera implied an archiving of goods aboard the ship. I can tell you now that that photographer isn’t a human of any kind; a gatekeeper between graveyards, ageless and beyond physicality.

Another person materialized out of the darkness before I could suggest a detour. The ledgerman shuffled forward and leaned against a stack of crates - he cradled the same flask as if it were a newborn.

“Tak’ me home, Lort,” he groaned, tipping back the whiskey canister.

The ledgerman began to disrobe; Donaghue went rigid at my side.

The crewman was gangly and sick looking, pasty white and covered in calloused rashes. He pitched back and forth as the ship cut into the rolling waves of the ocean. The sudden motion told us that we would soon be leaving port.

“This way,” I whispered.

But something had come over him. Donaghue stood not just transfixed, but longing for the ill-omens before us.

“Look,” he offered with a nod of his head. “Look a’ da’.”

I turned back to the pair of strangers and strained my vision; it wasn’t until the photographer hit the discharge button that it became apparent. Gnarled scales clustered around his ankles and armpits, and a webbing stretched between his ribs and elbows like that of a deep ray. A ridge of spines parted his hair to trace down his neck.

The sight of him washed me with cryptic memories: the kinds of myths and legends we leave behind in our youth. The crewman mentioned Port Innsmouth, a place unheard of since I was a boy. I suddenly recalled the campfire stories shared only in the latest, darkest of isolations: tales of incestious bonds between men and creatures, rumors around the rapidly dwindling population, and the mutations seen therein.

…like the sea got inside all of’em…

The bulb discharged again.

Donaghue lurched by me and approached the tripod. I tried to yank him backward, but he proved infinitely strong. Biting my lip, I was forced to either call his name and give up my position, or let him walk to his own demise.

I let him go.

“Look at that,” the cameraman brightened. His limbs seemed unnaturally long under the cover cloth. “Such perfect form.”

My stomach fumed at being abandoned; something about the camera drew him in. I made a point to avert my eyes from the bulb every time it flashed.

The ledgerman broke out in a revolting dance routine; a naked, swaying mutant in the dark. He turned and beckoned the Irishman into his arms.

“Com’ere, big fella,” he whispered.

The Padwhack stripped his clothing off and drew the crewman into an embrace. They slithered back and forth against the crates, letting their hands wander into the folds of each other’s form.

“He’s a natural,” the photographer exclaimed, pulling a handful of dirt from his pocket. He flattened his palm and blew the dust all over their writhing silhouettes. “Let’s see what you do.”

I remained frozen at the end of the walkway, unable to breakaway from what unfolded before me. If the opportunity presented itself to extract Donaghue, I promised to take it.

The bulb sparked and illuminated the bizarre ritual going on between them; what looked carnal I perceived as animalistic. It also exposed the transition coming over Donaghue. Whatever amphibian infection the ledgerman carried jumped into the Irishman’s bloodstream. Instead of scales, I could see the thin beginnings of carapace shells emerging from his shoulders and armpits. They eviscerated his flesh as they fissured through the skin - blood rivered out of his wounds but went largely unnoticed.

Donaghue looked to be overcome with ecstasy rather than strain.

The cameraman turned the lens on me and hit the discharge trigger.

“How about you?” he asked from behind the flash. “Let’s have a look.”

My vision became scarred from the flare, but I stayed averted from the bulb. Both the light and the nature of his question made me gag; there was a sickness delivered in the flash and in his quivering voice.

Retreating into the cargo holds, I went numb as the trio turned their hungry gaze on me.

“Go on,” the cameraman instructed. “Go get your friend.”

Donaghue, or whatever was left of him, pushed away from his infector and shambled after me. There wasn’t anything familiar in his eyes, replaced instead with bulging yellow globs. His jaw contorted into a horrific gaping hole that allowed for a host of mandibles to creep out. Shredded gums surrendered their teeth as spines sprouted through.

I couldn’t tell if he was becoming an insect or crustacean. The camera flashed from behind and outlined his towering frame.

A pillar of casks stood to my right; I grabbed the nearest barrel and pulled a small avalanche down between myself and the insanity. My reprieve was short, as Donaghue’s new form was even stronger than before. He smashed through the flimsy blockade with his massive arms - covered in spines with monstrous clattering claws.

He roared with a fury and thrashed in the debris.

The weight of reality caught up and finally allowed my flight. I tore through the narrow pathways faster than the angles allowed - I smashed into a crate every time there was a turn or corner. My shoulders and ribs became bruised from the impact, and my lungs struggled after so many knocks.

Mutant Donaghue babbled in the darkness. Stacks of crates came crashing down as he negotiated an avenue in pursuit of me.

I banked in the direction of the deck door; I prayed Percy was ready. My initial spill through the cargo disoriented me, but I believed my self-correction had me on the path away from the cameraman.

This couldn’t be true, as I rounded a corner at a full sprint and came eye to eye with the ledgerman. Creeping along, still naked, I could really admire the extent of his transition: folded eyelids, enormous lips, and webbings between every space they could hang. He had teeth like razor sharp bristles filling his mouth.

I scrambled backward and broke the line of sight between us. Pressing my back to the crates on the corner, I listened to the nauseating croaks coming down the lane - Donaghue approached from the other direction. The swaying stacks of cargo gave away his position. He was almost as close as the ledgerman.

It occurred to me the only logical option: to climb. I turned and clambered up the wall of crates in a whirlwind. I noticed as I ascended that this was the highest tower in the immediate perimeter, and it would take me longer to get up. It also meant there may not be room to hide once I reached the top.

There was a space between the crate flat and the shipdeck, inches enough for me to cram in. As the ship teetered, though, the crates angled and smashed me into the hardwood of the ceiling. My nose rubbed raw, my cheeks filled with splinters, forced to remain silent under the crushing pressure.

I couldn’t see anything but rotting planks above me, but I could hear dual worlds. The mutants chittered below as they patrolled the cargo avenues, but above me, I could make out the final cries of the crew; something strange was happening above deck, too.

“I said hol’ tha lines!” Captain Daniels shrieked over fuming whitecaps. “Get back to yar posts!”

The height of the crate stacks allowed me a vantage point from one of the portholes. Shadows flickered over the opening and I thought for a moment they were unloading the ship into the bay; Daniels surely kicked up a mutiny! I allowed myself a daydream wherein a deckhand heard my name spoken through the door and resolved to set us free.

Only after rearranging myself to get a better view did I realize they were naked human bodies diving into the waves. One by one, and with a timely rhythm, the crew hurled themselves to an icy death.

It wasn’t a mutiny, but a desertion. Beyond their flailing forms I could also make out the fading colors of the coast; time was almost up.

I turned my attention to the dilemma at hand and peered over the lip of the crate.

There was no sign of either Donaghue or the ledgerman; my position let me see a clear path to the deck door. The most worrisome hurdle was the sporadic camera bulb that flashed here and there. It was like a spotlight, and I the shuddering fawn.

Prying myself out from the crawlspace, I shimmied down the crate stack and landed atop the adjacent tower. This one was much lower and allowed me to stand at my full height, but also kept me well above the floor. Hopscotching my way across the hull seemed the safest way to travel.

I looked up and down the pathway before leaping across; my boots thwacked off the board trim, but I landed deftly. Only after I was midair did I realize the opposing stack of crates might be totally unstable and collapse under my weight.

After a deep breath, I lept to the next crate flat.

This one wobbled like a loose tooth the moment I touched down. I tried to balance myself with the casks to either side of me, but the lid came loose and I began to plummet through the top. Instead of battling the contents, I threw myself at the next stack.

The tower behind me bowed until the top crate tumbled to the floor; piles of delicate china wear disintegrated in an explosive orchestra.

I tiptoed across the catwalk until I hovered over the cursed mirror that set our fate. The reflection was polluted with swimming silhouettes and frenzied appendages, further devolutions in whatever mutation was aboard the ship.

“What are you doing up there?” someone asked from below.

My knees buckled at the sound. It was Percy, hidden in the dark.

The camera bulb discharged before I could respond and illuminated my friend in his hiding place. He threw his arms up to cover his face, but the ledgerman was already upon him.

“RUN!” I shouted. My voice only kindled confusion.

He snatched Percy up by his throat and sent him spinning through the air; he pinwheeled before crashing into a pallet of lumber. All I could make out was his lifeless form slumped against the wood.

The short stack of crates below me rattled with sudden commotion. I turned to find Donaghue climbing up the face, merely an arm’s length from me. Everything about him screamed starvation, like he wanted to slurp the marrow from my bones.

Abandoning any hope for riches, I committed myself to the original vow; get off this ship. The situation at hand called for reckless abandon in my tactics.

I reached above my head and took hold of the support beam to steady myself. Donaghue gurgled below as he ascended the last few feet of the crate stack. One mutated clawhand scrambled for purchase just before my toes.

Lifting myself by the beam, I brought both heels down on the Padwhack’s hand; shell plates fractured and separated under my weight. He wailed and rocked the stack with supreme distress.

I leaned into Donaghue’s momentum and pushed the tower backward with my legs; the crates arched away from me and caused the mutant to push forward. The stacks heaved under me and bowed the other way. We were nearly entangled for a moment as my former partner drooled and flexed to reach me - I dangled just above him like a fishing lure.

The tower of crates toppled over and Donaghue disappeared in the darkness. Boards and panels cascaded over the top of him and allowed me a ramp to the floor.

Descending at a sprint, I skittered across the floor and made for the exit. Cask barrels and loose boards littered the space between myself and the door, the impact sent deep bruises into my calves.

I reached for the knob and found it loose to the touch - it turned open and brought me to hyperventilate.

Beyond the door there wasn’t a staircase but the same doomed mirror. It reflected something akin to my corpse, fanning the futility of survival. I was reminded of the mass suicide I saw through the porthole, and wondered what curse found its way to the topdeck.

I noticed a commotion in the reflection; a great tailfin emerging from the debris. Donaghue, now truly indestructible, pushed himself out from the wreckage. Bands of plate shell stretched across his back, and his chest became an enormous thorax. Veins ballooned from his eyes down to the crooked claws hanging from his wrists.

“Aye! Come collect me, Padwhack!” I turned and shouted from the doorway.

Donaghue looked up and found me in the threshold. Howling, he charged down the lane.

I braced myself in the cutaway beside the door and let the mutant blast through the mirror; I played the fool with my reflection and destroyed them both in one fell swoop.

Donaghue crashed through the glass; I expected a disastrous mess of gore, but his body carried through the mirror and into a place I couldn’t see. Shards exploded back toward me just in front of a torrential flood of water. Dark, foamy swells poured out from the twisted frame as if it were a drain on the bottom of the ocean.

Frigid tides lapped into my shoes - depths from another world. Whenever I thought the flow might stop, even more water deluged from beyond. It climbed up my legs until it licked at the fringes of my coat.

The Widow’s Call moaned from the over-encumbrance; no ship was engineered to sustain such a breach. I imagine its belly swelled like a pregnant behemoth, sinking from the inside.

My only chance for escape was the broken dam before me. I was up to my chest before I fought through the current and kicked a leg through the portal - the power pushing around me was unparalleled. With a deep breath, I submerged myself and kicked into the void.

The water pressure strained my lungs and took away all my strength. Unending blackness enveloped everything; I fought in the direction I desperately hoped was the surface. A murmuring chant bubbled in the abyssal deep below.

The ship went down just beyond the port peninsula - its masts poked out of the waves as the only evidence. Bloated corpses drifted in the surge, but I paid them no mind.

What I’d seen as a liquid shadow now gushed out of the skyline. Unending appendages spilled over each other in a fevered race to touch the surface. Mouthfuls of saltwater filled my lungs as I fought to tread water in the chaos.

Like the water from the mirror, goliath tentacles continued to descend from the clouds in thicker and thicker knots. They writhed in every direction until they interrupted the sun. Bands of darkness stretched back over the coast in an ominous forecast; the same sick darkness we saw in the glass.

I can hear the alarm bells on shore.