True Ghost Stories

Ghost Ships: A True Ghost Story

By Dr. E. B. Jones

“In the 1960s, my father was a young man, fresh out of school in Jamaica, when he signed up to be a sailor to “travel the world and get some skills.” Later in life, he met and married my mother, and when I was born, he became my bedtime parent, meaning, he was the parent who put me to bed at night. Included in our bedtime routine was storytelling, the regaling of his adventures on the seas. One particular story about ghost ships became my favorite.”

One evening, as I was about to start night watch, one of my shipmates told me about ghost ships; ships with crews that had been deceased for centuries and yet sailed routes off the west coast of Africa, seeking to lure other ships to destruction by drawing them to the shallows or reefs. I thought my shipmate was joking or trying to scare me until I recalled the stories I’d heard from my mama and others about spirits that travelled the world at night. I became a believer and stuck closely to my night watch buddy, Cal.

Feeling nervous, I took my position on deck and was commanded to “stay alert.” Our ship was headed toward the Tropic of Cancer and the Tropic of Capricorn. The Tropics were considered magical and dangerous, fairytale like and eerie, beautiful and deadly, all at the same time. Really odd and unusual things happened between the tropics. Hence, the command.

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Dr. E. B. Jones is a retired professor of Educational Leadership. She considers Florida her home base, but Texas is where her grandchildren reside. So guess who spends most of her time in Texas? And guess who writes children’s books? In addition to picture books, E. B. writes short stories, poetry, and essays. Her publications include Nathan and his Magical Tablet and Breathe – Earth Day 2020. E. B. can be reached online at Facebook: Pam Enid Jones or Twitter: @ JonesEbmjones.

I stared in every direction, gazing intently into the deep dark. On the seas at night, there is no light, only the reflection of the moon when it is full, and even then, the moonlight illuminates the water’s surface only. Without sight, I relied on my hearing and keenly tuned in to the wind whistling, the hum of the ship’s powerful engine, and the occasional chatter of my crewmates.

At first, all went well. The breeze wafted across my face, making my nose twitch with its salty aroma. The rhythmic thrumming of the ship’s mechanics relaxed me, and I began to hum, joyful songs of life on my native island. I was in the middle of a refrain when I sensed movement on the leeward side of the ship. I turned the scope in that direction and saw nothing on the screen. I stood up tall to look through the port hole, and there it was, the silhouette of an ancient cargo ship, plowing directly towards us at a rapid pace. Afraid my naked eyes deceived me, I turned back to the scope for a more telling view and did not see anything on the screen. A keen wailing like that of people in grief reached me and I knew instinctively it came from the ship that threatened us. “Come, look!” I shouted to my mate. “Do you see a ship leeward?”

Cal hurried over and looked through the scope. He shook his head and teased, “The ghost ship story playing with your mind.” He tapped his temple and made to walk off.

“Are you sure? Look through the port hole. There is a ship out there!”

Grinning at me, my mate looked, shook his head and walked off, laughing.

I grabbed the scope and scanned the darkness. Nothing. I peered through the port window. The ship was gone. Where’d it go? I asked myself. I know a ship was there! Sighing, I resumed my position, remembering I had not asked Cal about the wailing sound. I opened my mouth to call out to him, but shut it, deciding all of it— the ship, the crying, the threat—must have been my imagination coming alive after weeks and weeks of staring at water. y The next night, I stepped to my position at the scope and scouted the deep dark void, wondering if my imagination would play tricks

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on me again. As soon as I thought this, out in the distance, I saw movement. I was afraid to take a proper look, but I had to. My job required it. I turned the scope and adjusted it. An old ship with voluminous sails came into view, emerging from a thin, veil-like fog. The ship was headed towards us, fast like the previous night and gaining, which made no sense because there was only a slight breeze tonight. The tortuous sound of sobbing, wailing, and thrashing reached me, more intense than the night before, so much so it filled my mind. And yet that was not the most disturbing feature of the ship. That distinction went to the water, streaming like tears, down the front and sides of the ship. Confident the ship would ram us this time, I shouted, “Look! Look, everyone! There’s a ship heading for us. It’s the same one from last night! It’s going to sink us.”

I expected the PA system to crackle to life with the command, “All men on deck! All men on deck!” But only two of my shipmates rushed to my side and looked to where I pointed. They stared and searched and gawked and squinted, and saw nothing. They turned to me, one with a confused expression on his face and Cal, wearing anger on his. “There’s no ship out there, Freddie,” said Cal. “You’re taking this ghost ship story too far. It’s a high seas tale. Now quit with the false alarms or Captain will confine you for sea hallucination sickness. Take deep breaths and calm down.”

I was stunned. What was going on with me? Did I have sea hallucination sickness? Could that account for my false visions? Or, maybe I was one of the unusual people that Papa and Uncle Ben used to talk about, people who could see spiritual matter when others couldn’t. I looked beyond the shoulders of my shipmates and like them, saw nothing. y On the third night of watch, I made sure I was well-rested and sharp. I’d slept more hours than usual during the day and had eaten just enough to maintain a modicum of hunger. Hunger always gave me an edge.

At the start of my shift, a shipmate told me we would be crossing the equator and entering the next Tropic. He warned me several times, “Be alert! Stay sharp! The workings of the ship get odd on the center line that splits earth.” I nodded, thinking us fortunate that we had a bold, harvest moon whose blindingly bright light lit up the sea like a summer afternoon. Nothing strange or mysterious dare happen in such light. And yet my gut mocked my positivity. It warned of something frightening soon to come.

With each passing minute, my nerves wound tighter and tighter. I alternated between the scope and the port hole, looking for the slightest shadow or movement. Just as I’d shifted from one to the other, I saw it, the thing my gut warned of.

A ship from the 1800s faced us, bow to bow, and cleaved through the water as if it had wings

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instead of sails. It glowed, giving the impression it had been crafted from embers of coal. The closer it got, the bigger it grew in in size and the more brilliantly it shone, even outshining the moon’s unusual brightness. Though still many nautical miles away, a deep, sorrowful lamentation filled the skies, reaching us in a cacophony of weeping, moaning, and keening. The water-tears streaming down the ship’s surface were now a ghastly shade of red and flowed so violently, they created sheets that looked like tiered waterfalls. The thin veil from the previous night had been replaced by a translucent pink mist that surrounded the ship like gauze.

Finally finding my voice, I yelled, “Stop! Stop! Turn around! Go windward!”

The captain, whose presence I had been unaware of, followed my orders with his own. “All hands on deck! Man your stations! But do NOT change course. Steady as we go. Call out to the ship.”

I glanced around the deck noting the crew of few had indeed multiplied. An awed officer behind me informed the captain, “There is no record on file for the ship. It should not be there.”

“Prepare to board the ship,” directed the captain.

I faced the immense, glowing ship and cupped my ears to shut out the shrieking, sobbing, and wailing from the frightful ship. I wondered if we would be swallowed whole by the oncoming ship or rammed, broken into pieces of wood, metal, and flesh. The captain seemed determined to make the latter our fate.

“Increase speed,” he shouted over the din.

A sailor enacted the captain’s orders and I could feel the ship respond beneath my feet.

In reaction to us, the death ship grew in size, reaching halfway to the moon.

“Captain!” a panicky voice from the bridge yelled, “We cannot avoid the ship. Shall I turn windward before the ship blocks our path or destroys us?”

“Stay the course,” commanded the captain. “If we turn windward our ship will be torn to bits by rocks below the surface. The ship threatening us is a ghost ship. It wants to wreck us.”

My heart pounded so hard and loudly, I pressed my hands over it to keep it from jumping out of my chest. I wasn’t the only one who was afraid. I should have felt vindicated that at last the crew saw the ghost ship I had warned of, but I

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only felt fear.

My gut told me to look up. I did and saw an albatross circling the old ship. All sailors knew this to be a sign of dead bodies aboard. I shuddered, feeling cold on this warm night.

A navigator called out, “Approaching the equator, Captain, sir.”

I refocused on the ship and nearly lost my mind when the ghost ship suddenly curved away from us and the pink shroud surrounding it fell away. The ship began shrinking and losing its brilliance, and the water-tears ceased and dried up. The sounds of grief and terror diminished to whispers.

A stunned, collective silence filled the bridge, but I could still feel tension vibrating in the air. I imagined the crew wondered as I did – were we out of danger? What had made the ghost ship retreat?

“Follow her,” the captain commanded.

We followed the ship’s wake but could not keep up with the ghost ship’s speed. The ship winked out of existence at the point where water meets sky at the equator.

The captain called off the chase and we, the crew, cheered, relieved.

The captain interrupted our revelry. “You just saw a ghost ship. They roam the waters between the tropics, trying to force ships to destruction. The ships are manned by a skeleton crew and carries cargo of enslaved people. You are privileged to have seen this. You now know the tale is true.”

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