by Ben Hammott
Elizabeth studied the cover and read aloud the title. “Hell Ship – The Flying Dutchman. The true account of the catastrophic events aboard the Fortuyn as witnessed by Tom Hardy, the sole survivor of the aforementioned vessel. “I like it, and I see you’ve included Tom’s original title.”
“My agent and publisher weren’t keen due to its wordiness, but as I thought it fitting that it should be included, I insisted.”
“I approve.” Elizabeth opened the book and smiled. “You’ve dedicated it to Tom and me. Thank you.” She turned to the chapters she hadn’t yet read and started reading.
Content to wait, Vince sat back and relaxed.
Night had arrived when Vince awoke to a hand on his arm. He sat up, and turning to Elizabeth, he brushed his hair back with a hand. “Sorry. I’ve had a few late nights trying to finish the book before...”
She squeezed his arm. “No need to apologize. You looked so peaceful; I decided to let you sleep.”
Vince nodded at the book she clutched to her chest. “Well, what did you think now you’ve read the whole story?”
“I’ve read Tom’s account on what happened way back then, which was chilling enough, but to read your dramatized account that fills in the gaps really brought home the terror Tom and the crew must have experienced. I’m certain Tom would agree with me when I say you have done his story justice, as I knew you would. I may be a little biased, but I think it’s the best thing you’ve written to date.”
Vince let out a relieved sigh. “Thank you, Lizzy, it means a lot. My agent thinks the same and is expecting sales to be good. There’s even talk of it being made into a movie. Thanks again for letting me write Tom’s story.”
“You’re very welcome, and I’m pleased for you, but if you don’t invite me to the movie premiere, I will be upset.”
Vince smiled. “VIP seat, I promise.”
“I’m feeling tired, so if you put the book beside the bed so I can read it through again when I wake, I’ll get some sleep. All this damn chemo and pills I’ve been having is draining my already frail body. They reckon they’ve seen evidence of improvement inside me, but I think they’re just trying to give me hope.”
“Well, I hope it’s true. They say hope and positivity is a good healer.” Vince placed the book on the bedside table and glanced at the wall clock. “I had better get going anyway as I’m already late for a meeting with my agent and publisher to finalize the details of the book’s publicity campaign. I’ll pop in again tomorrow if that’s okay?”
Elizabeth smiled weakly. “If I’m still here, I’d welcome the company.”
Unsure how to respond, Vince asked, “Do you want me to send a nurse in on my way out?”
Elizabeth raised a dismissive arm weakly and closed her eyes. “No, I’m sure they’ve got more important work to do than fuss over me.”
“Okay, Lizzy, I’ll see you tomorrow.” He headed for the door, and as he went to close it, he saw that the frail woman had already drifted off to sleep.
Vince exited the room and gently closed the door.
At the end of the corridor, an alarm halted him. Fearing the worst, Vince turned to see nurses rushing to a room with a red light flashing beside the door. Relieved to see it wasn’t Lizzy’s room, he headed for the elevator.
EPILOGUE
Due to the extensive advertising campaign revolving around Tom’s manuscript coming to light and the report issued by the Museum of Natural History experts presenting the arm as genuine and being from a new species they believed stretched back to prehistoric times, Hell Ship quickly rose up the book bestseller charts and reignited Vince’s popularity. He appeared on chat shows both in the UK and America, where he talked about some of the events Tom had witnessed aboard the Fortuyn and his research into the Flying Dutchman myth.
To show viewers the creature in its entirety, Vince had a foot-high model of it created using Tom’s sketch and descriptions, the arm, and advice from experts. Everyone who saw it was surprised at its formidable appearance. The creature model and Tom’s descriptions of the larger monster were then used as a blueprint to design the creatures for the Hell Ship movie due out later that year.
SITTING IN THE FRONT row of the London movie theater where the UK premiere of Hell Ship was about to be screened, Travis Atherton glanced behind at the actors, actresses, and some of the technical professionals responsible for bringing Hell Ship to the big screen, as well as the invited VIP guests which included some A-list celebrities. He then glanced at his watch again. “We can’t wait any longer.”
Vince glanced at the empty chair beside him. “Just five more minutes.”
Travis sighed. “That’s what you said ten minutes ago. If she were coming, she’d be here by now. I’m worried people will start leaving if the movie doesn’t start soon, and we’re on a time schedule. You and the stars have interviews set up afterward.”
Reluctantly, Vince nodded. “Okay. Let them know they can start.”
As Travis turned to raise his hand as a signal to the theatre manager waiting by the door to start screening the film, the door opened, and someone entered. He nudged Vince. “Your special VIP guest has finally arrived.”
Vince climbed from his seat and hurried along the aisle towards the waiting woman. “Lizzy, you made it.”
“Of course. I think battling cancer was less of an ordeal than negotiating London traffic.”
Smiling, Vince crooked his arm. “I’ll escort you to your seat.”
Lizzy slipped her arm through his, and they walked down the aisle. Already informed of the reason for the delay and Lizzy’s battle with cancer that she seemed to be winning, as well as her role in bringing Tom’s manuscript to Vince, the audience rose to their feet and started clapping.
Surprised by the attention, Lizzy nudged Vince. “I feel like a celebrity.”
“And so you should. None of us would be here if it weren’t for you.”
“Or Tom,” Lizzy added.
“Or Tom,” Vince confirmed.
When Lizzy sat in her seat, the clapping faded, the lights dimmed, and the curtains covering the screen swished open. All eyes focused on the screen when the movie began to play.
Lizzy smiled when the dedication to Tom and her appeared on the screen.
Hardly able to believe he was about to watch a movie adaptation of one of his books, a dream come true, Vince settled into the comfortable seat and watched the camera pan around the bookshop empty of customers and past the scowling bookshop owner. It stopped on the actor playing him who sat fiddling with his pen at a table stacked with unsold books.
Hell Ship Notes
Strange seaweed and creatures The idea of using the seaweed and smaller crablike creatures in this story came from a small entry in a document discovered by a Dutchman I was put in touch with during my visit to Amsterdam. He had been collecting strange sea stories for a book he planned to write. Though he told me many weird and wonderful tales, one that stuck in my mind was the report he found in the Dutch East India archives concerning one of their vessels coming across a sinking ship. It is brief, as if the writer, who is thought to be a captain of a Dutch East India vessel making a report to his superiors about the wreck, was reluctant to say too much in fear of damaging his reputation.
This is the translated report:
Three days sailing from Cape Town, at day’s end of March 18th, 1724, calm sea, lowering sun highlighted wreckage of a sinking vessel to port. Four seamen rallied landing boat for closer inspection and discover vessel’s name. On their return they report unknown Dutch East India ship was in bad repair. Sails ripped. Loose lines, broken stern mast, and was surrounded by seaweed with leaves the size of a man’s torso and upward stalks. Strange sea creatures moved across it, which men called octopus crab, had long front limbs. No sign of crew or corpses spotted in water or aboard. Ship sunk dragging seaweed down with it. God rest their souls.
THOUGH THERE IS NO evidence that it was the Fortuyn or any other ship that became the legen
dary ghost ship The Flying Dutchman, the Fortuyn is as good a choice as any from the many that were lost without trace in the seas around the African coast.
Slave Trade
During the era of the barbaric transportation of slaves, the number of Africans who were transported to the New World between 1520 and 1867 is estimated at 10 t0 15 million with an additional 4 to 6 million perishing en route.
Images showing packing of Africans in Slave Ships
COMING SOON
STRANGE
(working title)
(The following excerpt is subject to change in the final edit)
Chapter 1
Sinister Mansion
KALLISTO CROWE, A ONCE successful supernatural thriller and horror novelist who had now fallen out of favor with his once loyal readers, his agent, and publisher, drove along the driveway that weaved through the forest and halted at the wrought iron gates barring the track. Plucking the bunch of large iron keys from the passenger seat, he climbed out and approached the gates. Peering through the rusty paint-neglected bars, his eyes took in the distant building that was to be his new home. He found it just as impressive as the first time he had viewed it a few weeks before. West and east wings of the building led off from the slightly off-center domed tower that dominated the front facade.
Still finding it difficult to believe he would be living in such a grand house, he unlocked the gates. Hinges screamed out for lubrication when they swung open. Adding the task to his to-do list, Crowe climbed back into his car, drove through and pulled to a stop outside the main entrance set in the east wing. Eager to start exploring the house he had so far only seen a small part of, he immediately started unloading the car and stacked everything into the large hallway before deciding where it would all go.
When the car had been emptied, Crowe picked up a box of his unsold books and grunted from the weight; he should have packed them in smaller boxes. Though aware that all they would do was gather dust, as they have been doing for years, and really should be thrown away, it wasn’t something he could bring himself to do. It was his first book and they held a special affection to him; though why he had to keep four boxes of the same title was even a mystery to him.
As he hefted them up the creaking staircase, he glanced at the title scrawled in black marker pen in his handwriting. My first masterpiece – Ghosts of Crowley Manor, and cringed slightly. It hadn’t been the bestseller he had envisioned. Out of the five hundred copies he had paid to be printed, he had sold exactly fifty-three. Luckily, his following book, Haunted, showed enough potential to persuade an agent to take him on. After some revision and, at times, hard edits, Haunted was picked up by a mid-range publishing house and sold respectable numbers, putting him firmly on the publishing map. His next two books did even better, selling so well that he gave up his day job as an insurance clerk and became a full-time writer.
After three more successes, things began spiraling sharply downwards. His imaginative author-juices had evaporated to become as dry and barren as any sand-swept desert. After two flops, his agent, diplomatically, had advised him to take some time off from writing to try and regain his writing mojo. With hefty mortgage payments and no new titles to top up his waning royalties, Crowe had no option other than to sell the house he had purchased on the back of his writing success and search for a cheaper place to live.
As it happened, a builder friend of his, Peter Jones, had purchased a large plot of land in the countryside with some ramshackle ruins set on some open ground and a grade II listed mansion positioned at the south end of a sprawling forest. The modest, mansion-sized dwelling needed some remedial building work, including sorting out the subsidence caused by tree roots undermining the foundations that had sent cracks creeping up one end of the house. Though none of the repairs were serious enough to threaten the building’s structure, they would need doing before it could be resold. It was also badly in need of modernization.
As Peter didn’t want the hassle and red tape that would arise from English Heritage overseeing the repairs, his interest in purchasing the property firmly laid in the attached land, where he intended to build ten large, luxury houses. Another problem that would deter possible future buyers was that a proviso in the deeds stipulating that all the furniture, paintings, ornaments, etc., were to remain in the house.
Peter’s proposal to Crowe was that he would install a new kitchen, upgrade the plumbing and wiring, and rent it to him at a reduced rate if he undertook a bit of decoration and general upkeep. Crowe had jumped at the generous offer and moved in as soon as the renovations were completed. With the low rent, he was able to put his furnishings into storage and just bring his essential knick-knacks, which included his first baby, Ghosts of Crowley Manor.
Placing the box of unsold books on the floor, Crowe opened the attic door. Assaulted by a whoosh of ancient, musty air that caused him to gasp, he stepped back until it had settled. His eyes followed the dusty treads up the narrow wooden staircase and gazed at the pitched-roof timbered with wide boards. Though originally painted white, they were now the shade of old parchment. The air that drifted down seemed to be starved of oxygen, slightly asphyxiating. Leaving the door open to let fresh air seep inside, he returned downstairs and carried the remaining three boxes of his failed masterpiece upstairs. The last one he kept hold of and poked his head into the small stairwell. The air was a lot fresher. He climbed to the attic and gazing around, marveled at the amount of stuff cluttering the large space, none of which he was permitted to throw away. Peter had warned him it was jam-packed with some of the previous occupants’ belongings, but he hadn’t expected so much.
Light seeped into the gloom from a round window at the far end, highlighting the floating dust motes the fresh air had disturbed. He placed the book box to one side and moved through the attic. Everything was old and covered in years of accumulated dust. An Aladdin’s cave of antiques. There was a row of framed paintings leaning against each other, a large child’s rocking horse, a pram stacked with china dolls, tea chests full of toys, linen, and clothes, stacks of old books, wooden chests, probably steamer trunks thought Crowe, two tall cupboards and a plethora of other objects.
Walking further into the room, Crowe stroked his hand along the toy horse’s mane, setting it into a creaking, rocking motion and halted at one of the tea chests filled to the brim with antique toys; metal with no plastic in sight. He picked up the one on top, it was heavier than expected, made of cast iron. He blew off the accrued dust, setting it adrift to glint in the sun’s rays. It was a circus toy, a red carriage with seven blue-clad figures sat on top. Six played musical instruments and the seventh held the reins that drove the two white horses. The front legs of the twin steeds had small wheels attached to their hooves, their back legs raised slightly, allowing it to be pushed along on the carriage’s four yellow wheels. Though it showed signs of being played with, scuffs and scrapes, it was in decent condition. A glance in the chest revealed it to be crammed with circus-themed toys, including circus animals, lions, elephants and the like, all with tiny metal wheels on their feet.
Returning the toy to the box, Crowe moved on. After sidling through a gap between the stacks of discarded possessions, he halted at a large cabinet adorned with strange mythical beasts, demons, and devils. Fascinated by the creepy, lifelike carvings, Crowe felt his writer’s imagination tingle. He could write a truly spine-chilling tale around this piece of macabre furniture alone. Stroking his hand over the dusty details, he pondered how he could move it downstairs. Maybe he could borrow a couple of Pete’s workers to help him?
Excited by the prospect, he gripped the twin demon-head door handles and twisted. The doors refused to open. After blowing the dust away from the lock plate, he stared at the keyhole fashioned inside the mouth of a snarling beast. Though Pete had given him a bunch of house keys, he couldn’t remember any that might fit this strange lock. Though temporarily thwarted to discover what was inside, he was determined to find out. He put a hand to the
top of the cabinet and pushed, rocking it slightly. Whatever lay within, it had no weight. Probably some old clothes he thought. He’d get it downstairs and then worry about opening it.
Turning his back on the cabinet, he sighed at the amount of stuff he would have to reposition to create a gap large enough for it to be taken out. With possible storylines already swirling around his imagination, he knew it would be worth the effort and set about the task.
Chapter 2
Strange Painting
“YOU NEED TO LIFT your end a tad,” instructed Crowe.
Struggling from the weight of the solid piece of furniture, Fred frowned at Crowe. “I thought you said this damn thing wasn’t heavy?”
Crowe shrugged. “Sorry, it seemed lighter when I rocked it.”
“Trust me, it isn’t.”
Fred readjusted his grip, raised his end a little higher and shot back through the door when Charlie at the other end stumbled on the stairs and released his hold. Carried by gravity, the top corner of the cabinet bounced down the treads. The banister creaked worryingly when Fred crashed into it with the bottom of the cabinet pressed against his ribs. Praying the rail would hold, he glanced below at the hallway he would plummet to if it didn’t.
Crowe rushed forward, took the cabinet’s weight and shifted it away from Fred.
Rubbing his chest when the pressure was released, Fred tapped the rail. “It’s a good job it's quality workmanship, anything modern would have broken and seen me sent below.”
Struggling with the weight, Crowe asked, “You okay, Fred?”
Fred nodded and gripped the cabinet’s middle, taking some of the weight off of Crowe.