The Ghost Ship
It was a foggy autumn night when the strange ship appeared in the port of Hull, its silhouette cutting through the mist like a long-forgotten memory. The hull of the ship was old, battered, and covered in seaweed, as though it had risen from Davey Jones Locker. A sense of foreboding settled over the few dockworkers still toiling by the water. No one had seen this ship approach; it simply materialized, as if by dark magic, in the harbour.
Gregory, a seasoned sailor, was the first to speak, his voice hoarse with confusion. “Where in God’s name did that come from?”
But no one answered. The dockers stood, frozen in place, staring at the ghostly vessel as it bobbed gently on the tide. The name of the ship, barely legible, was carved into the rotting wood: “The Brazen Bull”.
The mist thickened, curling like cold breath around the ship as if the sea itself wished to conceal the vessel. With great trepidation, Gregory stepped forward. “I need to know what’s on that ship.” He muttered as if bewitched. The others nodded, eyes riveted to the ship.
As the dockworkers cautiously approached, they heard a faint voice echo from the ship’s deck, a low murmur like someone talking to themselves. One of the dockers, a young woman named Jessica, strained to hear the voice.