They Said This Fishing Vessel Never Lost Radio Contact—Until the Broken Set Broadcast a Warning About the 5 Men Standing Beside Him in the Cabin
Deep in the northern waters, thick fog hung like a heavy gray veil, totally enveloping the wooden fishing vessel.
It was 2 AM. The ship’s engine hummed a steady rhythm.
A young navigator sat alone in the warm wheelhouse, his eyes glued to the navigation display.
On the console sat an old shortwave radio—its power cord snapped two days ago, its external antenna snapped off by a storm.
Suddenly…
Crackle… crackle…
Static cut sharply through the dead silence.
The broken radio’s backlight flickered to a cold green glow.
The navigator flinched back, staring at the exposed, unplugged power cable lying bare on the console.
Click.
The static cut out, replaced by a suffocating, wind-swept recording echoing from the speaker:
“MAYDAY! MAYDAY! Fishing Vessel KG-9023 swallowed by waves at coordinates 10°N 107°E. Only one survivor remains…”
His heart hammered violently against his ribs.
KG-9023… was the registration number of the very ship he was steering!
The voice on the radio dragged on, jagged and laced with pure horror:
“If anyone receives this message… Do not trust anyone on board. The fish hold hatch was forced open at midnight.”
“The things walking the deck… are not your crewmates. They crawled up from the ocean floor.”
An icy chill ran straight down his spine.
At that exact second, drenched, squelching footsteps echoed from the cabin hallway.
Through the fogged-up glass window, the 5 silhouettes of his crewmates stood motionless in the mist, turning their heads in unison to stare directly at him…
PART 2 IN THE FIRST COMMENT…
His breath caught sharply in his throat.
Through the fogged glass of the wheelhouse, the five figures on deck stood as still as wooden posts. Their hair was dripping wet, seawater running down their yellow oilskin jackets.
No one blinked. No one moved.
The broken radio on the console crackled again, shifting into a faint, fading voice:
“If you are still inside the wheelhouse… lock the door immediately.”
“They cannot open doors on their own. But they will mimic the voices of people you know to trick you into unlocking it…”
Suddenly, violent pounding rattled the side door of the cabin.
The Captain’s voice shouted through the crack, trembling with cold: “Open up! Hurry! The mist outside is freezing, let us in for a hot drink!”
It sounded identical to Captain Hai—the man he had sailed with for five years.
His hand trembled as he instinctively stepped toward the iron latch.
But the voice on the radio screamed in sheer desperation:
“DON’T OPEN IT! Look at their feet!”
He froze, lowering his flashlight beam to the gap beneath the wooden door.
On the deck floor… there were no water droplets or muddy footprints.
What was oozing through the gap under the door… was a thick, black fluid, reeking of rotting seaweed and sea ink.
And from the radio speaker, the final sentence echoed before the device went completely dead:
“The only survivor mentioned in that SOS broadcast… was Captain Hai. He drowned two hours ago.”
The pounding on the door abruptly stopped.
A long, wet scraping sound echoed directly across the roof of the cabin. The entire room shuddered violently.
It was no longer at the door. It was crawling on the ceiling.
FOLLOW FOR THE FINAL PART TOMORROW…
