My son is currently on an expedition to study the mating cycle of eels. His team just departed from the coast of New Zealand. Their destination is located at coordinates 48°52.6′S, 123°23.6’W. It’s a simple thirty-day trip, with a stop at the Pitcairn Islands, and then thirty days onward to Lima, Peru. There, they will assist local coral reef farmers before returning home.
Anthony’s recent emails have started to worry me. Initially, he wrote with excitement about the first leg of the journey, but his messages have since turned into almost illegible gibberish, and then there was no contact at all. His Starlink connection status shifted from offline to unreachable. Each week of the journey seemed to bring stranger developments, until all communication stopped.
In Anthony’s first email after leaving port, he mentioned that his group was sailing at a steady five nautical miles per hour, covering roughly one hundred miles on the first day. Between stops to identify various sea life, I was surprised they made it that far. He assured me they would pick up the pace over the next few days, as the captain was committed to staying on schedule.
As usual, Anthony filled his email with drawings. He captured groups of galaxiids swimming vibrantly, illustrated lampreys feeding on bait, showed a mudfish caught in a crab trap, and even depicted a school of adorable “cucumber fish” (which I now know are actually called smelt).
Anthony’s ability to see and recreate moments artistically was remarkable. He found bullies while scuba diving and sketched them in oil pastels. He depicted torrent fish evading a shark with stencils, black flounders at dusk in charcoal, and no email was complete without an eel sketch. This one showed an eel scavenging for food in what seemed to be oil-based paint.
His second email arrived around the sixth day of the journey. By then, they had traveled more than eight hundred miles. Anthony joked about their last glimpse of humanity being four hundred nautical miles behind them. Now, it was just them and the unknown.
Even at the time, reading this sent chills down my spine. Through my own research, I discovered that beyond this point, there was no regular air traffic or marine route. They were truly alone, pitted against the vast, seemingly endless ocean. The limitless blue, interrupted only by bursts of marine life.
This email marked the beginning of his research. He started studying the nocturnal behaviors of marine life and shared his experiences through art. He illustrated the contrast of baby sailfish against the dark ocean, mobula rays dancing around his scuba partner at dusk, a white-tailed shark lurking below, and even whales diving deeper after releasing waste—out of reach of any predators.
His final sketches showed an exceptional rendition of two currents meeting—a unique line of fertile water in an otherwise featureless ocean, sparking a feeding frenzy. The abundance of phytoplankton attracted anchovies, which lured in skipjack tuna, followed by silky sharks.
Anthony mentioned, however, that the whole crew had been waking up to a strange sound they couldn’t identify. It screeched violently for the past two nights at exactly three in the morning, only to stop as suddenly as it began. He admitted that it creeped him out, though the captain assured him it was likely just a whale.
Anthony’s third email, which came on their ninth day, is so unsettling that I feel it’s best to share it with you exactly as he wrote it.
**********. ***********. *************
Buenos días, mami número uno,
We’re about halfway to our destination. The weather has been fair, though a slight fog has settled over the past few days—hopefully, it will let up soon. It feels like I haven’t slept in two days. We’re still hearing that sound every morning, and it’s become a small fixation among the crew. Nothing like ghost stories on a ship in the middle of the ocean.
One sailor called it “the Abyssalith” the other night at chow. He said these creatures have roamed the desolate seas for centuries, finding solo voyages like ours and dragging them into the abyss, one by one, until only the captain remains. Then, they take the captain and leave the ship to drift.
All just nonsense to rile up the new members finding their sea legs. But, mom, for an entire day, every bump in the sea had someone whispering, “Was that the Abyssalith?” But when the screech came in the morning, no one was laughing anymore. Garcia began to pray in Spanish, clutching his rosary beads.
Mom, I’ve been at this sonar station an hour before and an hour after the last two nights. Nothing has come up on sonar. Davis was using his drone for perimeter surveillance, but the fog has become so thick that it’s pointless now. I decided to watch the drone footage for giggles, hoping it would calm my nerves.
The first night he sent it out, everything seemed ordinary. However, around 0230, a bright red flash appeared in the corner of the drone’s view. Rewinding and pausing didn’t help me identify it. Trying not to spook myself, I wrote it off as a light on the drone.
The second night, though, there was something in the water. It torpedoed toward the boat, circled us, then swam away at the same speed. The dark shape was over two meters long and almost seemed to be doing a butterfly stroke. Given its size and speed, I convinced myself it was probably an orca, bull shark, or a very curious dolphin.
The next morning, we woke up to a sight I’d never seen. Swarms of hagfish surrounded the ship, seemingly eating something off the hull. There were so many that they rocked the ship, clogged the propeller, and then just dispersed. Carlos wouldn’t stop yelling about “el marephyte.” By lunchtime, he was burning sage all over the ship.
Davis volunteered to go under and check the hull. It seemed like the entire crew was on deck, waiting in silence for him to resurface. After what felt like an eternity, he came back on board and was immediately bombarded with questions. All he said was that the propeller was unclogged, then he requested a private audience with the captain.
This sent the rest of the crew into a panic, letting their imaginations run wild. I was kind of glad I hadn’t mentioned what I saw on the drone footage—it would have only solidified the fears of an already anxious crew. The rest of the day was pretty quiet. Everyone kept to their duties, though everyone seemed on edge.
We’re almost at Point Nemo, though, so hopefully, that will cheer everyone up. As usual, I’ve included some of my drawings. I hope all is well at home. I can’t wait to see you again—I’ve been dreaming about your stew chicken with peas and rice.
**********. ***********. *************
Needless to say, I’ve been constantly checking my Outlook for his next email. Even though I know Anthony’s an experienced seaman, random things like this always worry me. I feel so helpless, thousands of miles away from him.
On the morning of the fifteenth day, my phone alerted me to his email. I’ll just share it as well.
**********. ***********. *************
Hey Mom,
I know it’s been a few days since I last wrote, but we’re almost to the point. I wish I could say the crew’s spirits have risen, but a few mishaps have left everyone feeling almost zombified. Now, everyone is walking on pins and needles. Mentioning “the Abyssalith” or “el Marephyte” is like saying Voldemort.
The captain has been very strict about his tolerance for old wives’ tales and sea myths. The fog is so dense that we hardly know what time it is anymore. I can’t even find peace underwater; each dive feels like something is watching me out in the darkness of the ocean. I could swear I heard something call my name.
We had an accident the day before yesterday. Crewman Channey was pulling up the dive guide line when it must have snagged on something, yanking him back over the boat. He swears something pulled it, and now he refuses to assist with the dive team, so I’m down a knowledgeable member.
Last night, after the sound stopped and everyone settled back into bed, the first mate was patrolling the deck. Apparently, one of the ropes snapped and hit him across the chest. The impact was so loud that everyone on board thought it was a gunshot. I swear it sounded like a .45 went off.
He was taken to the infirmary, and I happened to pass by as he was being moved. The wound on his chest didn’t look like any rope injury I’ve ever seen—it was as if his entire chest had been ruptured and burned on impact. I could see down to his corroded chest, with his clothing frayed around the wound.
The captain informed us he would have to be airlifted when we reach the Pitcairn Islands. But after the morphine wore off the first time, his screams contradicted the captain’s briefing. I could hear him echoing through the pipes of the ship. No one with ears could miss it. He sounded terrified and desperate:
“There’s something out there—it tried to take me, but I fought it. You gotta listen to me, we’re not alone out here. It spoke in my mind, it knew my name, it’s not alone, we’re not leaving this place. It looked like a giant goddamn mantis shrimp, its stomach glowing red like a bloody belly comb jelly. We need to get out of here. Tell someone. They’re coming for us. Carlos was right—they’re just parts of fish… and they were in my head.
They were in my head.
They’re just parts of fish pieced together like Frankenstein.
They were in my head.
We have to get out of here. They’re coming for us all. They’re going to finish us. They’re coming for us all, and there’s nowhere to run.
Hahaha
They’re coming for us all, and there’s nowhere to run.
Hahaha
They’re coming for us all, and there’s nowhere to run.
Hahaha
They’re coming for us all, and there’s nowhere to run.
Just under dark ground, many enormous nests thrive. Insects scurry around, brushing orange under tall, tall oaks branches everywhere. Under pressure, oceans never move easily.
Just under dark ground, many enormous nests thrive. Insects scurry around, brushing orange under tall, tall oaks branches everywhere. Under pressure, oceans never move easily.
Just under dark ground, many enormous nests thrive. Insects scurry around, brushing orange under tall, tall oaks branches everywhere. Under pressure, oceans never move easily.
I assume the doctors made it to his room and either sedated him or he passed away. It was quiet on the ship for the rest of the night. The next morning, the captain informed us of his passing, though it wasn’t news to anyone who had seen him being taken to medical or heard his final words.
We’ve made it to Point Nemo, Mom. I wish this achievement felt more joyful, but it’s still something to be proud of. We’re continuing as scheduled and will be here for the next week. I’ll be so happy to be back on land. I’m also glad to say there haven’t been any more accidents, and the sound has finally stopped.
**********. ***********. *************
My mind couldn’t wrap around what I had read. If it had been anyone else, I would have assumed it was a joke. I was half convinced one of his crewmates had gotten hold of his laptop. Anthony didn’t joke like this—he was never much of a prankster. Then I saw the attachments, and they confirmed it was my son. But his illustrations in this email were dark and unsettling.
The first drawing was of a longnose hawkfish floating just behind the reef, looking almost ominous, as if it were stalking prey. Its figure loomed in the darkness, giving it a menacing look that felt out of place for a fish known to be shy by nature.
Next was his rendition of a ribbon eel lying in wait in its sand burrow, sending chills down my spine. The eyes in the drawing seemed to follow me, no matter where I moved. There was something eerie about them—a haunting undertone.
Then came a sketch of the Hemitaurichthys multispinosus, or many-spined butterflyfish, drifting aimlessly in the ocean current. Again, those eyes seemed to hold a deep darkness. I suddenly felt warmth on my face and wiped my nose, only to find blood on my hand. Shocked, I went to the bathroom to address the nosebleed, but my thoughts returned to the rest of his drawings. There were three more in the attachment, and I was eager to see them. That last phrase he wrote lingered in my mind. If Anthony felt it important enough to mention, there must have been something to it.
The fourth slide showed a yellowfin tuna they’d pulled aboard on a trolley line. The backdrop of dusk complemented the fish’s vibrant scales, making them almost glow. Yet, in the fish’s eyes, I could see a sense of impending doom.
The fifth image captured a wahoo being speared by a sailfish. The speed and precision of the strike were breathtaking. Anthony’s attention to detail and realism were astonishing; I could almost feel the disruption of the water during the attack.
The final slide depicted great reef and white-tipped reef sharks feeding on bait. Each swipe was fierce, the energy captured vividly. On one of the bait fish and a shark, Anthony even included anatomical details, dissecting the shark mid-strike as it bit into the bait. It highlighted not only his marine knowledge but also his immense talent. I could never have asked for a better son.
The last email arrived a few days later.
**********. ***********. *************
Hi Mom,
We’re finally on our way to the Pitcairn Islands. Morale on the ship is starting to pick back up, but the fog has settled back in with a vengeance, slowing us down to almost thirty knots. It’s been rough trying to get a signal with all this overcast.
I’ve been getting these random nosebleeds, and a few of the crew have been complaining about headaches. That sound in the dark ocean has returned. Maybe it’s just my mind playing tricks on me, but it feels like it’s closer now.
Never overlook. Only nature endures. Silent hills appear less lively. Lone echoes amplify vast emptiness. The horizon is silent. People linger around calm environments.
When it sounds off now, the ocean moves with it, shaking the ship with turbulent waves as we trudge on. We’ve been put on partnered watch shifts, though it hasn’t helped much since no one is actually getting any sleep.
Last night, Ramires jumped overboard during his shift. Our rescue attempt was unsuccessful; we searched, but to no avail. His partner, Tippers, is more than a little shaken by the incident. We’re about three days from the islands now.
Trouble rises as new shadows gather, revealing every soul’s secrets. Others retreat silently, while in low light, beings escape, pursued under night’s intense shadow, hidden eternally, damned.
Our engine was sabotaged yesterday. A wrench was found tangled in the gears. We’re moving again, but we’re limping forward. The blame game on the ship is reaching a tipping point. I’ve been doing my best to keep the peace where I can.
Those haunting echoes join under dark gates, emerging in shadows. Creatures observe moonlit interiors, noticing ghosts As new dawns, turn heralding endless Every xenophobic echoes, creating unsettling tones in open, narrow, empty rooms. Whispers illuminate lost lands, bringing eerie silence under moonlit memories, opening night’s Endless doorways.
A fire broke out in the mess hall just before chow. All hands responded quickly, and we managed to get it under control. A large part of that side of the ship is badly burned, but we’re able to continue. I’ve located a ship a few days away that could tow us, and we’re planning to rendezvous with them—hopefully soon.
Many young travelers in mist evening have all started climbing over mountains eagerly. Just under dense ground, massive earthworms nest tightly. In shadows, under pressure, ominous noises make echoes.
**********. ***********. *************
I’m heading to the airport now. I’ve been in contact with the authorities in the Pitcairn Islands, alerting them to the situation. Anthony’s Starlink has been inactive since.
The strange languages he wrote in turned out to be Coptic—an extinct language once spoken in Egypt; Nahuatl—once spoken in the Aztec Empire; and Illyrian—an ancient language from the region of present-day Balkans.
The messages translate as follows:
1. “No one shall leave this place.”
2. “My domain will not be trespassed.”
3. “Transgressors will be punished.”
Since reading those messages, I’ve had headaches, and my nose has started bleeding randomly. I don’t understand what’s going on, but I know Anthony is alive. He’s somewhere near Point Nemo, and I’m going to find him.
While trying to translate the images, I discovered the key to the code Anthony used. What I initially thought was gibberish turned out to be pleas for help—not only from him but seemingly from his crewmates as well. The first letter of each word spells out a message.
The first translation, if I’m correct, says, “No one shall leave this place.” The second repeats the message in the photo. The third says, “The judge is coming, and the executioner will be summoned.”
Reading this sent chills down my spine. Now, looking back at what his deceased crewmate said, the decoded meaning seems to be, “Judgment is upon me.”
Who are these “judge,” “jury,” and “executioner” that they kept talking about? I’ll update you once I land and get my hands on a boat to search for Anthony.
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