 I've always been fond of adventurous tales and the romantic ideas that surrounds finding a message in a bottle washed ashore by the winds and waves. I also just so happen to be a part-time history nerd. So when I found a parchment-filled bottle on the seashore in real life, you can imagine my excitement. When I uncorked it, though, I discovered no old forgotten love story or a new undiscovered chapter of history. What I found was a truly disturbing answer to the unsolved fate of a ship and its crew. The bottle contained several pieces of yellowing parchment covered in hastily written cursive. The writing scratched across the page. The time it had withstood made it difficult to read, but nevertheless a large portion of it was still legible. The translation of what can still be made out follows. Sancta Salvador, June 15, 1556. Strange events have befallen the Sancta in the past days after leaving the island. I write with haste because I fear that I may suffer the same fate as the rest of the crew. We set sail from the island several days ago, and all was well until our ship's quartermaster, Diego, came down with a fever one eve. He was quarantined to his bunk, thrashing about in his sheets like a madman. The agonizing expression on his face was highlighted by the sweat of his brow. Blood tinged foam gurgled from his lips when he screamed, and it seemed to worsen with each passing hour. The strangest part of the condition, though, was that he kept scratching at his eyes. The corners were reddened, almost bloody from his constant scratching. Sailors are a superstitious lot, and the most devout practitioners of the old ways went to the captain in concern. These crewmates seem to believe Diego was suffering the early stages of this part is unreadable on the original parchment and has been omitted from transcription. The captain disregarded the idea as absurd and ordered nothing to be done. Later that night, a terrible storm descended upon us. The sea surged beneath the ship. Waves crashed over the bow, washing even the strongest of our men off their feet. It was in vain that we attempted to keep the lanterns lit as gust of salt filled air snuffed them out of existence, plunging us into darkness. So we toiled in the black, pummeled by the mighty rage of Calypso until dawn. The rising sun brought comerses, and it was the early morning light that revealed Diego's bunk to be abandoned. The surprise caused accusations to fly, and the crew has been on edge since. Some say perhaps he took his own life to escape the torturous suffering of the sickness. Others believe someone cast him overboard in the dead of night out of fear his condition may be unnaturally connected to the raging seas. Alas, a thorough search of the ship left us without an answer. A deep sense of unease gripped the crew that entire day as we sailed. The men were already yearning to reach our home country's shores, and the events of the night did not help. That evening I was awoken from my hammock below deck by a scratching sound, soft, high-pitched scratching that would continue for a moment and then fade back into the ever-present swaying sound of the waves. Annoyed at the thought of rats nest in the crew quarters, I swung myself down from my hammock and grabbed a lantern. The sound stopped. I waited motionless, and the sound started back up again. Holding my lantern up to peer down the row of bunks, the ship hit a swelling wave which caused the lantern to swing. Its light cast in an arc from floor to ceiling. In the brief moment the light hit the far end of the room, I thought I saw a shadow. It looked almost like the hunched-over silhouette of a man, unsure of what I saw. I stepped forward. The wooden deck groaned under the weight of my foot, and the scratching stopped once again. Then a new sound echoed through the night air. It was a quickened, panicked, scampering, followed closely by a muffled, sliding sound, as if a sack of potatoes were being dragged along the deck. I strained to hear over the white noise of the rocking seas, but I could not identify the source. I crept down the hall toward the sound. As I neared it, I heard several dull thuds, as if whatever it was was now bumping down a flight of stairs. Looking forward in pursuit of the strange noise, I crept below into the darkness of the lower deck, careful not to creak the worn wooden steps as I descended. Once below, I strained even harder to listen. The sound was coming from the far corner of the gun bay, a scratching, gnarling sound. I could feel my heart quicken within my chest as I dared to inch forward, slowly raising my lantern. The beam of light revealed the shadow-bathed figure of a naked man. But it wasn't quite right. Its proportions were somehow unnatural. He hunched over something. His back bone at an impossible arch almost piercing through his skin like a reptile. His hands were plunging in front of him, and then raising to his mouth in a ferocious animalistic repetition. His back blocked my view, so I slowly started to wheel to the left, holding my light ever so carefully. I stepped out with the caution of a mouse, but my heavy deck boot padded onto a worn plank that creaked alarmingly as I shifted my weight down. The creature's head jerked around to face me, and that's when I saw two empty, bleeding eye sockets no longer filled by human eyes. Blood trickled out of the soulless black circles, staining red streaks down its face. But the worst part was when I saw what it was feasting upon, only recognizable by his uniform. One of my fellow sailors lay in front of the bestial thing, his eyes torn from his own sockets and his belly ripped open, half consumed in trails piled onto either side of the corpse. The creature let out a blood curling, bird-like shriek that cut through the crashing waves like a dagger and began charging at me on all fours. I am not ashamed to say that I turned and ran with all the strength my sea legs could muster. As I reached the top of the first flight of stairs, I wheeled about to take the next flight and caught a brief glimpse of the creature scuttling in a rage up the first few steps. The light of my lantern still shone into the lower deck and out of the corner of my eye, I saw the creature was joined in its pursuit by another figure. The corpse of the sailor was pulling itself along by its arms alone, haphazardly dragging its insides along behind it, leaving a trail of blood and pieces of entrails in its wake. I made for the deck, intending to raise the alarm, but when I reached the open night air, I was met only with a sight of carnage. A half dozen sailors were combating similar looking things. The ship's bell began to echo into the night, its persistent ring beating regularly through the violent scene. Cutlasses hacked at eyeless men who were unshaken by the wounds. I watched in horror as several men were overtaken, their screams pierced into the uncaring night. In a moment of quick thinking, I changed course to the captain's quarters. Along the hall it lay within, I saw the captain engaged in single combat with one of the creatures. Deathly dodging an ape-like swing, he plunged his steel deep within its chest. The creature, oblivious to the cutlass embedded within its body, gripped its mangled hands on either side of the captain's head. The creature slid forward along the blade, impaling the weapon deeper into its own chest as it dragged itself closer to the captain. Panic filled his eyes as the creature's thumbs plunged into his eye sockets, tearing them from his head as he screamed in agony. Seeing my opportunity, I raced down the hall, nimbly evading the distracted pair. I reached the cabin's quarters and slammed the door. I right now, barricaded from within these same quarters. Last, I was aware, we were set at full sail for open ocean. Unmanned, the ship hasn't long before it capsizes, especially with the rough waters we've been sailing in. I write this now with the intention of bottling it and casting it into the seas. It's a long shot. But someone must know the true fate of the Sancta and its ill-fated crew. I regret that I could not give a better warning for whatever this monstrous thing is, but I never paid mind to superstitious sailor's talk. With any luck, I will be dragged into the depths with this ship and this God-forsaken thing aboard it so it may never see the light of day again. Perhaps it wasn't all for folly after all, because in all my years traveling the high seas, I have no earthly explanation for what I have witnessed. Be warned, anyone who may find this message and never forget the Sancta Salvador. End of Transcription When I began transcribing this draft, my intention was to make this tale accessible online as horrific as it is. Historical study is just a hobby of sorts for me, and unfortunately I only have the opportunity to work on it after my shift. On the first read of the document, I was shocked and a little doubtful. I did some research into the Sancta Salvador and not much is known about why it wrecked. Maybe someone looked up an old ship and thought they'd play a joke? Or at least, that was my first thought. It's been several days since I began working on it, and strangely, I've been feeling a little unwell. Tonight as I finish the last several lines, I believe I've come down with a fever. I have the strangest pain behind my eyes, like they're too big for their sockets. I can't stop scratching at them. It's too distracting to edit this draft, so I think I'll just post it as it is and turn in for the night. It's late, and it seems a storm is brewing anyway. Hopefully this will serve as an interesting read to all the other horror and history buffs out there. And please let it be a proper enough warning to anyone curious enough to open a message in a bottle.