Lured and Other Dark Tales

By Michael Winn

Lured and Other Dark Tales is a collection of truly frightening short stories by Michael Winn. Read with the lights on.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Winn
• Release date: Sep 26, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463693346

Michael Winn

Michael Winn is a writer who lives in Long Island, NY with his wife and two children.

Book preview

Lured

Seventy-five minutes and not one clock-tick more, Captain Chisholm’s voice echoed over the hollow thuds of small waves slapping the side of the boat. Or I just might leave ya’ to the crabs.

Craig turned to see the Captain leaning over the railing of the tiny upper deck, expecting a smirk or a wink, but saw no lightness in the old man’s craggy, windswept face. Nor was there an emotion from the Mate at the stern. He was busy adorning a barbed hook with a feathery, red and yellow lure – to cast for Ocean Blues Craig could only assume for the Mate hadn’t uttered one word during the entire trip.

I won’t even be that long, he replied, setting the digital timer on his wrist. And, attempting to brighten the mood, added, Back before you have time to miss my handsome face.

But the Captain remained stoic, a nub of a cigar clenched between his yellow teeth. His eyes like black marbles. Veins knotted at the crook of his elbows. Coarse, white chest hair matted against a skinny, bronzed torso.

Surface support, Craig muttered, not loud enough for anyone to hear. Cap’n Andy had been so helpful and friendly during the other dives. Why hadn’t they chartered the Wave Chaser again? Why the Enchantress? Because it was cheaper, that’s why. And Tommy and Frank were cheapskates. Especially Frank. Drinks Old Milwaukee and wraps his sandwiches in newspaper for chrissakes. And he was the one picked to hire the boat? Naturally he found the Enchantress with its dedicated crew and experienced surface support. Yeah. From Captain Queeg and his retarded mute.

Sea spray misted Craig’s face as he sat, legs dangling in the cold water, on the starboard side platform of the small, modified fishing boat. He tasted the water. Inhaled it. The pungent odor of diesel fuel had dissipated since Chisholm cut the engines and he could now smell the salt air. It was the scent of life. And that’s why he took up this silly hobby to begin with…wasn’t it? To feel alive.

But more than that, he wanted danger. Or at least that’s what he believed when he signed up for lessons in the swimming pool at the community college. But the ocean wasn’t a pool. And the Continuing Education class didn’t teach wreck diving.

The platform ebbed and tided, Craig’s internal organs rolling with it. Tommy and Frank had plenty of time to secure the anchor line to the San Diego. He was to join them as planned. He should go… If only his legs and arms would cooperate.

Gonna dive, or should we plant ya’ feet in a pot of dirt, Daisy-boy? Chisholm asked.

Craig turned, wanting to tell the old man to go play with his little dinghy, but was distracted by bright starbursts of white light reflecting from a crucifix on a chain nestled in a thatch of the Captain’s wiry chest hair. The icon was flanked, on each side, by two gold wedding bands.

Artifacts. Wears them around his neck like medals of honor. Or bravery. But they weren’t. They were only souvenirs (recovered from the poor bastards that died on the U.S.S. San Diego when it went down in 1917), no different than the old buckeye gizmos and artillery shells he’d sandblasted and polished and used to decorate the inside of the cabin. Nothing more than a schoolgirl’s lockets…right? But somehow, they were different. Maybe because, buckeyes and shells were one thing…but wedding rings? That’s not scavenging, that’s grave robbing.

Shall I put you on a pedestal in a park so the pigeons have something to shit on? Chisholm asked without mirth.

Craig said nothing. No snappy comeback to counter the Captain’s needling, deciding it best not to get into a pissing match with the old crank on his own boat. There would be plenty of opportunity, back at the dock, to tell him exactly what he thought of the Enchantress’s surface support and her dedicated crew.

But then again, who was he to say anything to the Captain about diving? Captain Chisholm had artillery shells in his cabin and dead men’s wedding bands hanging from his neck. Craig certainly wouldn’t be recovering any artifacts during this dive. They weren’t going in the wreck. Not without the guide diver the brochure promised. Not even Frank was experienced enough to explore a wreck on his own. And definitely not ready to tackle a difficult one like the San Diego. Not a chance. When Captain Chisholm said that the tour guide diver was home sick, they decided to explore only the exterior of the vessel. Why hadn’t they just cancelled and rescheduled? Because they were already hyped-up and ready to rock n’ roll… Wasn’t that what Tommy had said? Let’s rock-n-roll! And maybe Craig knew, deep in the part of the mind that can effortlessly distinguish truth from a lie, that there really wasn’t a guide diver working for Chisholm – so there was no point in rescheduling. The dedicated crew consisted only of the happy Captain, the friendly Mate, and the screeching gulls overhead.

Water rolled on to the platform, submerging it, as the boat list to starboard. An unnerving thought occurred to Craig as he performed a check of his equipment. Did the Enchantress even have a radio? To contact the Coast Guard, in case something went wrong… They must. It’s required… But maybe they didn’t. The Captain’s tattoos were self-carved. And the Mate – Mr. Personality – did not seem particularly technologically savvy. He looked more likely to eat the self-picked lice from his scalp than operate a radio. They had to have one…didn’t they? And depth finders, flares, and horns, et cetera, et cetera… There were rules to be followed. Besides, the ocean was flat calm. A perfect day for a dive. But, then again…why weren’t any other charter boats moored above this wreck? Because four people died exploring the San Diego, that’s why. Four separate diving accidents.

Each man had gone inside the iron behemoth, without a guide or a line, and became disorientated. Lost in an upside down labyrinth of corridors and living- quarters and ammo rooms and galleys and side turrets and God knows what else. Panicking… Swimming into walls and ceiling and floors and locked metal doors until their tanks ran out of air and they ripped the masks from their faces and breathed in that first lungful of seawater.

But hell, Craig wasn’t going inside the Diego. There’s nothing to be afraid of…

He checked the straps and buckles, around his waist, shoulders, and crotch, adorning his neon blue drysuit. He tugged the pony clips that attached the oxygen tank to the straps. He tested the valves and examined all the gauges. And finally, he spat into the mask, spreading the saliva with his fingers.

‘Let’s rock n’ roll," he said, pushing off the platform. He bobbed under and back up, bicycling with his flippers to keep his head above the water line. It took some effort. Small waves punched his mask and intermittent larger ones went completely over his head.

Though the ocean was choppier than he’d thought, at least it wasn’t overly cold. He was comfortable and all his gear was in order. He rotated his body, scanning several miles to the west. He recognized Fire Island. It was nothing more than a gray, lifeless strip of land on an endless turquoise sea. And as he looked to the heavens, the sky was a brilliant azure, a blessed corona gracing the entire world.

Everything was as God intended…peaceful. For all he could tell, he and Chisholm and the Mate were the only people on earth.

He turned to face the boat and began his descent, but heard something in the instant before he submerged. Yes, he heard something. The voice was distant. A whisper smothered by the waves and the wind.

If you see her, tell her I said hello, was what Craig thought he heard the Mate say as he went under.

Then silence.

Not the quiet of the surface world. But a complete stillness – soundless – like time, itself, had stopped.

His body sank into the void. A wall of rising air bubbles obscured the view through his mask as he peacefully drifted downward, allowing gravity and the lead weights on his belt to pull him into the deep.

Into Wreck Valley, the six-mile inlet between Long Island and Fire Island, the watery boneyard for more than two hundred vessels of all shapes and sizes spread over a grand expanse of rocky ocean floor. The Kenosha, the Oregon, and the San Diego, were the largest of the bunch. Most charter boats took expeditions to the Kenosha and the Oregon for those ships were considered more stabilized.

Four people died exploring the San Diego.

The San Diego lay on a slope. At over five hundred feet long and seventy feet wide, the warship’s stern was sixty-five feet deep but its bow was said to be below ninety feet. This pitch and the fact that the ship, after more than eighty years, was still leaking trapped air from its bilge (indicating that the Diego hadn’t yet settled) led some experts to believe that any shifting of the wreck could cause