It is winter, out at sea a rickety sailboat is a ball, tossed between waves in a schoolyard game. Cold and icy, the water is a weapon, loaded and lethal. Pale moonlight is the only illumination, turning masts into monsters and bags into bodies, maybe they’re real. A cramped cabin is hidden below deck, strewn with looming, staring boxes, the darkness suffocating them, only relieved by the weak glow of a single porthole. The boat has seen many seas, it is aged, experienced, but weak. It’s once new materials are eroded and feeble, pieces hanging from the ceiling, casting shadows of figures to hide in the deep of the night.

Listen closely. Floorboards creak arcanely, water slaps the side of the boat, lightning through crackles the air. Debris battles with the deck, composing an orchestra of footsteps, racing above. The heavy wind breathes through the ship, yet the darkness stares silently. A bell strikes repeatedly, the swirling gusts dragging the echo around in loops. Ropes whip above, slithering their way around the mast, slowly strangling it. A continuous hum rises and falls through the crowded air. The bitter weather emits anger into the surroundings.

It is night, churning fog oozes over the boat, consuming all, blurring the watchful eye of the moon. The atmosphere shifts to an eerie stillness, the elements muffled. A deluding calm rushes over the sea, and all is motionless, quiet and serene. From above there would be no thought of a boat sitting silently under the grey, land would be a rescuer, but there is none close by, and none beyond that. The uncomfortable stability leaves a sense of anticipation, an absence developing.

Look around, a muffled glow reaches out from the bow, silhouettes creep through the cloud. The floor was swaying, unstable and rhythmic, but as the fog ran in, the stillness grew, and became prevalent. The boat is vast and empty, yet there is a presence, no solitude. Ice has invaded everything exposed, a thin sheet of brittle frost has followed. It seems as though all that was once there has been smothered in a blank canvas, one of disguises and dangers. A long metal aerial mounted before the shuddering cabin taps against the dirty glass, as if to be pointing inside, alarmed of what it might see. A short railing lines the crumbling edge of the craft, pieces of wood hang by rusted nails. One old dim lantern hangs from a post in the middle of the deck, struggling to illuminate the compelling darkness, striving to reveal what it hides.

You feel fear. Strife. Panic. The unearthly hush of the elements induces your perceptions. Distress. Ail. Horror. You feel weak and powerless, an overwhelming existence reduces you, finds you helpless, trifled with, like the boat once was. Your body is frozen, not from the cold, but paralyzed by dread. Dread of what you know may lie beyond the light. Dread of the still reflective water. Dread of the deafening silence. Dread that sends shivers across your skin. Dread of the night.