April 29, 2026

HMS Wraith
By Thomas Wetzel

In HMS Wraith by Thomas Wetzel, a mysterious ship appears along the English coast—sometimes burning, sometimes untouched. As a naval officer is sent to investigate, what begins as a simple mission quickly turns into something far more unsettling, where reality itself seems uncertain.

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She was first spotted near the port of Bristol, a British naval frigate with 28 guns floating derelict just off the coast at sunset. Those who first saw it reported that she was fully aflame, her mainsails and mast rippling with red and orange, casting off a thick black trail of smoke in her wake as she drifted off into the evening fog.


But when she was seen sometime around noon hugging the coast down near Bournemouth two days later, the witnesses on a freighter returning from Le Havre who sailed within a few hundred yards of the abandoned ship reported that she was in fine condition. No signs of life aboard but no visible fire damage either. The Captain of the freighter could easily read her name on the aft board through his spyglass as she passed. She was the HMS Wraith, out of Southampton. They tried to intercept her and board her but she moved off with preternatural speed. 


When she turned up at Clacton-on-Sea about a week later, she was once again reported to be in flames, but a day later when she was spotted just sitting off the coast of Harwich by a fishing vessel, all of the men said she was shipshape and Bristol fashion. Then she turned back south, and she was spotted near Worthing, and that was when I was given my orders. As an officer of the British Navy, it fell to me and my shipmates to solve this mystery, recover the HMS Wraith and bring her back to port. Before we set out for her, I was discreetly informed by a senior confidante (my uncle Alain) that there was no record of an HMS Wraith anywhere in the British Naval fleet.


Regardless, the hunt for the ghost ship was afoot.


I was the Pilot of my ship, a frigate christened the HMS Advice. I was not the Captain. The primary difference is seamanship as opposed to administrative duty. It was not my responsibility to maintain discipline and order among the men. I was there to keep the ship on course and above the tide. I was a sailor, not the son of some wealthy merchant, and I had been to sea hundreds of times since I turned ten years old. My palms are calloused and rope-burned and my forearms are thick with muscle, but there is no inheritance waiting for me somewhere down the road.


I was quite pleased with this assignment, in truth. A derelict ship was highly unlikely to release a round of grapeshot on us and I was growing well and truly bored after being ashore for almost three months. The sea calls to my heart. It always has. We set out from Portsmouth and, surprisingly, we spotted her in less than two days. It was almost like she sought us out.


She came up alongside us and I ordered the men to line up with the grappling hooks starboard. We landed twelve into her decks and walls and thirty-six of our strongest men strained on the ropes to pull her in as we steered closer. It didn’t matter.


One by one, I watched as the ropes gave way. The ghost ship simply just turned off into the fog and tore away from us. I was at the rear of the line and as all of the other men gave way, I just held fast to the rope and allowed myself to be dragged overboard. I was able to climb the rope and board the deck of the phantom ship before I was sucked under or cut too badly by the barnacles, though my rough clothing was badly shredded.


Once aboard, I made my way to the quarterdeck, took the helm and attempted to steer the ghost ship back up alongside ours, but it was all for naught. The rudder rejected all of my commands, and we quickly separated. Soon I found myself turning away and rushing off into the fog and darkness of the English Channel with no control over my course, and my shipmates were helpless to keep up. I was quite distressed, but I remained determined to do whatever I could to bring her into port.


Once I was out on the open sea with no control over my course there was little more that I could do from the helm, so I made my way below decks and down to the Captain’s quarters. Once there, I quickly stripped out of my wet and ruined clothing, addressed the needs of my wounds, and then found a change of attire in the closet. It was a Captain's uniform. There was nothing else, so I donned it.


I lit a few candles, poured myself a glass of claret, and then I found the ship’s log. I sat down to learn what I could. I was deeply worried that we (we?) might run ashore at some point, but what could I do? Nothing. I would return above decks at daybreak and look out for any hazards, but it was a very cloudy, stormy night and with such restricted visibility I would have no time at all to dive for the sea before shipwreck anyway. Better to just learn what I could and wait for daylight and hope for the best.


I read the log. It was quite strange. There were very few entries, and they were made by three different Captains over just the last four months. I have seen many Captain’s logs, and none ever read like this.


HMS Wraith, 4th of June, 1841: 
I do not know how I arrived here. I do not know this ship, nor her crew. They salute my rank, but they stare at me with dead eyes, unsmiling and perfectly still. The last thing I truly remember was taking the full broadside blast from The USS Hornet, just off the mouth of the Demerara River by the seaport of Georgetown, in South America. I was knocked down instantly, and I felt my lower torso ripping apart, but now I have awoken here. I believe that was almost thirty years ago. I do not know what this is. Hell, perhaps? Something worse perchance?


I will endeavor to do my best.


-Captain James Tyler Clayton, British Royal Navy


I found this to be a very odd entry for a Captain’s log. It spoke of madness and instability, the exact opposite of the norm. Most ship Captains of any kind seek a future commission, and they do so by painting a pretty picture, regardless of the true circumstances. It rarely benefits their cause to openly state things of this nature. I was immediately intrigued. Perhaps Captain Clayton was cut from a different sort of cloth.


HMS Wraith, 7th of June, 1841:
The men all turned away from me and silently faced the sea as I walked the deck just before sunset this evening. I called out to the Master-At-Arms to bring a few of the men to the mainsail mast to be tied and whipped for insubordination. He too turned his back on me and stared out towards the sea. I returned to my quarters, locked the door and loaded two flintlock pistols and unsheathed my sword. Then I waited. Eventually, after many hours, I slept.


When I awoked this morning, I whas the only remaining soul abroard the ship, and the sails were alll aflame. I cannot feel th heat yet but, strangerly, I feel myself jus dissipating in some hellish wayy. 


-Captrain Jmes Tylor Clayton, Bretish Royal Navy


Captain Clayton’s entries ended there, but I continued to read the log.


HMS Wraith, 14th August, 1841: 
I awoke today in a frigate that is aflame. There is no crew. The lifeboats are gone. I fear I am at my end. I don't know whas dis is.


-Captain Morris M Mosley, British RN


And then…


HMS Wraith, 19th of September, 1841:
The men came for me this morning, weapons of all types in hand. I managed to bar them from my cabin but now the ship is burning. I can no longer hear any bootheels on the deck above or voices beyond the door. The crew appears to have quit the ship and I am now alone. The galley is fully aflame, and I have no course of exit to the deck. I suppose I could just plunge through the rear cabin windows into the sea, but what would be the point? I am keeping my flintlock close, as it may be my last resort.


Strangely, while I can smells the smoke I cannot freel the heat. My senses betrays me. I feel like I am slippering away.


-Captain Aubrey Lwrence Williamss. British Royl Navy


The next entry was scrawled with strikethroughs and spelling errors, but it ultimately read like this:


HMS Wraith, 20th of September, 1841: 
After manny hours, I fells asleep. Now, upon wakingt, the ship is no longer burning. There ares no signs of fire damagd anywhere. However, I can no longerrr seem to grasp any phyysical object firmlys. Even this quill iss fallings from my hand constrantly now as I try to rite. I do nort know what his becoming of mee. I jus seem too be fayding aways.


-Camptain Augrey Lawrence Willliamss, British Royyal Navvys


I pondered these strange writings, and I finished the bottle of claret, and eventually I fell asleep. I had been awake for well over twenty-four hours and it had been a very strenuous day. I was exhausted.


The next morning I awoke to a lively ship, with crew hustling to duties all about. I knew none of them, but they all respectfully saluted me as their Captain without ever smiling or looking me in the eye, each man quickly lowering his head and going about his tasks. The weather was cold. No one spoke to me.


I attempted to address the boatswain, but he just turned away and looked out towards the sea. The rest of the crew immediately stopped what they were doing and did the same. I saw that many of them were holding a variety of potential weapons. I have been on a ship under mutiny once before. I immediately returned to the Captain’s cabin, bolted the door and loaded the two flintlocks. I unsheathed my sword.


Then I waiteds, but nothing happened. After a while, everything just went quiets suddemly. Eventumally I smelled smokes and now I jus feel like I am starting to fade away somhow. For some reasonings, I simply cannot lift thiss glass of clarett.


I am goings to attemp to documench all of this in the ship's log, but I jus don't no if I can noww. I cannot seems to grasp this quill properly, and my visions is starting to blurr.


Dear Godzs, what is happenings to mee? Where am I? Wjat is thiss?


I am jus anoffer memmber of the HMS Wraith crew now, and we await the arrivalings of our nex Captain. Hope full e, he will guide us to sum place better.

                                                                    💀💀💀
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Thomas Wetzel is a writer of short horror fiction whose work blends raw intensity with classic horror themes, drawing on a life marked by both hardship and transformation.