This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.
The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/SunHeadPrime on 2024-12-22 19:50:56+00:00.
The Captain avoided me for most of the journey. I spotted him only once, in port, as he walked into the pilot room. He was a squat man with a bushy beard, a pinched face, and a nose that reminded me of a Goldfinch beak. I called out to him to ingratiate myself, but he ignored me and went about his work.
I was told he liked to keep to himself, but I assumed that since the company had paid for my passage, he would eventually avail himself to me. We were on our third night on the river, and I hadn’t seen the hide or hair of the man. I started to think that the pilot room wasn’t just where he controlled the steamer but also his nest.
The Big Easy River Company had hired me to write about their new four-day trip up the Mississippi River. It was a test run, and I’d have the whole place to myself. The accommodations were passable but not spectacular. The previous month, I had been aboard one of the newer luxury ocean liners, and the rooms on that ship were busting at the seams with extravagant touches. This steamer had only given me a mint on my pillow.
Regardless, the trip was not my first concern. The company paid me good money for the story, and the extra “bonus” they provided when I arrived ensured the coverage would be positive. The Big Easy River Company had once been the class of the river but had fallen behind competitors offering quicker trips at lower prices. Not to mention the growing ocean liner business that sailed into the Port of New Orleans and promised locales more exotic than Kansas or Missouri.
The ride along the Mississippi was smooth, but the constant thwack of the paddle hitting the water and the steam engine clattering did not allow for the most restful sleep on the ship. Especially if you were near the big wheel itself. Thankfully, I wasn’t, but that last night, I found myself growing restless.
I became convinced that the Captain had to have stories to tell. I found it queer that, despite the dire straits the company found itself in, he refused to speak to me. I was sure he would have all kinds of tales to color my story. Yet, he rarely left the pilot’s room.
Since sleep wouldn’t come, I decided to walk around the ship when everything was still. See if my smooth-talking ways might get the crew to open up. Like the Captain, they had avoided me like the plague. I found it odd that a struggling company wouldn’t force its crew to be more hospitable, but I had already been paid. It was their choice.
These crew conversations always yielded fruit. Once, while writing a story about a campsite in the Adirondacks, I had a conversation with a Ranger. He told me of all the strange phenomena he’d dealt with while working there: ghosts, creatures, and things of that nature. I took some of the more gruesome details and sprinkled them into the article. My editors nearly canceled the story, but I convinced them to run it as is. It was a massive hit.
Reservations at the campsite were booked up to two years in advance.
The truth was, if a place was eerie, Ghoul Chasers (my preferred name for dark tourists) were always drawn to it. Knowing this, I liked to throw a bone – quite literally in the case of the skeletal remains found in Highnorth Cabins – to those readers. Ghoul Chasers flocked to these places, hoping to have a paranormal encounter to impress neighbors back home. Not every client wanted to cater to the Ghoul Chasers, but money is money. Any complaints were dulled by the wads of greenbacks they pulled in post-publication.
I hoped for something along those lines during this trip but had rolled snake eyes so far. It was a shame because there had to be lore and legends surrounding the mighty Mississippi. It’d go a long way if someone would comment, but mum was the word. I even prompted several porters, but they kept their cards close to the vest. I assumed this edict came from the top down. This led me to believe I’d have to get stories from the Captain’s lips alone.
As I rounded the ship’s prow, I was stunned to come face-to-face with the Captain. He was smoking a pipe and staring out into the inky blackness. Spray from the water dotted his face and belly. Droplets rolled down his body, but he didn’t seem to mind. Divine intervention, I thought.
“Something hidden out there?” I asked with a warm, soft chuckle.
“Aye,” he said, his eyes never straying from the black.
I laughed again, “Should I be concerned?”
He didn’t respond with words. He puffed on his pipe and blew out a cloud of gray smoke that mingled with the night air. “You’re the writer, eh?”
“I am,” I said, extending my hand. “I’ve been hoping I’d get a chance to talk. Your crew speaks very highly of you.”
He didn’t shake my hand. I sheepishly pulled it away. “They’re a good bunch.”
Flattery didn’t get me anywhere, and I changed tactics. “Been with Big Easy for long?”
“No,” he said, tapping his pipe on the railing. “I came aboard a month ago.”
“When the new owners came on board as well, correct?”
“Aye.”
“Where were you before?”
“I’ve piloted many a boat down the river over my life.”
“Find it rewarding work?”
He shrugged, “I just keep rolling along.”
“What drew you to the job?”
He paused and carefully chose his words. I allowed myself to believe that maybe he was opening up. “I...I needed work after my last job ended...poorly.”
“Oh? What happened? Who were you with before?”
“Private owner and I don’t care to speak on it.”
I pulled out a cigarette and offered one to the Captain. He demurred my offer but pinched fresh tobacco into his pipe. He was gonna stay for a while. I offered a match, and he leaned in. “Was it a private shipping company? Pleasure cruise?”
“Little of both,” he said. “Brought his family with him. Wife and a doll baby little girl.” He looked away and sighed, “I told him to keep those babes at home. The wild river was no place for them, but he insisted.”
“Same in my business,” I said, taking a puff of my smoke, “when the moneymen insist, we do it.”
“Some men have no sense.”
“Some men don’t,” I agreed. “Are there a lot of smaller shipping companies along the river?”
“Not as many as before. Big fish eat the little fish,” he said, “but he wasn’t hauling goods for some shipping company. He was into something else.”
“Smuggling?” I asked.
“The man was worse than a smuggler. A damn fool adventurer. Rich as Croesus. Paid handsomely for the things he wanted.”
I was right about there being a story. This old salt had taken a big mukety-muck with cash to burn on a secret but deadly mission. A mission that may have ended tragically. The Captain was not forthcoming with details but was starting to open up. I’d work him, and he’d eventually give up the ghost.
“Before I came, I read up on the river’s history. There were a lot of tales of pirates using the river to hide their ill-gotten gains. Was your man after buried treasure?”
“Something like that.”
“Oh,” I said, taking a drag of my cigarette, “Who’s buried treasure was it? Blackbeard? Pegleg Pete?”
He stared up at the onyx sky and shook his head. “Wasn’t a treasure, exactly. But I’ve said too much already.”
He turned to leave, and I saw the more colorful elements of my article walking away with him. I shot my arm out and caught his. He stopped and glared at me. “Look, I understand you don’t want to share this information. I do. But it looks like you might need to unburden yourself. Anything you tell me now, I’ll keep off the record. You have my word.”
He paused, and I saw the wheels in his mind turning. “Would you do a blood oath to that promise?”
It was my turn to pause. “A blood oath?”
“Aye,” he said, pulling a small pocketknife out and presenting his hand. It was scared from various other blood oaths this man had taken over the years. “This information needs to stay secret. Too many great men and women have met their ends because of it.”
I eyed the ancient knife and wondered when the blade was last cleaned. Perhaps my story was good enough as written. Just then, there was a flutter in my mind, and an exciting prospect came to me. Maybe old salt stories were an untapped goldmine in the publishing world. This might be my way into that world. I’d deal with the scar if a carved-up hand transformed into money in my palm.
“All right,” I said and offered up my palm. In a flash, the Captain sliced a scarlet slash across my skin. I clutched it with my other hand as blood seeped out through the tiny slits. Without batting an eye or wiping off the knife, he sliced his palm, too.
“Shake on it.”
I did and felt our blood mingling. I shuttered. The things you do for an exclusive.
“Now,” I said, pulling back my bloody hand, “What was he looking for?”
“Not a treasure but a location hidden down one of the tributaries.”
“There surely can’t be unexplored places along this river.”
“There are unexplored places all around us,” he said, taking another puff, “you just have to know where to look.”
“What was at this hidden place?”
“An old temple mound,” he said.
“Treasures are in there?”
“You’re not understanding. There ain’t any physical treasure. The treasure is the mound itself.”
“How can an old pile of dirt be worth anything?”
“It’s a sacred place built by the first peoples that populated this land.”
“Indians?”
“Older,” he said. I laughed. He didn’t. “Man didn’t create this temple, and he’s not welcome there. I tried to tell Mr. Chambers, but he didn’t listen.”
That name rang a bell. Jonas Chambers, the furniture magnate, had gone ...
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