THE ICEBERG’S WHISPER

Chapter 1: Captain Edward Smith, Titanic

The Atlantic wind bit at my cheeks as I gripped the icy railing of the Titanic. The sharpness of the cold seemed alive, seeping deeper into my bones with each passing second, clawing its way into my chest. My breath hung in the air, wisps torn away by the biting gusts that rolled off the sea. The starry sky above felt unnervingly low, as if the universe was sinking toward us, pulling the ship into the vast, black void. The ocean stretched out like an endless mirror, cold and smooth, deceptively calm, but beneath its surface, something shifted—something wrong. I could feel it, though I couldn't explain how or why.

My pulse quickened, a hollow, panicked drumbeat in my chest as if sensing an unseen force lurking just beyond the horizon. Earlier that evening, the compass had faltered. I had stared at it for what felt like hours, watching the needle spin as though it were alive, fighting against something invisible before reluctantly settling in place. The air had thickened, heavy with the stillness that preceded storms—or worse. The crew had felt it, though no one dared voice their unease. Not on a ship like this. Not with the passengers depending on us.

The tremor came.

At first, it was a soft hum, too low for most to notice, but I felt it in my teeth—a vibration that crawled up my spine, too deep, too strange. Then, the tremor spread, a quiet rattling in the walls, the groaning of wood and metal, as if the Titanic herself was trying to speak. But what could a ship say about the kind of terror only I seemed to sense? I scanned the horizon, hoping for some logical explanation, but the world was nothing more than dark water and endless sky—black and infinite, swallowing the ship whole. A shiver ran down my spine, colder than the wind, more frigid than the sea.

Then I saw it.

A shimmering wall of light appeared on the horizon, unnatural in its brilliance. It stretched from the water to the sky like the heavens had opened. It rippled, glowing faintly, and my stomach turned as a strange thought entered my mind—was this what sailors of old spoke of? Was this the wall between life and the unknown?

The Titanic hurtled toward it with impossible speed, yet when the ship collided, there was no crash, no violence, just a sickening groan, like the creaking of a crypt door long forgotten. The sound rumbled deep within the ship, vibrating through the deck, pressing against my ribs, making me want to scream.

The wall fractured.

A long, jagged crack splintered through the shimmering surface with an ear-splitting whine and poured something black—thicker than oil, darker than any night I had ever known. It wasn't just liquid; it had form and intent. It slithered across the water, creeping toward us with cold, deliberate malice. Its tendrils reached the deck, wrapping around railings, climbing like vines—slow and relentless. The deck beneath my feet trembled as if the ship herself was trying to shake off the encroaching darkness.

A woman's scream sliced through the air, shrill and desperate. I turned, watching in horror as the tendrils of blackness crawled up her legs, sticking to her skin. Her eyes were wide and hollow as if she were already lost, her body nothing more than a shell. Her mouth opened in a silent plea, but no sound came. Around us, the fog thickened, its cold fingers clutching at the passengers. I tried to move, tried to pull her back, but my legs were heavy, my body frozen in place like lead.

Then came the whispers.

They were faint at first, barely audible over the wind, but they grew louder, more insistent as if thousands of voices spoke from beneath the waves. They were ancient, twisted, their words filled with an unfathomable weight. I couldn't understand them, but they gnawed at my mind, twisting my thoughts and making my skin crawl. I could feel its cold and indifferent gaze settling upon the ship. The blackness swelled, creeping faster now, climbing the masts, covering the boat in its suffocating embrace.

Was this what waited for those who dared challenge the seas?

I wanted to scream, but the sea's roar drowned me out. I could feel it all closing in—the darkness, the whispers, the weight of something far greater than the Titanic, far older than the sea itself. It wanted us. It wanted me.

And there was no escape.

The deck trembled beneath my feet, the black tendrils coiling tighter, pulling at everything, dragging it into the abyss. The passengers' cries grew frantic, but they were smothered by the fog, swallowed whole by the darkness. I stumbled back, reaching for anything solid to anchor myself as the ship groaned beneath the weight of it all, her mighty frame bending and creaking as if she were being devoured alive. My fingers scraped the icy railing, the only solid thing in a world dissolving into madness.

And then, as quickly as it began, the ship stopped moving. The ocean stilled. The black tendrils paused, hovering at the ship's edges like a predator waiting for the right moment to strike. The whispers softened, but they did not vanish. They lingered at the edges of my mind, just out of reach.

I stood there, frozen, heart pounding, breath shallow. Something was coming. Something worse than the cold, worse than the blackness. And deep down, I knew the Titanic would not survive the night.

Chapter 2: Captain Malcolm Reid, SS Cotopaxi

The Atlantic was wrapped in a thick fog, cold and suffocating. It clung to the ship like death, wrapping around us with a heaviness that pressed down on my chest. My fingers trembled as I gripped the wheel of the SS Cotopaxi, straining to see through the mist that obscured everything beyond a few feet. The oppressive stillness made the air feel thick, almost alive with something unseen. Each breath I took felt harder than the last, as if the fog was reaching inside me, trying to pull the air from my lungs.

Ahead of us, the Titanic appeared—looming, ominous, a dark silhouette against the endless sea. The sight of it, that legendary ship that had supposedly vanished beneath the waves, sent a jolt of disbelief through me. But there it was, as solid and real as the deck beneath my feet, hovering in the mist like a ghost from another time.

Something wasn't right.

The ship sat there, untouched by time, with no visible damage but lifeless, as if the very soul had been sucked from its steel hull. No lights flickered in the portholes, no cries for help echoed across the water, no frantic movement from the deckhands or passengers. Just silence. The silence that wraps around you deafening, as though the world had stopped breathing. And for the first time in my life, I felt truly afraid. The fear that comes with the unknown and the deep, primal fear that tells you something is terribly, irreparably wrong.

Despite the dread gnawing at me, we had no choice but to board the Titanic. Our boots clanked unnervingly loud on the empty deck, echoing into the void. I half expected someone to rush out of the shadows—a crew member, a survivor—but there was nothing. Every surface was pristine, tables set for dinner, chairs perfectly arranged as if the passengers had vanished mid-breath. The smell of cold metal and saltwater hung in the air, but beneath it, something else lingered. A staleness, a musty odor that hinted at years of decay, even though everything appeared untouched by time.

My heart pounded harder as we descended into the lower decks, each step echoing hollowly in the corridors. The air grew colder, denser, as though the deeper we went, the further we traveled into some unseen abyss. My lantern flickered, casting long, shifting shadows on the walls, and I felt it again—the presence.

And then we found them.

Thousands of passengers, all alive, yet not. They sat or stood in clusters, frozen in place, their eyes glassy and vacant, staring into some unseen abyss. Their bodies twitched, making small, involuntary movements as if trapped in a waking nightmare. Their lips moved soundlessly, whispering something that clawed at my ears even though I couldn't quite hear it. It was the kind of whisper you feel vibrating in the back of your skull, driving you mad with the need to understand it.

I knelt beside a woman whose fingers twitched against her coat, her breath shallow and uneven. Her eyes were open but empty, like she wasn't truly there. "What happened?" I asked, my voice barely more than a whisper, afraid to disturb the silence.

Her eyes flickered momentarily, a spark of awareness trying to break through. Her lips parted, and in a voice so soft it was almost a sigh, she breathed, "The iceberg…" Her voice trembled with an unseen terror. "We hit an iceberg."

The words sent a chill racing through my spine. I stood there, my heart hammering in my chest. There was no iceberg and no damage to the ship. But as I processed her words, something stirred in the air. The fog seemed to thicken, swirling with renewed energy, and as I looked around, the other passengers began to whisper. Their voices rose, not in volume but in unison, a steady, eerie chant: "We hit an iceberg. We hit an iceberg."

It wasn't right. The way they spoke, the vacant look in their eyes, as if they were repeating something they didn't fully understand. And then, through the haze of panic, I saw it.

The iceberg. Towering and jagged, it loomed in the fog, materializing out of nothingness. Its icy surface gleamed in the faint light, impossibly close, impossibly real. My mind reeled—there had been no iceberg, not moments ago, yet here it was, as solid and unforgiving as the iron hull of the Titanic itself. It moved toward us unnaturally, tearing through the fog like a predator stalking its prey.

I screamed for the crew to move, to get back to the Cotopaxi, but the iceberg was too fast. It crashed into the Titanic with a sound that shattered the night—a deafening, bone-rattling roar that echoed through the ship and across the sea. The Titanic groaned, a low, mournful sound, as though the boat itself was alive, feeling the impact, bending under the weight of the ice.

The deck tilted beneath our feet, throwing us off balance. I hit the ground hard, the cold steel biting into my palms as I struggled to stay upright. Around me, the thick and suffocating fog closed in, pulling at us and dragging us down into the freezing, black sea. The passengers—the living dead—did not scream or panic. They simply vanished, consumed by the fog, swallowed whole by the icy waters below.

I thrashed against the cold, my lungs burning as the freezing Atlantic swallowed me. The fog wrapped around me, its icy fingers pressing into my skin, choking me, dragging me deeper into the abyss. The Titanic, the iceberg, the passengers—all disappeared into the blackness, leaving nothing but the cold, endless sea.

Chapter 3: Captain Arthur Rostron, Carpathia

Dawn broke, but it brought no warmth. The dull gray sky seemed indifferent to the horrors of the night before, casting a cold light over the endless stretch of ocean. The Carpathia's searchlights swept across the water, cutting through the lingering fog-like blades, revealing lifeboats bobbing on the icy surface like the scattered remains of a nightmare. Each one rocked gently with the waves, carrying the fragile remnants of a once-great ship now lost to the abyss. The cold gnawed at the air, making the daylight feel thin and hollow, offering no comfort, no reprieve from the horrors of the night.

The survivors huddled on deck, silent, wrapped in woolen blankets that did little to fend off the chill. Their faces were pale and hollow, eyes wide but unseeing, as though they were trapped somewhere far beyond the reach of the rising sun. Some clung to each other, while others sat alone, staring into the fog as if expecting it to swallow them again. Their bodies were here, but their minds seemed distant, adrift in the terror they had escaped but could not fully comprehend.

I moved among them, my heart heavy with the weight of unspeakable tragedy, dreading the questions that clawed at my throat. Seven hundred souls were saved from the freezing depths, but their eyes—those empty, vacant eyes—told a story no one dared speak. It was as if the horror had etched itself into their very bones, a stain that no rescue or warmth could erase. The silence hung thick around us, broken only by the low groan of the ship and the occasional sob that seemed to echo out of the fog itself.

I knelt beside a man whose hands trembled beneath his blanket, the skin of his knuckles raw and chapped from the cold. His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with exhaustion, but it wasn't the sleepless night alone that had drained him. Something deeper, a fear, clung to him, freezing him from the inside out.

"What happened?" I asked, though I wasn't sure I wanted to know. My voice barely carried over the soft hiss of the sea against the ship's hull. The question felt wrong as if I was prying into something I could never understand, something darker than the tragedy that had already unfolded.

His lips barely moved. His voice was no more than a whisper, but the words chilled me to my core. "The iceberg… we hit an iceberg."

These were the same words I had heard repeatedly, spoken by every survivor I had approached. The same monotonous tone, the same distant look in their eyes. Each voice is hollow, as if speaking from somewhere far away, beyond this world. It was as though they had rehearsed it, reciting the same lines from some shared nightmare they were still trapped inside. But there was something more than just the repetition. It was how they said it—the iceberg like it was something more than a simple block of frozen water. Something alive. Something that had been waiting for them. A force, a name, a terror.

I stood and moved to another survivor, then another, and another, but the answers were always the same. "The iceberg… we hit an iceberg." Nothing more, nothing less. Not a single mention of the chaos, the screams, the sinking. Just those few words, repeated like a mantra, as though that alone explained everything. And maybe to them, it did.

The fog clung to the sea, thick and unmoving, as if it were waiting. Watching. It hadn't dissipated with the coming of dawn, instead lingering, heavy and unnatural, swirling just beyond the reach of the searchlights. I felt it in the pit of my stomach—the sense that something had been left unfinished, that the nightmare wasn't over, merely paused.

The sea was calm now, but there was an unnatural stillness to it—the kind that makes your skin crawl, that gnaws at the back of your mind with the certainty that something terrible still lurks beneath the surface. I glanced over the water, half-expecting to see the Titanic looming through the mist again, rising from the depths like a ghost, but there was nothing. The thick and suffocating fog shrouded the ocean like a veil over the dead.

I returned to the rail, looking at the lifeboats that drifted aimlessly, bobbing in the cold sea. The bodies inside were huddled together but looked like shadows fading into the mist. I couldn't shake the feeling that whatever had claimed the Titanic had not finished its work. Something was wrong about the silence, about how the survivors clung to that one phrase—"the iceberg"—as if it were a name, not a thing.

A shiver ran down my spine, colder than the wind that whipped through the air. I pulled my coat tighter around me, but it did little to fend off the creeping dread. Something had come for the Titanic, more than ice and cold water. And in some way, it had taken these people too, leaving them with nothing but hollow words and empty eyes.

I cast one last glance over the deck, at the pale faces and trembling hands, and then back to the fog. It hovered just beyond the ship, thick and unmoving, like a predator waiting for its prey to weaken again. As I stood there, the weight of it pressing down on my chest, I realized with a cold certainty that the iceberg hadn't just taken the Titanic—it had claimed the souls of those aboard.

And now, it was waiting for the rest of us.