The Treasure of St. Briston

Matthue wasn’t sure how long he had been asleep when an uneasy feeling woke him. Panic was quick to shake off the vestiges of slumber. His tiny room was filled with a dense smoke. Was the ship on fire? Were they under attack? He was about to spring into action when a ghostly figure materialized from the smoke. It was Jonah. No, it wasn’t Jonah, it was the Phantom Captain. He was the very thing of nightmares. Dressed in the black jacket of his vengeance the Phantom Captain stared down at him. He was gaunt and terrifying. Matthue fumbled for the light, but the flame only made it worse. It barely penetrated the thick haze and the glow seemed to leap into his eyes like they too were on fire. The ghostly captain took a step towards Matthue. Out of instinct, Matthue fired his pistol at the figure. The bullet had been shot into its side, but it had made no impact. The figure looked down at his side and then up to Matthue with rage. He bared his teeth and seized him by the throat.
“What do you want from me?” Matthue choked out. How could a ghost be so strong? How could its hands be so real?
“I want your allegiance,” the Phantom said. It even had Jonah’s voice.
“You have it, you have it!” Matthue cried.
“Really?” The figure said drolling out the word. It released Matthue's throat pointing to Matthue’s hand that still held the pistol.
Matthue tossed the weapon away. “A moment of weakness and fear, Master,” he said, unsure of what to call the apparition.
“Make sure it is the last,” said the figure, breathing down Matthue’s neck. “Serve me from this day forth,” the Spector said. Matthue nodded vigorously. “If you don’t,” It continued bearing its teeth, “I call this curse upon you... If you ever seek to be captain of this ship, if you even think it, death will follow. The Phantom Captain shall be against you and you will never be free of my ghost,” It said hissing the words into Matthue’s ear so that it chilled him to the bone. “Mark my words,” it said coming dangerously close to Matthue’s face once more. Then it was gone. A swirl of smoke was all that was left. Matthue heard a thumping noise and sprung from his bunk to retrieve his weapon. Nervous beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. Sifting through the smoke he felt for something corporeal. Some evidence that this has been a cruel joke or that Jonah was actually hiding in his wardrobe. But he found none.
Matthue flung the door open to exiting onto the deck. Had it been a dream? Was he losing his mind? Had his drink been that strong? He raced back into his room to find the bottle. It was half empty. But swilling that much was not unusual. In fact drinking more was common practice. Matthue looked around the room again. The smoke that filled it was certainly real. It was a clear night, without a hint of fog. Yet vaporous tendrils still fingered their way from his quarters. The terror that had been building inside of him took over as he sprinted across the deck. He didn’t even knock as he crashed through the door to Jonah’s room.
“What is it Matthue?,” Jonah said rousing. He was trying to shake himself into alertness, “are we under attack?”
Matthue looked at him for a moment, stunned. Jonah was in his bed clothes and Matthue had just woken him. He couldn’t have been the spector. It had been real. Matthue wasn’t a superstitious man, but seeing Jonah there in his bed, he now believed in ghosts. Well perhaps not ghosts… just one ghost. And whether Jonah knew it or not, his spirit as the Phantom Captain was being tied to this ship. A spirit Matthue planned to obey.
“No sir,” Matthue said, grabbing the handle of the door to close it. “I thought…” he paused trying to think of a way to explain what he thought. “Nevermind. Go back to sleep.” Matthue said. Jonah’s head collapsed back into the pillow. “Sorry to have disturbed you,” Matthue said, finally shutting the door.
Jonah had been tired, but when he had dropped his head, it was not due to his exhaustion. It was to hide his smile. For he knew that if it had not been so dark and if Matthue had not been so scared, he would have noticed traces of the gray makeup that still lingered around the corners of Jonah’s face or the censer that still smoked behind his candle. He would have seen a hint of blood leaching from his side where Matthue’s bullet had grazed him or the wad of black clothing that he had shoved under his pillow to hide. He would have realized that while Matthue had searched for answers, Jonah had slid through the floorboard in his wardrobe, dropped a deck below and sprinted to his rooms before Matthue could find him. He had only a few meager seconds to wipe his face with his sleeve before he heard Matthue thundering towards his room. Enough time to pretend that he had been asleep. Jonah smiled again. Shockingly, it had worked. Jonah had indeed scared the problem with what scared him.