The Spirit, Silenced By The Creaks

Every October, as Lake Superior’s breath turns to fog and the gulls fall silent, the SS William A. Irvin becomes the Duluth Haunted Ship—a tourist spectacle of flickering lights, fake blood, and scripted terror. The volunteers laugh about the ghosts, trade rumors about “cold spots,” and shrug off creaks in the iron hull as nothing but the wind. Mara Olson didn’t believe in ghosts. She was twenty-three, new to Duluth, and the haunted ship gig was just a seasonal paycheck. On her first night volunteering, she donned a fake sailor’s uniform and led visitors through the cargo holds, where speakers blasted moans and recorded chains rattling. When the last group left, she stayed behind to help lock up. That was when she noticed the fog. It wasn’t the thin mist from the lake—it was thick and heavy, rolling down the gangway like it had a mind of its own. It seeped into the ship’s corridors, swallowing the emergency lights until only faint, red glows pulsed along the floor. From somewhere deep within the hull came a sound: clang... clang... clang... Rhythmic. Slow. Too deliberate to be the wind. Mara called out, “Hello? Is someone still down here?” Her voice echoed off the steel walls and died. Then the intercom crackled to life. “Engine room…” a voice said, warped and hollow. “All hands to the engine room…” The speakers hadn’t worked in years. Mara’s breath caught. She tried to laugh it off, telling herself someone was pulling a prank. But curiosity tugged at her, and she found herself descending the narrow stairs toward the engine room. The air grew damp, metallic, and freezing cold. She could taste rust on her tongue. As she stepped into the cavernous chamber, she noticed something odd: footprints. Wet ones. Bare. Leading between the massive iron engines that hadn’t moved since 1978. She followed them. At the far end of the room, she saw him. A man stood half in shadow, wearing a faded jumpsuit. His skin had the gray-blue pallor of drowned flesh. Water dripped steadily from his fingertips to the deck below, forming a dark, glistening pool. “You shouldn’t be here,” he rasped, voice carrying like a low tide. Mara stumbled back. “This area’s closed—” He tilted his head, eyes pale and milky. “She’s moving again. Can’t you feel it?” And then she did. The deck groaned beneath her feet. The entire ship trembled, a deep, resonant vibration that hummed through the iron like a heartbeat. The chains above clinked. The air itself seemed to shift—as if the ship were straining to pull free from the dock. “Stop it!” she cried, gripping the railing. “You’re not real—this isn’t happening!” The man stepped forward, dripping lake water that smelled of oil and decay. “We never made it to port,” he whispered. “She’s still waiting.” Suddenly, lights blazed to life, white and blinding. The roar of the ship’s engines filled the chamber—a thunderous, mechanical growl that shook the floor. Mara screamed and ran, stumbling up the stairs as the walls around her seemed to breathe, the metal expanding and contracting with wet, groaning sounds. She burst through the hatch and onto the main deck—only to find herself surrounded by fog so thick she could see nothing but swirling gray. The city lights of Duluth had vanished. The dock, the shore, the skyline—all gone. Only black water stretched out in every direction. The ship was moving. Mara gripped the railing, heart pounding. A shape rose in the fog—a figure standing at the bow, one arm raised in silent command. Behind him, more figures appeared, climbing from the lake: sailors with hollow eyes, uniforms rotted away, their skin shimmering with frost. They filled the deck silently, watching her.

The intercom crackled once more. “All hands to the engine room.” Mara turned to run—but her feet splashed into ankle-deep water. It was pouring in from the seams of the deck, icy and black. She screamed, the sound swallowed by the fog. When the ship was found the next morning, moored quietly where it had always been, the security lights were still on. The only sign of Mara was her flashlight, floating near the gangway. And a thin, wet trail of footprints leading from the lake—back onto the ship. They say that when the Duluth Haunted Ship opens each October, sometimes the intercom still crackles to life at midnight, whispering through dead wires: “Engine room… all hands to the engine room…”

Those who are foolish enough to follow the sound… never really find their way back to shore.