Off The Coast Of Nowhere

Supernatural Horror

Mayday! Mayday! 

The voice crackled through the speaker. 

We have an emergency. Can anybody hear me?

Ben must have dozed off, but now, he was wide awake.  

“Air traffic control? Can you hear me? 

His throat felt tight, constricted; he was at a loss for words.

I repeat, can anybody hear me? Our engine has failed. Our coordinates are…

Suddenly a shriek of bloody murder raised the hairs upon his neck. He heard the puttering of a sickly motor, followed by another onslaught of screams.

Ben knew he had to do something, but he also knew he was no hero. Fear had this way of making his mind cloudy. He was already eyeing the exit. There was still time, albeit, not much. If he was quick, he could pass it along—it could be someone else's problem, someone far more equipped to handle it. 

A distinct cry for help stifled his cowardice escape. It was young, high-pitched. It could only have come from a child.

Please do something! Save us. 

Get back! the pilot commanded. Mr. Salvado, bring her back to her seat!

It was the mention of the last name that lingered: Salvado. Why did it ring a bell? 

There was a sudden explosion as the screams began to blur into one. A deep, hearty voice was reciting a prayer in Spanish.

 It was then that Ben decided to speak:

“Hel….Hello? “

Hello? Air traffic control? 

This is a dream, Ben told himself. It was the only explanation for the lunacy. Once he accepted this narrative, the words seemed to slide out of his throat.

“No. I’m...I’m just a boy.”

You're what?

Moonlight peered into his bedroom through a tiny gap in the blinds. It illuminated the Marvel posters upon his walls: Captain America, Thor. 

He sat up in his bed and repeated, “I’m just a boy.” He swallowed, “I think you might have the wrong…um…station or something?” 

The static continued, hissing out of the dusty speaker on his nightstand. He was surprised the radio had worked, the paneling had yellowed, the wooden frame scuffed and warped.  Still, he had snatched it from his grandfather's basement. It was meant as nothing more than a cool memento, but it had proven to be a trusty sleeping aid, until now. 

The pilot barked an expletive before taking a moment to gather his thoughts.   

Boy. Quickly write down our coordinates. Send help as soon as you can.

“Okay,” Ben responded. He rummaged through one of the drawers and found a pen. Scanning the room and out of options, he held out his palm. 

“I’m ready.”

As the pilot spoke, Ben finally made the connection. It was grandpa's favorite story to tell when he had one too many whiskeys. The Salvado family was the wealthiest family in the pacific northwest. Their story had everything: corruption, romance, betrayal.  He hadn’t heard the tale in quite some time. 

The best part about it was the mystery—the ending…or lack thereof.

  8.8 degrees S…122 degrees…

Another blast cut the pilot off. It was followed by a fast-paced beeping, which was quickly drowned out by the sounds of chaos: wild screams, and the twisting of metal.

Finally, just static. The familiar hissing that had put Ben to sleep all those nights. Only this time he heard something in the background. It was faint, barely discernable. 

Was it sobbing? Or was it giggling? It could only have come from a child.

Ben switched off the radio before he could decide.