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‘Have you ever heard of the Sureswift?’

The river below was quiet, moving almost silently with an occasional gurgle as it passed over the rocks. Cicadas called into the early evening with their hypnotic trills, and the campfire behind the two men crackled in the dying summer day.

‘The what?’

‘The Sureswift — you know, the ship.’

‘What’re you talking about? Never heard of it.’

The man who spoke this took the moment to spit, and it arched over the grass and into the river below. The water rippled for a moment, disturbing the darkening sky reflected on its surface before becoming still once more. He might’ve been a handsome man at one point, but age and a long time in the sun had wrinkled Bruce Heller like a prune. His mouth worked continuously under his heavy beard. An old and worn-looking ship was moving down the river, its tattered sails hanging limply without a breeze to stir them. Bruce could hear the sounds of a busy campsite behind him as people settled down from the long day of hiking, setting up their tents set up and starting on their dinners.

The other man looked at him a moment, and Bruce didn’t like his eyes. He was starting to get uncomfortable with this man, who had appeared out of nowhere and chosen to sit with him instead of at any of the several other fires dotted around the group’s campsite for the night. This man was tall and pale with neat black hair and an elegant face. Ordinarily, Bruce would’ve expected to see such a man dressed in a suit, pressed and starched and on his way to one of those fancy office buildings in the city, but the man dressed just as ruggedly as Bruce. He opened his mouth to speak, but the man cut across him.

‘Beer?’ he asked, and Bruce heard the clinking of glass in the man’s backpack a moment before his outstretched hand offered Bruce a bottle. It had been a long day, so Bruce wasn’t about to pass it up. He took it, and found it was surprisingly cold despite the fact they were several days from any electricity. That was one of the downsides of these hiking treks: no cold drinks. He popped off the lid, took a hearty swig, and looked out over the river. After several quiet minutes Bruce began to feel bad for the man, who might’ve just been lonely and wanting to strike up a conversation. So he took another sip of his beer and turned to him.

‘What were you saying about a ship?’

The man smiled and replied, ‘It used to run the trade up and down the coast in the early 1900s. I asked only because there’s a legend that it used to come up this river to an old farmhouse a little ways on. That’s where the Toadvine Gang used to hole up.’

Now that Bruce had heard of. The Toadvine Gang were a bunch of bloodthirsty criminals who used to terrorise the small towns dotted around this arid landscape.

‘Hmm,’ the man said. ‘You’ve heard of them, I think. Well, the Sureswift used to stop in to their hideout up the river now and then. Not many people would do that, mind you, because of their reputation. Nasty people. But Captain Tiller was braver than most, and the group paid well. He would bring them food and drink, and in return the gang would provide him with stolen goods. The Captain had a penchant for being able to get rid of hot items like that, and so the arrangement worked out nicely for a time.

‘One day, they pulled into the dock at the hideout as usual, but there was no one there to meet them. It had been some months since their last visit, and ordinarily there’d be members of the gang roaming around, some would be fishing, others’d be drinking moonshine on the verandah. That day, though… nothing.’

Bruce finished his beer and, barely a second after he realised this, the man proffered another. This one was equally cold, which Bruce still found odd, but he accepted it gladly given the heat of the day still hadn’t dissipated. The ship, making slow progress in the absence of any meaningful wind, had passed by them on the far side of the river and was making its way from view. The meat sizzled over the fire behind them, making Bruce’s mouth water slightly. Bruce nodded his thanks to the man and motioned for him to continue.

‘Captain Tiller and his crew kept calling out but no one came. Eventually, they disembarked and searched the grounds for any sign of what had happened. One of the cabin boys found some blood on the doorframe to the main house, but the Captain dismissed it. Said it was probably from one of their regular fighting rings.

‘Eventually, they gave up. By that stage, it was getting late and the Captain made the decision to camp there for the night. The river was dangerous to navigate even on a clear night, and the clouds were already building up at that stage.

‘Nothing out of the ordinary happened for most of the evening. They made their camps, cooked their dinners, laid out under the cloudy sky and smoked and drank and laughed. Eventually, though, a strange feeling crept over the camp. Men started looking over their shoulders, sure that they were hearing movement where there should have been none. Some heard faint laughter, or saw shadows darting around. One of the men swore that he saw something rush out from his tent when it was full dark, but as he’d been drinking for most of the afternoon no one took him seriously.

‘There was a moment, however, when the crew had gathered around the campfire after dinner, when Darren Foster— the First Mate, a man everyone respected—suddenly stood up, pale-faced and trembling with fear. He lifted his arm, which everyone could see was shaking dreadfully, pointing at a space next to the ship’s cook and said, “Who the fuck is that?”

‘Everyone turned to look, but there was no one there. Foster was adamant that someone had been sitting there right next to the cook, a man he had never seen before. A man with red eyes. If it had been anyone else he would’ve been dismissed immediately but Foster had earned the respect and trust of the crew after almost two decades of service, and so the camp plunged further into paranoia. The Captain, wanting to keep order, told Foster to go to his tent and rest, and encouraged the rest of the crew to forget it themselves. The drinking continued, but the mood was even more subdued, and everyone kept glancing at the empty space next to the cook.’

Bruce, now thoroughly enthralled by the story despite his initial reluctance, startled himself when his stomach gave a loud growl. The smell of the meat had become overwhelming, and it told Bruce that his dinner was ready. The man smiled at him.

‘Please go ahead and eat Bruce. We can finish the story when you’ve had some food. It’ll still be waiting for you, I promise.’

As he took his first bite, Bruce was startled to discover how ravenous he was. He tore chunks of meat with his teeth and stuffed his mouth with bread, washing it down with the beer the man had given him. Within minutes his food was all gone, and he rested against his large backpack and belched. The sun was almost gone now, and the brightest light came from the fire behind them. The sound of cicadas filled the night air as a gentle breeze finally broke the heat of the day and washed over them from the river. Bruce was only vaguely aware of the sounds from the rest of the campsite, which had become considerably quieter as the darkness began to fall. Given that the day’s hike had been particularly hard, he didn’t find this odd. He lit a cigarette and blew out the smoke in a long contented sigh. The man looked at him with a curious glance.

‘Feeling better?’

‘Much,’ he replied, his eyes heavy.

‘Would you like me to continue the story?’

‘Yes, please.’

The man stopped for a moment to drink from a flask, and it was a long draught. Bruce watched the man’s neck absently as he greedily swallowed the liquid. Even now, in the twilight, he could see it spill from his mouth and down his neck. It unsettled him to see the man drink so messily.

The man stopped drinking, and hastily wiped his face and mouth.

‘Just a little something to lubricate my vocal cords. I’ve been speaking a long time, you know.’

He winked at Bruce.

‘Well, where was I… Oh, yes. The camp grew quieter and quieter as the strange feeling settled over everyone. One by one, the crew crawled into their tents or the swags, unwilling to admit what they were feeling to each other. Soon enough, the whole camp was silent. Even the fire seemed subdued.

‘Sometime in the very early morning, everyone in restless sleeps, terrible screams rent the silence. It was a sound to split the ears, as though a hundred men were screaming in agony all at once. As quickly as it started, the screaming stopped, and there was a deathly pause before the camp was a bustle of activity. Torches were lit, boots shoved on, and rifles cocked. Scared faces were lit by torches, the paleness of fright revealed on each one.

‘By the time they had settled enough to do a headcount, they realised more than half their number were missing. There was no indication of where they had gone, or who had screamed. An undercurrent of panic started to spread through the remaining men, stretching their nerves taut and brining each of them to the edge of hysteria.

‘The Captain realised this and, putting on his best authoritative voice, boomed out the order to pack up the camp as quickly as possible and to return to the ship. The men sped off, happy to follow this order, and began striking tents and packing bags with ferocious intensity. Captain Tiller ordered his cabin boy to do his for him as he wanted to head back to the ship with a few other men and get things ready there. Once he was on board he went straight to his cabin and began looking for the St Christopher medallion his father had passed down to him. Before this moment he’d never worn it as he didn’t share the faith of his parents. Now, with the strangeness of the night he was dealing with, he was ready to believe.

‘The Captain was still trying to fasten the medallion around his neck when he walked out on to the deck, and he noticed right away that something was terribly wrong. The deck was silent and there were no lights down at the camp. All he could hear was the wind and the creaking of the ship as it floated on the river.

‘Fear gripped the Captain tightly. For several moments he did not dare move for fear that whatever was out there would see and come straight for him.’

The man smiled at this.

‘The good Captain didn’t realise that what had been hunting them had never lost track of him. Not for a single moment. In fact, it was waiting for him back in his cabin, hiding in the shadows for the moment he returned. The Captain had nowhere else to go, you see, and it knew this.

‘Captain Tiller walked into the cabin and did not see it at first, but as he reached for the rifle he kept hidden under his bed he saw movement from the corner of his eye. He screamed in the end, oh yes, but there was no one left to hear it.

‘Some years later, the Sureswift was spotted running up this river one night near the town of Flatwater. The river men knew the ship and that it had gone missing, and so were surprised to see it. They tried to hail it, but it went on as if there was no one on board. It soon disappeared in the darkness on the river, but the next morning several bodies were discovered in the town square, their heads missing and their corpses drained of blood. This happened enough times that people soon feared seeing the Sureswift because it invariably meant that there would be deaths discovered the next morning.’

The man’s voice had grown hoarse and quiet, so much so that Bruce had to strain to keep listening.

‘It hasn’t been seen for years. The last sighting was about twenty years ago and let me tell you, Bruce, that was a big one. In the morning, eighty three corpses lined the streets, but no one had heard a single sound.’

The wind sighed as the man finished his story. Bruce sat pondering it, turning it over in his mind. The fire behind him had dimmed to a faint red glow, and was being smothered by the ashes.

‘Wait a second,’ he said at last, frowning as he stared out over the river. ‘If everyone from the ship died, even the Captain, then how could you possibly know what happened at the Toadvine hideout?’

Bruce turned to look at the man, ready to demand an answer to the glaring hole in his story.

Through the dim light of the red coals, he saw that the man was gone.

Bruce started. He hadn’t heard the man get up to leave. With a suddenness that caused a flutter in his stomach, he realised the night was completely dark and silent now. No fires in the distance, not even the sound of low talking or whispers from the tents that he knew were nearby. It was as though a black curtain had fallen over the world around him and was pressing in from all sides, constricting him and making it hard to breathe.

Bruce stood up, the total darkness making him totter as he tried to find his balance in a world that seemed to have disappeared. Even as he did so, he felt a strong hand grab at him and stabilise him from behind. Bruce felt the coldness of the hand, and it caused a wave of nausea and pure terror.

‘You must be careful, Bruce. You could fall over and hurt yourself.’

The man’s voice had changed. Bruce could still identify it as the man who had told him the story, but now it was silkier, almost caressing, like someone talking about their lover, or a starving man describing in detail the foods he longs to eat. The hand gripped tighter as Bruce struggled to get away from it. He thought wildly that if he could turn around he would see two red eyes glowing lividly like hot coals, just like Darren Foster had seen all those years ago.

‘What do you want?’ he croaked into the darkness.

‘Blood,’ it said.