Spirits of the Fleet

The river water clung to Silas's trousers like a second skin. His toshing iron scraped against brick, seeking the glint of something valuable.

The gas lamp flickered. Shadows stretched, twisting into shapes that weren’t there.

"Silas," the voice said.

He froze. The iron slipped from his grip, clanging into the water.

"Elara?" His thumb rubbed his palm, a nervous habit.

The water gurgled, but the sound was different now.

"Silas," it said again.

The lantern’s flame sputtered. Blue. The color of the dead.

He dropped to his knees. The water was cold, but his hands trembled.

"Elara," he whispered.

The river whispered back.

He pulled the spirit lantern from his satchel. The flame flared blue.

"Who else is here?" he asked.

The water rose. A ripple, then another.

"Others," it said.

The tunnels groaned. Moss clung to the archways, slick and alive.

He lit the lantern. The blue flame danced.

"Where are you?"

The water hissed. A name. Then another.

"Whitechapel," he murmured.

The lantern’s glow caught the moss. It shimmered.

"Madame Vora’s," the voice said.

He stood. The water sloshed against his legs.

"Tell me," he said.

The river whispered. And the darkness listened.

"Silas," the voice said.

He turned. The tunnel stretched, empty.

"Elara," he said.

The water rose.

"Come," it said.

He followed. The lantern’s blue flame lit the way.

"Where?"

"Madame Vora’s," the voice said.

He clenched his fists. The iron lay forgotten in the water.

"Show me," he said.

The river gurgled. A path opened in the dark.

"Come," it said.

He stepped forward. The water rose to meet him.

"Elara," he said.

The river whispered. And the darkness swallowed him whole.

"Silas," it said.

The lantern’s blue flame burned brighter.

"Lead on," he said.

The water moved. A current, pulling him deeper.

"Madame Vora’s," the voice said.

He followed. The river’s secrets called.

"Elara," he whispered.

The darkness answered.