A Creak... Or A Squeak

• Will Phillips, Grade 9
• Short Story
• 2020

Olivia pushes ahead, slashing at the tussocky bush with her pocket knife. She flashes me a clumsy grin, light dancing like embers in her smoky eyes. Kicking through the scrub, she’s as clamorous as a stampeding elephant. I smile to myself, skipping to keep up with her. My fourteen year old sister has strides as large as a kangaroo’s bound.

Finally, thundering through the undergrowth, we reach our destination. Splayed out before us is a misty lake, glistening like a dimming lightbulb in the soft phosphorescence of the moon. The inky black of the night eerily greets the final strands of daylight with a milky pink. A waterfall meanders it’s way down from a small cliff, the stream striking ripples across the otherwise still surface of the river. But what really catches the eye is an oaken vessel, nestled mysteriously amongst a cradle of greying reeds and strangled vines. A sodden flag beckons to us atop its final resting place, and the stench of moisture and mildew is hard to pass by.

I nod to my sister. Heart beats soaring, we approach the ominous hull, minds heavy with bewilderment and apprehension. The vessel dwarfs us, it’s gargantuan body looming ominously over us. I turn to face my sister, and know that her thoughts mirror mine - explore or retreat? Curiosity wins us over and we shimmy up a fallen log wedged against the hull of the craft. Reaching the deck, we’re greeted by several smashed barrels of rum, the contents long evaporated under the glower of the sun. How did a boat like this find it’s way here?

We steadily descend the stairs to below deck, each creak resonating through the stagnant air.
“I could do with my asthma puffer,” I hiss, digging my knuckles into the palm of my sister’s hand. My voice sounds tinny and pathetic, resonating down the belly of the ship. Suddenly, out of the corner of one eye, I glimpse a twitch of movement. Almost instantaneously, a little tremor resounds shrilly through the cavern. I shiver nervously, perspiration beading its way down my forehead. My sister’s face is as pale as a sheet of paper, and her hand is cold as ice. Another scuttle rings through the surrounds.

So we bolt, like mountain horses on a stampede, racing up the stairs to the deck. The moment we reach the relative safety of the deck, we seek out a hiding place behind the barrels. Not daring to move a muscle, we wait with baited breath for our inevitable discovery.
Moments pass... And then our pursuer emerges in all its petrifying grandness. It’s a mouse.