Following the chilling success of their first collection, Lady Eckland, Glenn Riley, and new collaborator, Bella Darkwood return to guide you through the shadowy corridors of fear with their second compendium, *Whispers In The Dark 2*. These master...
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The sea was calm, almost peaceful, in the fading light of dusk. But Thomas Grim knew better than to trust the ocean's deceitful tranquility. Gripping the splintered oar of the listing rowboat, he scanned the darkening horizon, searching in vain for any signs of land.
There were none, of course. There had been none for three days now - three days since they escaped the foundering wreck of the Harbinger, only to face the merciless indifference of the open sea. With a grunt, Thomas shifted on the hard plank seat, trying in vain to ease the throbbing ache in his joints. Age was catching up with him faster out here, exposed to the elements without respite. At least he still had his strength to row, although he wasn't sure how long that would last if they didn't find landfall soon.
At the prow, Eli seemed to share none of Thomas’s weary resignation. The boy - for he was little more than that, barely sixteen by Thomas's reckoning - practically vibrated with nervous energy, legs jiggling restlessly as he strained his eyes into the gloom.
“See anything?” Thomas asked, though he already knew the answer.
Eli shook his head. “Nothing. Just more nothing.”
“Aye. That there is.”
Thomas checked over his shoulder to where Mr. Hawkins sat slumped in the stern, face pale and sweaty, one hand pressed to the sodden bandages wrapping his midsection. The navigator had taken a piece of splintered plank to the gut when the Harbinger went down. They’d done their best to patch him up, but infection had settled into the wound with a vengeance. If they didn’t get him proper medical care soon...well, Thomas tried not to think on that eventuality.
Their fourth companion gave no notice of Thomas's glance. Sarah sat perfectly still amidships, her posture so rigidly correct she might have been perched on a drawing room settee instead of the rough planks of a battered rowboat. She hadn't spoken a word since they escaped the wreck, staring fixedly down at hands folded neatly in her lap.
Thomas suppressed a frustrated sigh. Damned if he wasn't heartily sick of the sight of this little boat and its passengers both.
"Why don't you let me take a turn on those oars for a spell?” Eli piped up suddenly. “I'm getting antsy just sitting here."
Thomas raised a shaggy eyebrow at him. "You think those skinny arms have got enough meat on ‘em for that, boy?"
Eli flushed. "Hey, I might surprise you! And it's not like we've got anything better to do stuck out here."
"Can't argue with that logic,” Thomas snorted. “Have at it then."
He handed the oars over to Eli’s eager grip and sat back with a grunt, rolling his shoulders to ease the strain. The boy fumbled for a moment getting the oars properly situated. But soon enough he settled into a rhythmic stroke, back straight and brow furrowed in concentration. Thomas eyed Eli’s wiry frame as it flexed and stretched. He had grit and eagerness to spare, no question. Qualities a man needed out here to survive.
