Vanished Without a Wake
A Coast Guard rescue mission into the Bermuda Triangle turns chilling when a missing ship leaves no trace—and the mist begins to whisper with familiar voices that shouldn't exist.
We lost radio contact at 2:14 a.m. It wasn’t a storm, and the skies had been clear all evening. One moment, the Mistral Voyager was right there, slicing through the calm Atlantic; the next, it was simply gone.
I was part of the Coast Guard response team. When the distress signal cut off mid-sentence—“Something’s coming through the mist, it’s not—” —we scrambled from the base in Miami, speeding toward the coordinates deep within the Bermuda Triangle. But when we arrived, there was nothing. No wreckage, no debris, not even an oil slick staining the waves.
The strangest part was the mist. Thick, heavy, clinging to the ocean's surface even though the air was warm and the weather still flawless. We lowered sonar equipment into the water; the signals came back garbled, unreadable. The equipment wasn’t malfunctioning—something down there was distorting the readings.
Two divers volunteered to descend. They never resurfaced. No splashing, no struggle. Just silence, as if the ocean had swallowed them whole.
Before we could organize a search, our own radios began crackling—snatches of voices, familiar voices. It was the missing crew. Their transmissions were frantic but disjointed, speaking in loops, sometimes laughing, sometimes whispering things that made no sense. Someone on our deck swore they heard their own name called from the mist, in a voice that was almost theirs but wrong.
The mist thickened. Our instruments spun wildly. Some of the newer guys wanted to stay and search longer, but the older sailors—the ones who’d seen too much—pulled rank and ordered a retreat.
We made it back to base, but not without losing another man. They said he fell overboard. I know better. I watched him step, eyes vacant, into the mist that had somehow slithered aboard.
The Coast Guard officially closed the case, citing "severe weather and human error."
We know better, too.
I was part of the Coast Guard response team. When the distress signal cut off mid-sentence—“Something’s coming through the mist, it’s not—” —we scrambled from the base in Miami, speeding toward the coordinates deep within the Bermuda Triangle. But when we arrived, there was nothing. No wreckage, no debris, not even an oil slick staining the waves.
The strangest part was the mist. Thick, heavy, clinging to the ocean's surface even though the air was warm and the weather still flawless. We lowered sonar equipment into the water; the signals came back garbled, unreadable. The equipment wasn’t malfunctioning—something down there was distorting the readings.
Two divers volunteered to descend. They never resurfaced. No splashing, no struggle. Just silence, as if the ocean had swallowed them whole.
Before we could organize a search, our own radios began crackling—snatches of voices, familiar voices. It was the missing crew. Their transmissions were frantic but disjointed, speaking in loops, sometimes laughing, sometimes whispering things that made no sense. Someone on our deck swore they heard their own name called from the mist, in a voice that was almost theirs but wrong.
The mist thickened. Our instruments spun wildly. Some of the newer guys wanted to stay and search longer, but the older sailors—the ones who’d seen too much—pulled rank and ordered a retreat.
We made it back to base, but not without losing another man. They said he fell overboard. I know better. I watched him step, eyes vacant, into the mist that had somehow slithered aboard.
The Coast Guard officially closed the case, citing "severe weather and human error."
We know better, too.
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