A deep and gentle groan that could easily be mistaken for a deep sea horror to the unfamiliar ear pushed its way through the dense silence. A haunting behemoth of shredded metal and mindless gray sea fauna began to emerge from the shroud of blue ahead of me. A hefty steel ship and her inhabitants that’d been consumed by the waves decades ago, the Miranda. A real life mystery buried by time and water, with an unspoken story scattered in the sand. Despite how many times I’d seen it, her astonishing yet eerie beauty always gave me pause as I struggled with the instinctual urge to turn back. Seeing something so human wrapped into a world that was otherwise unpolluted by our kind always felt wrong on some deep level. Although, as always it wasn’t enough to keep me from proceeding forward into the split hull in the hopes of a newfound discovery.

I gently glided through the jagged debris, careful to not catch myself on any of the teeth-like shrapnel jutting from nearly every direction. I secured my guide tether’s anchor in a snug crook between some of the wreckage I’d found during the last expedition and began unwinding the bright orange bundle of cord to give myself some initial slack, clasping the carabiner onto its designated hook on my belt.

Oxygen at 87% capacity. I’d been making good time.

I find myself in a section of the ship’s hull that I’d never come across before, my tether line trailing off behind me, twisting around corners and out of sight. The compact flashlight affixed to my mask illuminated the cavernous room well enough to see what historic mysteries lay within. It appeared to be a sort of an ornate theater, leftover scraps from the Miranda’s brief glory days as a luxury cruise ship. Now the space was filled with shattered and floating crates of worthless, yet hazardous cargo, broken reminders of what it had become later that led it to its swampy grave. Following her golden years of operation, the Miranda had been converted to serve as an undercover cargo ship for the war efforts when the situation got desperate. As the official story goes, the cover worked well for many months, successfully transporting tide turning supplies and proudly serving its country right up until it couldn’t.

During its 16th voyage, the Miranda and her crew were transporting war goods priced well into the millions. The official reports say it sank during an unforeseen storm, and that rather the storm itself sank the ship, or it acted as a natural shroud to hide an enemy force. Not much is known, or at least there’s not much public knowledge about the tragic history, largely because it was missing until two years ago when it had been caught on sonar by an ocean research team searching for an unrelated lost wonder. As soon as I got that call, I knew I  needed to know what fate the Miranda and her crew met on that stormy evening.

Oxygen at 81% capacity.

A widely supported tall tale that had emerged in the wake of the ship’s discovery alleged that the sinking was all a Grand Plot to hide some Mistake or Spilled Secret that the Government wanted sunk. Nothing more than a wild conspiracy from loons who crave fantasy.

A low, dull groan came from the ship; a haunting noise that pulled me out of my imagination. As much as I wanted to tear into any crate I could get for curiosity’s sake, I had been strongly warned to not tamper with any of the unidentified crates or war supplies in case they were still live. I drifted through the skeleton of a room, taking the occasional distorted photo. The old barnacled stage, a stack of previously ornate chairs now fused to the floor and dozens of barely legible supply crates.

Slipping through a small door on the far side of the room, I found myself in a labyrinth of staff quarters and custodial spaces, similar to much of the rest of the ship I’d seen on previous excursions.

72% oxygen capacity.

My flashlight only illuminated a couple yards ahead of me and the deeper I went the dimmer it felt, a hint of claustrophobia grabbing my heart. Several doors were closed and far too water worn to even consider moving. I weaved in and out of the accessible few, the exceptionally still water only being interrupted by my awkward maneuvering and the rhythmic plume of bubbles from my respirator. It felt as if I was disturbing an area that was meant to live in eternal stillness until I interrupted it, a silent grave that’d resigned to being completely desolate.

The ship belonged in the depths. It felt at home, and I did not. I dissuaded those thoughts by reminding myself that I was only there long enough to tell its story, and then I could resume not disturbing it. So I continued, photographing the few items of intrigue as I went. I entered an industrial kitchen still stocked with the implements required to feed every crew member. The only thing it was missing was the hustle and bustle of the crew. Miscellaneous pots and pans were strewn about in an abstract fashion, an entire case of silverware spilled out across a countertop, now decrepit and forever fused to their resting places by time.

Further into the maze was a large space that’d been converted into barracks. The sheer amount of beds crammed into the space was enough that I could nearly hear the ruckus of waking soldiers hurrying around in an attempt to make it to roll call in time. Tarnished fragments of uniforms and personal effects adorned the eerie setting. It hinted at the life the space once held. Now there was only a deathly stillness.

53% oxygen capacity.

I found a bedroom that was noticeably larger and ornate than the cramped, dingy quarters I’d been wandering through up until then. I carefully rummage through the surviving belongings, finding a journal tucked away in a drawer that was intact by no small miracle. I pulled a baggie from a pouch on my belt, and swooped the damaged journal into it before securing it into my small pack. Pulling out my camera, I photographed the space.

Click.

I lowered the camera and turned toward the dresser.

Click.

The sound confused me and I checked my camera. I didn’t take a second picture. I spun around in a growing panic, pausing to look at the door, thinking I may have caught something slight in the corner of my eye as I was flailing around. Nothing emerged. I stayed frozen for another minute or two, trying to calm my breathing and thoughts.

44% oxygen capacity remaining.

Everything remained silent beyond my own disruptive noises. I told myself to toughen up because there wasn’t much oxygen left, to stop being scared of imaginary boogeymen. I grabbed my tether and began to pull myself toward the door, but I was met with no resistance and watched in horror as the severed end of the hazard-orange cord drift into the doorway.

The panic set in all over in an instant. It shouldn’t have been possible for that cord to be broken by shrapnel, no matter how jagged. Yet, there I was, watching the mangled end lazily drift further into the room. Another dull groan penetrated the deathly calm, snapping me from my panic.

36% oxygen capacity remaining.

I hurriedly buried the sickening sense that I was not welcome, and never had been. I swam through the door into the hall, the rest of the tether nowhere to be seen. I needed to go or I would run out of oxygen before I could reach the surface. I pulled myself down mangled and disfigured hallways, attempting to reverse map myself through the ship, hoping to see a glimpse of my severed tether line, or another familiar space.

The feeling that I was disturbing a space not meant for me only intensified,  and I aimlessly floundered through hallways and rooms, feeling as if the landmarks were getting more scarce the further I went.

29% oxygen capacity remaining.

I felt a surge of hope as I saw a large open space ahead of me, and I prayed it was the theater. It wasn’t. I had never been there before. I floated there, my mind reeling as the realization of how lost I was sunk in. The rhythmic stream of bubbles from my respirator had become erratic and the previously vibrant flashlight seemed to only light a mere few feet now. The groan of the ship broke the remaining silence again, but this time it sounded strange; closer.

25% oxygen capacity remaining.

I must have been hearing things in my panic.

Again, that damned low groan filled my ears. No, that was definitely closer. I wasn’t hallucinating. I could feel the vibrations in the water. Did it feel warmer all the sudden? No, it couldn’t. I pulled myself back where I came from in search of a familiar landmark, pushing the anxiety down in the name of survival. But the longer I went, the more disorienting the ship became.

19% oxygen capacity remaining.

It felt as if everything was spinning and there was a noticeable pool of sweat building in my mask. I could no longer keep track of where I was in space. Nothing was recognizable despite my hours of detailed documentation. I couldn’t die there, I had to be close to a way out, there was still enough oxygen to make it to the surface if I hurried. I had to hurry.

7% oxygen capacity remaining.

The Miranda was closing in and I couldn’t run any longer. A persistent cacophony of scraping metal and groans that began to sound all too alive drowned out the bubbling sounds of the respirator, making the threat to the silence they previously posed seem foolish, as they too were being consumed by these hallways of tormented steel.

It was no storm that stole the ship, nor was it a planned attack. Whatever possessed Miranda to engulf her crew was beyond the most crazed conspiracy theorist’s wildest dreams. I felt it growing close, coming to grant my wish to know its story.

2% oxygen capacity remaining.

I’m welcomed at long last.

I am home.