Written by: Kera M. P. Gotchy
Disclaimer: This story was created with the assistance of AI. References to real places are included only for realism and should not be interpreted as factual representation.
Part 1 – The Crackle in the Night
Lightning stitched white seams across Moreton Bay as I sat at my kitchen table in Scarborough, tuning my old Hallicrafter shortwave radio. Frequencies washed over me like waves — storm crackle, airline chatter, the faint hum of voices too distant to grasp.
Retirement had left me with too much time and too much silence, so I filled it by switching on the ancient receiver and leaning into the static like an old friend.
Then I noticed a rhythm beneath the noise. Not random. Morse code — faint as a heartbeat. I closed my eyes and felt the years peel back to 1968, to my time in the Navy.
The reverie broke when the set coughed and a voice cut through the static. “Mayday… Gayundah…”
I stood so fast the chair scraped across the tiles.
I adjusted the radio gain to cut through the static and clean up the signal so I could establish which direction it was coming from. My hand moved over an old chart of the Redcliffe Peninsula. The pencil wobbled to Woody Point. The wreck of HMQS Gayundah lay there — rusted and stubborn — its skeletal frame still visible at low tide.
“Who are you?” I asked the empty kitchen.
The voice came again, clearer. “If anyone hears—”
“Say again,” I said, my mouth dry. “Identify.”
A hiss. Then a whisper that hooked into my chest. “Maggie.”
I froze. Only one person ever said my name like that. Eleanor Quinn – crisp bun, crooked smile. Eleanor, who never walked away from that night in 1968.
I grabbed the waterproof satchel, the handheld transceiver, and my logbook and headed out the door. Rain slapped my face as I ran to my trusty Corolla.
Landsborough Avenue turned slick under the wipers as I navigated the quiet streets. The bronze statues of Bee Gees Way glinted under the storm’s light as I passed them.
On my approach to Woody Point, the low tide bared the ribs of the Gayundah, black against lightning. I slipped on headphones. The signal whispered against my skin.
“Help,” the voice said. “Follow…the current.”
“Eleanor?” My voice was small against the wind.
The set squealed. I scribbled the disjointed words down with a shaking hand..
Another flash. The wreck glowed. The headphones went hot.
“Gayundah…not gone.”
The signal snapped, then surged back stronger. I stepped closer to the bones of the ship.
To be continued …
