Kazuo was aware that he was dreaming. But not waking up, he remained crouched atop a large rock surrounded by the sea, crushing the crabs at his feet with a fist-sized stone. The more crabs he crushed, the more came clambering out of the water to try to crawl up Kazuo's feet. As he brought down the stone, he felt, first, the hard shell resist before it cracked and splintered, and next a mushy sensation. The top of the large rock was so littered with smushed crabs that hardly an inch of the surface was visible. Like an obsessed man, Kazuo continued to exterminate the crabs. He sensed a gaze burning into his back and wondered whether it was his conscious self staring at his dreaming self. But no, the gaze embodied a powerful will intent on senseless slaughter, and it gave Kazuo no choice but to wield the stone.
Soon there were no more crabs left alive on the rock, but the urge to continue killing did not abate. Where could Kazuo find the life on which to vent his murderous rage? The feeling of being watched grew stronger, and the gaze was urging him on. Obligingly, Kazuo raised the stone high over his head and smashed it down on his feet. The dull thud of tearing flesh and splintering bone reverberated upwards through him. Although he felt no pain, he suffered the horrible anguish of knowing that he was rending his own flesh. He kept smashing at his feet with the stone until the bones were pulverized, and the torment finally shook him awake.
His eyes now opened and fixed on the ceiling, Kazuo gasped and held his breath. The scene of the dream receded into thin air together with the putrid smell of dead crabs, and the features of the real world, the rocking of the boat and the lapping of the waves, came into focus. Kazuo sensed that something was different. He hadn't been roused from his sleep just by the terror of a nightmare; his seaman's instinct that something was amiss had also stirred him. Instantly forgetting the dream, he concentrated every nerve in his body on the motion of the boat. It seemed subtly different from when he'd fallen asleep.
Getting up, he went to the cabin and tried to calm his breathing. Telling himself to relax, he glanced at his watch, which read 12:30 a.m. He'd only been asleep three hours. His heart was pounding violently. He was getting the feeling that the boat wasn't plying water.
It was but five steps up from the cabin to the cockpit. A tall man, Kazuo dashed up stooping, opened the hatch, and made his way out.
Although he was quite sure that he'd turned on the navigating lights before retiring, he found out differently. The expansive teak deck was illuminated only by the moon and stars above. The stern of the Wakashio VII, which should have been visible straight ahead, wasn't there.
'Of all the…'
Unable to believe his eyes, he vainly scanned in every direction. There was no sign of any boat. The line that separated the sky and the sea was now a deep dark thing that also engulfed the cruiser. Kazuo stood all alone in the midnight ocean. An acidic taste came surging into his mouth.
Kazuo crawled towards the bow to check the bow cleat that secured the rope from the Wakashio VII. The rope was gone. It had apparently come undone from the bow cleat. Kazuo swallowed in alarm. This was absolutely impossible; no amateur had tied the knot; veteran seamen were all masters of rope-work. The rope had been bound to the cleat with a cleat knot and wound around twice for good measure. It simply couldn't have come undone on its own. He'd checked several times after the yacht had gone into tow. Could someone with a grudge against Kazuo have contrived a slipping knot? That seemed unlikely, but then, who on earth could have untied it when there was no one else on the boat but himself? Could he have done it himself? It was a hazy idea. Kazuo held out his palms and stared at them. He vaguely remembered seeing himself from afar untying the knot under some sort of compulsion. Another scene from the dream?
What he'd read in the log flashed into his mind.
… There's someone else on this boat.
It was something more concrete than a hunch. He was being watched. Something was skulking somewhere on the boat and following his every movement closely. Jumping back, he glanced around in all directions and screamed. He could shout as loud as he wanted, but there was no boat in sight and it was useless. He had no time to waste. He had to make contact with the Wakashio VII immediately. Returning to the cabin, he grabbed the walkie-talkie and pressed the SPEAK button.
'Come in, please come in.'
There was no response. If the rope had come loose as far back as a few hours ago, then the Wakashio was out of transmission range. He tried to get through repeatedly, but the handset remained silent. The walkie-talkie was useless. Undaunted, he kept shouting into the thing until his voice was hoarse. 'Come in, please come in!'
Kazuo strained his ears. He thought he'd heard something, some faint noise coming from the remote depths of the walkie-talkie. An instant before the buzzing could form into words, Kazuo had instinctively thrown the walkie-talkie at the floor to smash it. It was too late, the buzzing had conveyed the words to his brain.
'Crush the life out of them.'
That was what it sounded like. It was a dark, damp voice, like some message from the seabed deep below. Kazuo was now in a state of near-panic, on the verge of a fit of hysteria.
He responded with a shower of abuse, and, rallying himself by making as much noise as possible, he managed to make his way to the radio set.
Don't let it get to you, he chastised himself. It's just your nerves. Hurry and contact the Wakashio!
He was unsure about how to operate the set. He felt that by fiddling with it long enough, he'd eventually get through. But when he turned on the switch, the radio refused to come alive. Examining the rear of the set, he realized that the battery connection cord had been severed, probably to prevent anyone from using the set. Incredible. No means of communication. Relax, relax
If he lost his head, he was bound to make mistakes. It was imperative that he think things through calmly. There was no need to rush. Whatever was going on, the seaman on watch aboard the Wakashio VII was bound to notice that the yacht was no longer in tow. They probably knew already. They were sure to retrace their course and could be there on the horizon by now.
Kazuo thrust his head from the cockpit and gazed in a northerly direction. No signs of the ship. He strained his ears in vain for the familiar old blast of her steam whistle.
It then occurred to Kazuo that they hadn't noticed yet. After all, seamen on watch were more often than not preoccupied with the fore view, seldom paying attention to what was behind the ship. They happened to be towing a boat on that particular occasion, but old habits died hard. No one could have possibly imagined that the rope would work itself loose in the first place. To make matters worse, the yacht's navigating lights had been off all the time. They might not notice until morning that the boat in tow was missing.
There were still a few hours to sunrise. Yet those few hours seemed like an eternity. Kazuo was not at all sure that he could hold out that long against the indescribable presence that pervaded the boat. Like most seamen, Kazuo tended to be superstitious. Venturing out to sea, nature's untrammelled domain, you often encounter phenomena that are beyond the pale of human understanding. You stand a far greater chance of experiencing the paranormal at sea than on land.
There was no longer any room for doubt. The boat's owner and his family had disappeared through no accident; some mysterious force had worked upon them. What they'd dreamed, they'd gone and done. Goaded by a malevolent force… And it was trying to control Kazuo now.
'Please help me,' prayed Kazuo. Though he worshipped no god, there seemed to be no other way to stave off his fear.
There had to be some explanation. Kazuo tried to think as logically as he could. Thinking, and acting, could distract him if nothing else.
… Was the boat always cursed? No, something happened on this voyage. When?