May 1942, somewhere over the Coral Sea.
"The Pacific Pearl" WWII Ghost Stories
The night sky is illuminated and air deafened with speckles of anti-aircraft fire, as a Boeing B-17 Flying Fortress known as the “Pacific Pearl” and its fellow squadron soar in formation. The right propeller putters to a smoke billowing halt as it's struck by enemy artillery. Veteran Pilot, Skip, and Co-Pilot Holden courageously man their airship through a less than routine bombing run over hostile territory. Two crewmen, within the waist of the aircraft, haphazardly empty their staggered M2 Browning machine guns, blindly hoping to make contact with the deadly streaks of light originating from the ground below.
Situated in the belly of the ship, a gunman unleashes lead, oscillating inside the dual mounted, spherical Sperry turret. The plane's tail is battered with stray munitions, yet maintains its course. At the nose of the plane, one nameless patriot mounts his Bendix chin turret, attempting to visualize ground forces. A sudden and forceful explosion of AA canon fire bursts directly in front of the Pearl, obliterating the glass and metal comprising the nose and instantaneously ending the life of the bombardier within. Another blast detonates a hole directly at the Boeing's cabin, sending a shockwave of shrapnel into the nearby gunmen. Their bodies contort and rear on the cold metal floor, as their own blood fills their waning breaths. The B-17 wavers to maintain altitude as continued bombardment causes the ship to pollute the air with streaks of smoke and flame.
“Come on, Skip! Fly this bucket and get us the hell outta' he-” screams the radio operator prior to him and his quarters being peppered with machine gun fire. His body quivers, as he instinctively grasps the blood oozing from the last bullet entry wound at his right arm. The pain departs, and he becomes unconscious - his body falling limp within his chair.
The bomb bay doors slowly part open, releasing multiple pairs of half ton whistling M44s upon their descent to destruction. The Pacific Pearl, now a war torn tin can of its former glory, limps gingerly away from the theater of battle towards a hopeful full moon. The former fortress and its scant crew rumble forward as pilot and co-pilot can now safely assess the damage.
“I think we're hit pretty bad, Skip,” says an uncertain Holden.
“You better go back and see how bad it is,” states Skip.
“Okay,” Holden responds with a sigh as he stands to remove his headset. “Can you keep er' in the air, Skip?” Holden inquires, placing a mutually reassuring hand on the pilot's shoulder, making his way to the cabin.
“Yeah, yeah, sure...” Skip quickly responds.
Upon entering the cabin, Holden is immediately greeted by a crewman facedown nearest the cabin entryway floor. Kneeling down to investigate, Holden slowly flips the soldier face up, revealing multiple bloody bullet holes through his chest and one through the eye, directly piercing the man's left glasses frame. Holden jumps to his feet startled, backing away in shock, uncertain what to do but proceed forward. He reluctantly continues through the corridor of the airship, with only the vibrations of the passing air to break the silence. Holden gently creaks open the subsequent chamber's doorway, unveiling two bloodied gunmen lying lifeless across from a sizable hissing breech within the plane's hull. Holden leans against the metallic column connected to the roof of the rig, holding in place one of the bellied turrets. Unable to retract the turret's entrance latch, Holden gives two firm knocks upon the hollow metal alloy.
“Nelson?” the co-pilot beckons to the gunner, giving three more knocks. No response. Unbeknownst to Holden, the turret operator lays deceased within his glass coffin - a single projectile penetrating the rounded window, into his chest cavity. Holden examines the bodies of the two adjacent gunmen, unwilling to make physical contact as one of the men's eyes remain open, hauntingly gazing into nothingness. He lightly sneaks past the corpses, as if not to disturb their eternal slumber – a passive observer in a surreal reality.
Holden lowers his head making his way towards the tail of the plane. He can see a crewman sitting in a chair, facing away from him, peering out a broken rear window. He nears what he believes to be the first living casualty of the day's combat. He rotates the swiveling chair, hoping to arouse an unconscious man. Turning to face him, with mouth hanging ajar and eyes transfixed, the departed crew member's intestines grotesquely protrude from his abdomen. The body falls directly at Holden's knees, splatting as the internal organs spill onto the ground.
Before Holden can react, through the shattered rear glass, a short distance from the plane's tail, he spots what can only be described as a floating orb, glowing a deep mesmerizing green.
“Jesus...” he shudders to himself in astonishment. Holden reaches for a nearby transmitter, building his courage to speak as he brings it to his mouth. “Skip... Something's following us...”
“What is it?” responds Skip.
“It's some, some kind of green meteorite...”
“What!?” Skip gasps. “Where?” he asks, turning his head in all directions to spot this anomaly. The orb swiftly descends under the aircraft, latching itself to the belly, causing the plane to abruptly jerk in the air. The sharp movement causes multiple compressed air tanks to fall from their shelves, crashing onto Holden, momentarily knocking him unconscious on the ground. The orb begins to pulsate a bright luminescent green energy that begins to engulf sections of the Pacific Pearl. The bodies of the now dead crewmen begin to collectively glow a similar rhythmic translucence.
“Holden! Are you okay?” Skip beckons over the radio system. Holden's eyes slowly open to consciousness.
“Uh... Yeah,” Holden groans, shaking his head. “I'm coming back, Skip,” as he raises his body out from under the air tanks. Skip looks frantically about the cockpit, unable to spot anything unusual outside the aircraft. Holden groggily makes his way towards the front of the vessel. The motionless corpse within the tail of the plane begins to irradiate acid from its body, as if from within, revealing a bony decomposing monstrosity. The claw-like fingers of this previously deceased human begin to quake with life.
Holden, with his head still throbbing from its previous blow, re-enters the waist of the ship, the same hull breech still humming a familiar tune of death. Yet, one obvious detail plagues his already clouded mind. Where were the two dead gunmen? Holden, completely unable to comprehend the difference between truth and reality begins to tremble in a lucid fear. He staggers to turn his body, tiptoeing backwards towards the front of the plane. In his shivering retreat, he is halted with a clank as the back of his boot makes contact with the last known location of Nelson. With one last attempt, either out of spirited curiosity or cowardice fright, Holden crouches to unlatch the turret enclosure. Cautiously he lifts the hatch and peers in. A gut wrenching roar and two ungodly arms grasp him by the coat, heaving Holden into the glass prison. His screams of pain mix with monstrous growls as he's thrashed about. Blood can be seen trickling in droplets from outside the transparent sphere.
“What the hell's happening back there!?” demands Skip. No response. “Shoot,” he mutters to himself as he flicks on the automatic pilot switch, removing his headset and standing to investigate. As he casually turns the door handle to exit the cockpit, Skip is met face-to-face with a moaning monstrosity that was once one of his crewman. Portions of its skin and tissues have seemingly melted from its body, with only remnants of their uniform and hair covering what appears as a walking, decomposing skeleton. With a reflexive outcry, Skip slams the flight deck door in the beast's face. Left flabbergasted, Skip slowly withdrawals to his pilot seat, frantically reaching for his Colt M1911. Trembling, he aims his pistol at the door - of which begins to bend and mold under the force of the atrocity's power. He squeezes his trigger twice, recoiling with each ricocheting discharge. The metallic entrance collapses under the power of the creature, revealing two more fiends lumbering towards the pilot quarters.
With what is seemingly his only remaining option, Skip desperately dons a parachute, opening the emergency exit latch located at his feet. He sits at the edge of a darkened abyss as he takes one last look at what appears to be the walking remains of his deceased crew, snarling and gnashing in a maddening bloodlust. With a leap of faith, Skip hurls himself into the cold darkness. Wind rushes past his ears as he plummets towards the earth. He yanks his ripcord. Shortly thereafter, he is jarred by the flutter of his parachute bringing his body to a looming descent. Silhouetted against the first break of dawn, Skip spots the Pacific Pearl – now nothing more than a cascading asteroid.
After what appears to be only a momentary respite, the pilot finds himself making a gentle landing on an unknown tropical beach front. Releasing himself from his pack, Skip stares up at the darkened sky, caressing his own face in awe, as if to affirm to himself that he's still alive. The island is lush with the sounds of populating insects, frogs and birds. He cautiously makes his way towards and through the dense jungle that lay before him. Brushing aside vines, Skip curiously gazes through an opening in the vegetation. The pilot is taken aback in astonishment at what comes into view. From tree line to tree line, as if planted by design, dozens, if not hundreds, of timeworn aircrafts lay crashed and abandoned – engulfed by the overgrown flora.
Skip begins to drift through the airship graveyard, taking note of military vessels from all makes, models, nations and creeds. Without warning, the squawking of a fearful feathered creature brings him to a heightened alert. Beginning with a low gurgle, Skip hears a familiarly repugnant sound emanating from what appears to be every and all direction. In a frenzy of terror, he becomes aware of bubbling growls accompanied by the crumpling of rustic metal quickly surrounding him. Paralyzed in fear, Skip witnesses hideous mutations of what were once downed pilots, emerge as deforming horrors – rotting skin and musculature held in disarray about the bodies of these once presumably men. Countless numbers of glowing green eyes surround Skip as the bellows of inhumane morbidity grow in cacophony. Years of suppressed fear explode from the bottom of his diaphragm in a voice shattering wail. Yet, the pilot's cries echo into silence, amidst the Coral Sea air.
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