In the misty dawn of 1953, off the jagged coast of New England, the *Calder’s Wake* groaned against the tide. Her timbers, worn thin by decades of salt and toil, carried a hardened crew of fishermen out into the grey unknown. The sea wasn’t wild, but it wasn’t calm either — it breathed slow and deep, as if something ancient stirred beneath the waves.

At the helm stood Captain Elias Brant, a man as weather-beaten as the boat he commanded, his eyes fixed on the fog ahead. The usual rhythm of fishing was absent; there were no calls for lines or nets. These men weren’t after cod or mackerel today. They were chasing legends — something that had snapped lines, broken hulls, and disappeared sailors. They called it Leviathan, but never after dark.

Brant had lost his brother to that myth — or monster — just two weeks before. Only the wreckage had returned, slick with blood and seawater. Now, Brant and his silent, grim-faced crew sailed not for profit, but retribution. The ocean rarely gave back what it took — but today, the men of the *Calder’s Wake* hoped it would give back something monstrous.

And it did ….

Repost not my original