[ WP ] You are in a pirate ship and you fall asleep , when you wake up you discover everyone disappeared and that the ship is painted with blood but there are n't any corpses

There ’ s a certain story goes around the more maritime pubs up in Newfoundland – different iterations year to year, but same enough that old salts ’ ll grumble every time it comes up. “ Aw lay off it, lads, Gaspar Corte-Real told that one afore he even got to Newfie ”, they ’ ll insist, but they listen anyway. Someone even wrote up a decent shanty, gives a good beat to casting off. The verse is whatever the mate can come up with while he watches you work, but we all know the chorus: 
 
 “ Twas reddnin ’ late when the gale came down 
 
 And a cry went up from the foremast hand 
 
 I ain ’ t ne ’ er seen such a darkling sky 
 
 On lake nor sea nor land! 
 
 Twas a hundred set sail that year, 
 
 To cruise down to Maui ’ s shores 
 
 But only one e ’ er saw his home, 
 
 On an empty deck beset by gore! ” 
 
 Usually, the crew were devoured by some vicious serpent, saving the last for its own demented enjoyment, some freak wave cleared the decks, or a sinner brought God ’ s wrath with lazy swabbing. It was always a deeply moral tale. 
 
 Thing was, I hadn ’ t done anything remotely untoward the whole voyage, and last night was dead calm. It wasn ’ t even my watch. Yet there it was – forty three men, reduced to a new coat of red across the deck. 
 
 I ’ d lost plenty of shipmates by then – foundered off Gibralter once, and watched an Indiaman pull the best crew I ’ d sailed with into water barely ten fathoms deep. Bully boys die bully deaths. You don ’ t cry over the condemned. 
 
 Still, I figured I ’ d sat there scratching my head long enough, so I made my way to Captain Barett ’ s quarters, and started poking through his sea chest. The tattered map at the bottom stopped my hand as I remembered the strange talk of the last few watches. 
 
 Any man that ’ s been on a few rounds knows exactly where he is with a glance skyward on a clear night, and the only one we ’ d had had been enough to spark scandal throughout the crew. We ’ d been hunting Limey ’ s, so no one could work out how we ’ d drifted deep into Norwegian waters. But one verse of the old chant did come up more often than most – 
 
 “ Well the captain he said damn the dead, there ’ s treasure to be found! 
 
 On the ancient shores of Iceland, lads, along the arctic Round! 
 
 But the Northern men needed not fear us roving Western lords, 
 
 For the wealth of the mighty norsemen has fell spirits for it ’ s guards! 
 
 And the spirits of the norsemen have run every raider to the ground. ” 

