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Three Sailors
Paperback
Series: Horror Stories - Bredevoort Van Den Berg, Book 8
Publisher: Bredevoort Van Den Berg
Published: Apr 9 2026
Pages: 104
Weight: 0.24
Height: 0.25 Width: 5.00 Depth: 8.00
Language: English
THREE SAILORS - TRAVELERS ON THE TIME SEA - METAPHYSICAL FICTION - BREDEVOORT VAN DEN BERG
A METAPHYSICAL NOVEL ABOUT TIME AND REMEMBRANCE
The sea remembers everything. The sea forgets nothing.
Somewhere on a deserted beach, a stone with strange markings waits. No one knows who put it there, or why. Only that it has been waiting a very long time.
In one century, three men sail into a storm that should have killed them. In another, three men watch a boat sink and cannot look away. In a future that has no name yet, three explorers step onto a shore that exists on no map. They do not know one another. They are separated by hundreds of years. And yet they share something, a dream, a song that plays inside their heads. Three sailors. Always three. Always a boat. Always a sea.
This is not a story about heroes. It is about a small stone, a single moment, a decision to stop and look. About how something buried on a forgotten beach can ripple forward through time, rewriting lives that never should have existed. About how the sea remembers everything, even what we try to forget.
Three Sailors is a metaphysical thriller that moves between history, memory, and the unknown, blending dark fantasy, literary fiction, and quiet cosmic dread. For readers who have ever felt that they have lived something before, known someone before, or suspected that time is not as straight as we think. For those who believe that small things grow into something older, something larger, something that may have always been there.
The sea waits. Time waits. And somewhere, on a beach no one knows, a stone waits for someone not yet born.
The nameless boat lay in Yokohama harbor like an old sea-creature resting before the slaughter. Its hull low in the water, its decks still, its masts bare against the gray morning light breaking through the clouds, that twilight-hour between night and daybreak when the world holds its breath and the border between reality and dream blurs like mist drawing over water. The water made a wet, hungry sound, a jaws-opening sound that pulled through the iron.
Only numbers identified the boat, faded white against the rust-stains, numerals meaning nothing to the eye reading them, there only because someone somewhere had decided everything must have a name, even though the sea does not understand the names people give. The great primal ocean did not care. The sea spoke its own language, one without nouns, only verbs: break, swallow, carry, forget. The sea had no need for names; it knew what things were by their weight, their movement, their temporariness.
Charley stood on the dock, his hands pushed deep into his jacket-pockets, and looked at the numbers. They too would one day fade, like the paint, like his own name, like everything people touch and think they possess. The morning was cold enough to make breath-clouds, small mists pushed from the mouth and then dissolved into nothing. He watched them, the way his own life was visible for a moment in the icy air and then vanished. Death as a breath-cloud dissolving in the morning light, evaporating to nothing.
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