This episode contains dramatizations of suicidal ideation and outdated attitudes toward mental health. We advise caution for all listeners under 13. The following passages from Arthur Conan Doyle is the captain of the polestar. September 14th, Sunday and a day of rest, my fears have been confirmed and the thin strip of blue water has disappeared from the southward, nothing but the great motionless ice fields around us. And that weird hummocks and fantastic Pinnacle's. There is a deathly silence over their wide expanse, which is horrible, no lapping of the waves now, no cries of seagulls or straining of sales, but one deep universal silence in which the murmurs of the seamen and the creak of their boots upon the white shining deck seem discordant and out of place.

Our only visitor was an Arctic fox. He did not come near the ship, however, but after surveying us from a distance, fled rapidly across the ice. Incredible as it may seem, even this little incident produced a bad effect upon the crew, they have made up their minds. There is a curse upon the ship and nothing will ever persuade them to the contrary. Hi, everyone, I'm Alastair Madden, and this is Haunted Places, Ghost Stories, a Spotify original from past each week.

This series reimagines chilling paranormal tales from history's most sinister storytellers told like you've never heard them before. You can find episodes of ghost stories and all other originals from podcast for free on Spotify or wherever you listen to podcasts. The story we're beginning today comes from an author who's more associated with detective fiction than horror. The creator of Sherlock Holmes himself, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, before he was a writer. Doyle studied to be a physician at the University of Edinburgh Medical School while still a student.

In 1880, he served as the doctor on a whaling ship which sailed the Arctic waters around Greenland, an experience that undoubtedly inspired today's story. First published in a magazine in 1883, the captain of the Pole Star is written as a series of journal entries describing events that also take place on board a whaling ship. I will be telling the tale from the perspective of the man composing those entries, a medical student and the ship's doctor, John McCallister. Ray, he's a practical man with little patience for superstition, even as his captain becomes convinced the ship is haunted.

Coming up, we'll begin this tale of ice and heartbreak. Stay with us. This is a PSA, black storytelling is getting its own platform on Facebook, and they're calling it We the culture expect to see black excellence unapologetically black. Let's celebrate and share black creativity, join the community, follow we the culture on all social media platforms.

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September 11th, latitude, 81 degrees, 40 minutes north, longitude two degrees east, still lying to amid enormous ice fields not stuck, but waiting, waiting on captain's orders. Crew is restless and yet there is no sign we will move.

I knew or rather I thought I knew the hazards of such Arctic sailing when I first set out aboard the poster. But no one prepared me for this sort of quiet, boring danger. Doom approaches without urgency. Every waiting moment threatens our safe return home. The cold presents its own challenges for a medical man such as myself, but there have been no accidents, no severe cases of frostbite, the only maladies we've seen thus far appear to be the kind I am not trained to heal wounds of the mind.

The captain was screaming in his sleep last night. Again, even though there's plenty of distance between our two cabins, his voice was unmistakable. He is a troubled man and as much an enigma to the crew as he is to myself. The mystery of Captain Nicholas Craigie begins in his demeanor. At first glance, he would appear a perfect ship's captain. He is tall and well-formed with the sort of noble countenance that makes a man seem born to be in command.

And yet he never seems entirely whole. He cannot be more than 30 years of age. Yet his shoulders hang with a heaviness most men do not earn until their middle age. He spends the days in the crow's nest staring out on the icy wasteland, implacable in spite of the increasing cold, the crew whispers that he intends to steer them into the deepest frozen circle of hell itself. This is mere superstition, of course, common among seafarers. And I should note that even from the day we left Shetland, the crew would report otherworldly sounds while on watch or at the helm.

It would appear that even the most experienced seamen can be unnerved by the shrieking of a rudder chain in the dark of night. And this stillness does them no good whalers. A man of action, quiet only causes their minds to wander, to devise foes for themselves when the great fish they seek are too far out of reach. The second mate, Mr Mensen, told me of a committee elected to inform the captain of the crew's dwindling morale, wanting to help.

I offered to take the message to the captain instead. 9PM My conversation with the captain did not go over as I hoped. I brought him into my cabin and told him of the growing discontent among the crew, how it would behoove him to listen to reason and leave this forsaken place at once. He listened calmly and made no interjection. When I had finished, he stood, paced for a moment, then sat down across from me with a look of deep regret in his eyes.

He placed his hand on my arm gently and said. Look here, Doctor, I'm sorry I ever took you and I would give 50 pounds this minute to see you standing upon Dondi Key. But listen. There are fish to the north of us, I swear to you, two and 20 fish and not one under 10 foot. Now, do you think I can depart when there is only one infernal strip of ice between me and my fortune? He went on.

The men are paid for risking their lives. And as for myself, it matters. But little to me I have more to buy me to the other world into this one. With that, he sighed and moved his grip to my hand. I am sorry for you, though. You're young and full of promise. You shouldn't be lost at sea with us. Wethered harpooners. You said that you were engaged, did you not? I nodded and almost by habit, opened the locket I carry with me to reveal Flora's picture.

At the sight of her, the captain sprang from his seat. His expression changed completely, his eyes blazing with fury. He exclaimed, Curse you. What is your happiness to me? What have you to do with her that you must dangler photograph before me? With that startling outburst, he stormed from the cabin, leaving me to wonder what I had done to offend him.

So September 12th, position unchanged. Captain is in better humor and apologized to me at breakfast for his rudeness. However, I did notice that the wild look had not quite left his eyes. He ate alone and returned to his cabin, which none but he was permitted to enter. Something is amiss today, the superstitions of the crew have surged in full force. I heard men over breakfast, speaking of face sounds, they heard earlier on our voyage, plaintive cries and screams in the wake of the ship as if something were following, not quite able to overtake her.

Now these fears seem to have spread to the offices of our second mate. The aforementioned Mr. Manson came off his watch believing the ship is haunted. I went to see him shortly after breakfast. He showed signs of acute shock and did not say anything until I administered some chloral bromide of potassium to calm his nerves. But even the drugs couldn't steal the tremor from his voice. Doctor. I signed articles to do my duty by the ship and on this ship I'll stay.

But you won't catch me on the ice again after sundown. Never again. I asked him what happened and he told me I have reproduced this account in his full of detail. As I can recall, though personally I doubt his conclusions. The trouble Manson claimed began at four Bel's into the middle watch when the night is at its darkest. He was at the bridge when the harpooner John MacLeod came to report the sound of the starboard bow. He followed MacLeod and herded himself in his words.

It was sometimes like a band crying and sometimes like a lass in pain. I can hardly impart the strangeness of seeing a hardy seafarer like Mr Manson shiver from fear. He clearly knew it, too, saying he had been seventeen years to this country and never heard a seal, young or old, make a sound like that. He continued telling me that shortly after the moon came from behind a cloud and both men saw a figure moving across the ice fields, they fetched their rifles and pursued it onto the ice, thinking it might be a bear, Manson explained.

I pushed on after the craze, losing sight of MacLeod in the gloom. I followed them for a mile or more. Then, coming over a small ridge, I found myself face to face.

With that. I don't know what it was. It wasn't a beard. Anyway, I tried to press him further for a description. All he could say was that it was tall, white and seemingly unmoved by the piercing winds. If it wasn't a man, not a woman, I'd stick my divi. It was something worse. In spite of his denial, I reckon it was a young bear he saw standing upright on the ice in the fog. Such a thing would look not dissimilar to a human, especially to a man who's worked himself into a fright.

Unfortunately, Mr Manson story spread like wildfire among the crew, doing even more damage to their fragile morale. I'm considering mixing mild sedatives in with the daily ration of grog to keep them from considering any rash courses of action. God only knows what the captain thinks of these rumours or if they have even reached his ears. September 13th, I've had a most interesting conversation with Mr. Milne, our first mate. He, too, is often vexed by the turbulent moods that sees our captain, and what he told me only furthers my curiosity.

Captain Craigie, it seems, has no friends among the whaling community. Back in Dundee's, Milne claims that at the end of every voyage, once the ship has paid off, the captain disappears and is not seen again until the next season. The crew knows nothing of his home life or personal affairs. In fact, they believe that he is not a Scotsman at all and that Nicholas Craig is an assumed name. Mr. Milne has a curious theory that the captain devotes himself to whaling not because of any interest in the work, but because of the sheer danger of the profession.

In evidence of this, Milne spoke of one whaling season during which the captain failed to appear. This was during the last war between the Russians and the Turks. When Craigie was seen next, he bore scar on his neck, mostly concealed by his cravat. Some think it was a war wound of some sort. I don't know whether I should credit such hearsay, but it reminds me of something peculiar. The captain said a few nights back. I have more to bind me to the other world than to this one.

How casually he said it then, as if he was remarking upon the quality of his supper rather than the futility of his mortal life. I think the ice is lying closer than it was yesterday. Our only means of escape is a narrow lane of water to the south, which grows smaller by the day. The steward told me that the last barrel of potatoes is finished and our supply of biscuits is running short. I wish to bring it up to the captain, but he appears to be avoiding me.

I will make further note if this changes. Seven thirty pm, my opinion is now that we are commanded by a madman, nothing else could account for the captain's thoroughly ineffable behavior. An hour hence, when most of the crew were at sea, I ventured onto the deck to take in the evening. ER, I fell into a kind of reverie, staring out onto the ice fields, but was shaken from it minutes later by a cry at my shoulder.

The captain had come up beside me and stood closer than anyone should feel comfortable standing. He had the spyglass raised to his eye and was staring out over the ice with an expression of horror, surprise and even joy. He seized me by the wrist, look there, man, there between those hills there, you see here, you must see her flowing from me by God, flowing from me and God. I tried to follow his gaze, but saw nothing but blue white fields.

I turned back to see the captain seizing the bulwarks, attempting to heave himself overboard. But his strength was not equal to the task, and he fell back to the deck for a moment. I stood frozen over the captain's writhing form, unsure of what to do. Nothing I learned in medical school could have prepared me for this. The man doesn't need a doctor. He needs a priest. Coming up, the young doctor's skepticism is challenged by his own senses.

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Now back to the story.

Saturday, September 13th, continued, the captain was shaking as I led him below decks, he was still conscious, but it was as if all his vitality was stolen by whatever vision he saw upon the ice. I guided him to the medical quarters and procured some brandy to restore life to his frozen cheeks. Sure enough, their color returned, but his rattling breath told me there was a deeper chill within him.

You saw it, didn't you? He asked. I told him I had seen nothing. The captain sank back into the cushions, speaking seemingly to himself. No, he wouldn't without the glass, he couldn't. Twas the spyglass that showed her to me, he turned to me a panicked look in his eyes. I say, Doc, don't let the steward in, he'll think I'm mad. Bolt the door. I did, as I was told, then returned to my patient.

A curious uncertainty crept into his voice. You don't think I am, do you, Doc? Tell me now, man to man, did you think that I'm mad diplomatically? I replied. I think you have something on your mind, something which is exciting you and doing you a good deal of harm right there. Lot plenty on my mind.

Plenty, but I wager I can work out the latitude and longitude and I can handle my logarithms as well as before. You couldn't prove me mad in a court of law, could you know? Perhaps not, I said, but I still think you would be wise to get home as soon as you can and settle down to a quiet life for a while.

He snared get home, he had one word for me and two for yourself, lad, settle down with Flora, pretty little Flora. He then paused for a while, as if considering a new line of thought. Are bad dreams, signs of madness? He asked when I told him they can be. He asked for other symptoms. I elaborated as best I could. Well, pains in the head, noises in the years, delusions. This last one he seized on immediately.

What about them? What would you call a delusion? I said, as frankly as I could, seeing the thing which is not there is a delusion. But she was there, he bellowed, his face turning so red, I decided not to ask who she was. Thus defeated, I returned to my chamber, leaving the captain be. Perhaps Captain Craig was right to accuse me of wanting to return home. I am weary of the cold. I'm weary of the ice and above all, the oppressive, interminable silence.

And yet I fear for the captain. I do not wish him to fall victim to mutiny or to see him starve himself and the crew in this wasteland. God help us if the ice finally blocks the narrow path.

S God help us. September 14th, it is Sunday, but it is a a Lord's day than ever I have seen we are trapped. The passage of water I had mentioned has frozen over, rendering our vessel utterly immobile. Captain Kresge's stubbornness may very well have doomed us all. I saw little of him today, even at our daily worship, he can find himself to his quarters except for a single half hour when he ascended to stare forlornly at the same patch of ice that had vexed him so last night.

September 15th floor birthday, but to my utter shame, she was not the first one I thought of on this day, my first thought was for Captain Craig, who came into my room early in the morning. I was pulled from my slumber by the sound of his boot upon the boards and opened my eyes to see him looming over me, his face mere inches from mine. He whispered, It wasn't a delusion, Doctor. I know that now.

It will be all right. And then he was gone. It was well that my flora cannot see me shut up among the ice fields with an insane captain and dwindling provisions, I have to set an example to the men and look cheery and unconcerned. But God knows my heart is heavy. This afternoon, the thermometer read 19 degrees Fahrenheit. Captain Craig asked the steward myself to check how much food remains after breakfast. It is a dismal amount altogether.

We have enough to keep the men on half rations for 18 or 20 days at most. Strangely, this news did not dampen the captain's spirits. His only reaction was to have the crew summoned to the deck for an address. Moments later, when we all had assembled, I was astonished by how the captain looked. The bristling beard and blazing eyes from our previous arguments seemed to have all but vanished. Standing there on the quarterdeck, he once again looked to be the very picture of a ship's captain proud, hardy and unflappable.

My lads, he began, no doubt you think I brought you into this fix and maybe some of you feel bitter against me for it, but you must remember that for many a season, no Scotch whaler has brought in as much oil money as the old polestar, and every one of you has had his share of it. If you have to thank me for the one, you have to thank me for the other. I looked at the faces of the men as their captain spoke.

Though a few seemed skeptical, the majority seemed moved by his words. The captain went on, We've tried a bold venture here and if we face failure is no cause to cry about it. But Mark, you you'll see the Scotch Coast again before three weeks are out. Keep up your hearts and you'll pull through this as you've pulled through many a danger before. By the end of his speech, the captain's former unpopularity was forgotten. The harpooner John McLeod let off three cheers for Captain Craigie, which rejoined heartily by the rest of the crew.

I raised my voice along with them, though I confess my heart is still filled with doubts. These crewmen had not seen the horrors and Craig his eyes as I had. September 16th, crew in good spirits in spite of the low provisions. Earlier today, the captain surprised me with a key to his cabin, requesting that I take the time by his chronometer while he measured the altitude of the noon sun. This request is perhaps a sign that our conversation the other night engendered some new trust between the captain and myself.

He is known to never permit anyone to enter his cabin. A look at the man's chambers gave further hints as to the enigma of his person. It is a bare room with a washstand and a few books, but little else save for the earlier graphs and paintings on the walls. One in particular caught my eye. It was a watercolor sketch of a person, a young lady underneath it. In one of the corners was written N.B. At 19, it was no lascivious artwork meant to arouse hot blooded sailors.

It was a soulful portrait painted with the care and detail that only comes from knowing someone. If I close my eyes now, I still see it. The languid, dreamy eyes, the resolute sets of the lower lip. There was such strength of will stamped upon her face that I had a hard time believing this was indeed a portrait of a nineteen year old. As the inscription indicated. I wonder what part this young woman played in our captain's life.

11 p.m. captain has just gone to bed after a long conversation on philosophy and literature. He is a fascinating companion when he chooses and showed no signs of his previous strange moods. Perhaps the very act of composing himself for the crew yesterday has rallied his own spirit. Tonight, the wind is blowing steadily from the north. There seems a chance that tomorrow will see us set free from our frozen fetters. I closed today's entry with hope. And do you believe I will sleep soundly through the night?

September 17th, the thing has come upon us again, it has been near a week since Mr. Mansons sighting and I was starting to think that his superstitious attitude was dying down. But this morning, I heard reports that something uncanny was flitting around the ship all night. This time it was no rogue sighting by a single man. There were three eyewitnesses, apparently, Mr. Milne on the bridge and two seamen, Sandy MacDonald and Peter Williamson. I spoke to Mr.

Milne after breakfast and told him that as an officer, he should be above such nonsense and set a better example for the crew. He only shook his weather-beaten head. Maybe I'm even a doctor. I didn't call it a ghost. I can see my faith and see Bogle's and the like. Milne must have seen the scepticism right upon my face, for he seized my arm, forcing me to meet his eyes. That's an easy thing for you to decry in the daytime.

Maybe if you're with me last night and seen an offer like sheep, white and gruesome, calling in the darkness like a lamb that lost its mirror, ye would not be so ready to put it down to old wives tales. I thought it hopeless to reason with him and so instead made him promise to called me up the next time the specter appeared, no matter how late at night, I endeavoured to hide the news of this sighting from the captain, fearing it would cause a relapse into his troubled state.

But alas, I was unsuccessful, for he overheard one of the men and demanded I tell him more I could not disobey. So I told him, frankly, that the crew had seen a moving shape upon the ice. The story seemed to fill him with the most uncontrollable energy. As I write this, he is pacing on the quarter deck like a caged tiger, occasionally stopping to stare impatiently over the ice once he even called out. But a little time, love, but a little time.

I cannot believe that this is the same man who is conversing so expertly on Plato and Aristotle only one nights ago. It is a tragic thing to witness such a capable seaman laid so low by a troubled mind. There is one spark of good news. It seems that the ice is opening. Our latitude today was 80 degrees, 52 minutes north, which shows a strong southerly drift. We may be able to sail as early as tomorrow morning. I will make my next entry then when, God willing, we are making our way back towards home.

12AM the same evening, I am hardly myself tonight, this handwriting no doubt attest to it, I've endeavoured to steady myself with a glass of brandy, but my hand continues to shake. Perhaps I was overhasty and my diagnosis of the crew. After what I have experienced, I'm forced to I must question every assumption I previously made about the gullibility of sailors or the superstition of life at sea. The only thing worse than being the one sane man in a crew of Mad Men is realizing that all along they were not so mad for you see, I had an experience of my own.

After supper, I went to stand alone on the deck and smoke my pipe, and there I heard the spectral alarm which so unnerved the sailors. It was a cry, sharp and shrill, that seemed to express unutterable grief. I am afraid I will not sleep tonight. How can I sleep? When I brushed paths with a ghost. Thanks again for tuning in to haunted places, ghost stories, we will be back on Thursday with the conclusion of our adaptation of Arthur Conan Doyle is the captain of the polestar.

You can find more episodes of Ghost Stories and all other Spotify originals from podcast for free on Spotify. See you on the other side. Haunted Places Ghost Stories is a Spotify original from past. It is executive produced by Max Cuddler Sound Design by Keri Murphy with production assistance by Ron Shapiro, Carly Madden and Erin Larson. This episode of Haunted Places Ghost Stories was adapted for audio by Robert C.M.A with writing assistants by Alex Garland, fact checking by Claire Cronin and research by Mikki Taylor.

I'm Alistair Murden. Fact, fiction, fame, discover the real story behind one of history's most formidable families in the Spotify original film podcast, The Kennedys.

Remember, you can binge all 12 episodes starting on Tuesday, January 19th. Listen free and exclusively on Spotify.