Who were unlucky enough, when at sea, to die
There is a long standing belief about these men
If they never reach home port, they exist in a form of unlife
Echoing in the madness, beneath the waters of the horizon
In the cold ocean waters they linger
Until either they are destroy and released
Or by eldritch magic are made to rise
They are silent, salt water has stolen their voice
Their flesh is pale, close to translucent
This gives them an unholy looking sheen
That glistens in the moon lit night
With no hope for the living to survive
When the dead rise, know well
The sailors from hell refuse to die
