December 7, 2025
84th Anniversary of the Attack on Pearl Harbor

It started with the whispers.

Seaman First Class Matthew Kline had only been aboard the USS West Virginia for two months, green but steady. He wasn’t the kind to scare easy. But four days before the attack, standing mid-watch just past 0300, he saw a hand—thin, pale, gnarled—press up from beneath the sea like it was reaching through glass. Then it vanished.

He said nothing.

But the next night, the faces appeared. Half-lit in the water beside the ship. Not reflections—they looked up from below, mouths moving in silence, their eyes hollow as if they had drowned long ago. Japanese, by their uniforms. Their mouths moved in a language Matthew didn’t speak, but somehow understood: Fire is coming. Blood will feed it. Don’t stay here.

He told Petty Officer Rourke the next morning. Rourke slapped him across the face and told him to lay off the hooch.

Matthew didn’t sleep again. Every night, the whispers grew louder. It wasn’t just Japanese now. It was older—a language too cold for human throats. He felt it more than heard it. The ship groaned like it was afraid.

On the morning of December 7th, just before dawn, Matthew broke. He ran to the quarterdeck, wild-eyed, shouting to abandon ship. Called the water cursed. Called it alive.

They sent him to the infirmary.

7:55 AM.

The sky cracked open. The first bomb tore the forward deck apart like paper. The West Virginia lurched, took a second hit, then a third. Smoke and flame rolled through the harbor.

Matthew never made it off the ship.

And yet—

Years later, divers claim strange sightings near her wreck. Faces, still pressed against the hull. Mouths still moving in silence. And one sailor—young, green, and wide-eyed—trapped between one world and another.

Warning anyone who will listen.