With a deep breath, Hamish pushed open the weather-beaten door of the dockside Westlock Tavern. The dim glow of his lantern pierced the darkness, casting twisted shadows that danced across the worn floorboards. The dank, musty scent of aged spirits mingled with the faint aroma of decay, permeating the air with an eerie sense of foreboding. The air hung heavy with the weight of centuries, thick with the whispers of sailors long since swallowed by the depths. As Hamish approached the bar, his footsteps echoing in the silence like the dreadful toll of a funeral bell. 

"A drink for a weary traveller," Hamish nervously requested, his voice barely audible above the mournful cry of seagulls outside. The barkeeper, Johnson, an old seafarer with eyes as cold and unfathomable as the ocean itself, greeted him with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. His stooped figure, wordlessly obliged, pouring a measure of amber liquid into a tarnished glass.  

As Hamish fumble with his coins, he accidently dislodged the questionable cargo he was carrying. It tumbled onto the scarred surface of the bar landing with a hollow thud. A key, ancient and ornate, its metal twisted into grotesque shapes reminiscent of tortured souls, seemingly pulsating with malevolent energy.  

Johnson’s gaze fixed upon the key with a grim intensity, his voice a low rumble that seemed to emanate from the very depths of the earth. "Where did you come by that, lad?" he asked, his words hung in the air like a dark omen carrying the weight of untold horrors lurking in the shadows. Intrigued by the barkeeper's ominous demeanour, Hamish felt a chill crawl down his spine.  

Hamish gulped and began to explain, “I have an envelope addressed to my grandmother, the key and a map to this establishment were inside.” He paused, unsure of how much to reveal to the enigmatic barkeeper. "Her husband was a sailor," he continued. "He went down with the Maryland apparently; it was sunk by feuding pirates in the bay here." 

As Hamish spoke, a chill settled over the tavern. The mention of the Maryland sent a shudder through the room, as if the very walls themselves recoiled from the cursed ship's name. 

Johnson's eyes narrowed, his gaze piercing through the dim light as he contemplated Hamish's words. "The Maryland, he muttered, his voice barely a whisper. "A cursed ship, they say. And those who possess its secrets are bound by fate's cruel hand." 

With a heavy silence hanging between them, Hamish realised that he had stumbled upon something far more sinister than he could have ever imagined. The mystery of the key, the map, and the fate of the Maryland were all pieces of a puzzle whose solution lay shrouded in darkness, waiting to be uncovered. 

As Hamish's words echoed through the tavern, a chill swept through the room, causing the lanterns to flicker, and cast eerie shadows on the walls. The air crackled with otherworldly energy as the ghostly forms of sailors began to materialise around them. 

These were no ordinary apparitions; these ghosts, some headless, limbless and with their gizzards hanging out bore the scars of battle, their weapons gleaming with a ghastly light. With a guttural roar, they surged forward, their eyes blazing with a fierce determination. Hamish's heart raced as he realised the truth: the tavern was haunted by the vengeful, mutilated spirits of the Maryland, bound to defend the treasure…that lay hidden beneath its foundations. 

With a deafening clash of swords and a chorus of anguished cries, the gruesome ghostly pirates descended upon one another in a frenzy of sickening bloodshed. Hamish stumbled backward, his mind reeling from the chaos unfolding before him. 

Johnson stood unmoved amidst the carnage, his eyes ablaze with a fierce intensity. With a swift motion, he drew a weapon of his own, joining the ghostly fray with a skill and ferocity that contradicted his aged appearance. Caught in the midst of the battle, Hamish knew that he had no choice but to fight for his life. With a trembling hand, he grasped the ancient key, its twisted metal shape shifting into a deadly sword. 

With a defiant shout, he plunged into the barbaric brawl, his senses overwhelmed by the cacophony of clashing steel and echoing cries. Every fiber of his being screamed for escape, but he knew that the only way out was through. 

As the battle raged on, Hamish's strength began to falter, his limbs heavy with exhaustion. But just as all seemed lost, a blinding light erupted from the depths of the tavern, illuminating the darkness with a brilliant intensity. 

With Hamish’s last blow, the ghostly pirates faltered and their forms dissipating into the ether. With a final, triumphant cry, Hamish emerged from the chaos, the key clutched tightly in his grasp. 

The tavern fell silent once more, the echoes of battle fading into the night. Johnson approached Hamish; his gaze softened with a newfound respect. "You have proven yourself worthy, lad," he said, his voice tinged with reverence. "The treasure of the Maryland is yours to claim. But remember this: with great power comes great responsibility. Choose wisely, for the fate of all who came before you rest in your hands."  Hamish shook Johnson’s hand and left the Westlock, and as he walked along the dock, he smiled to himself as he knew that the shadows of the Maryland would always linger, waiting to ensnare the unwary in their cursed embrace.