Prologue II

---North Atlantic---

A deckhand burst into the cockpit, slipping on the rain-sodden floor and falling to his knees. He scrambled to his feet, gripping a metal rail by his side to pull himself up, "Captain! Are we going to be okay?" The ship rolled sharply to one side and he struggled to stay upright, the sound of groaning steel filling the ragged air.

His face was pale, his breath strained, his voice barely carrying over the echo of the wind.

The ship heaved violently as a massive wave rolled under it, lifting it high into the air as if the sea had hands to cradle it. For a moment that seemed to last forever they held at the crest of the wave, but with a stomach churning turn it dropped downwards and fell with a crash that he felt in his bones. The wave rose like a mountainous shadow behind them.

"We'll be fine!" The Captain shouted, his knuckles white on the wheel of the ship, his voice a forced confidence he himself couldn't believe. He fought the sharp currents with his hands, his legs planted firm and a nervous sweat mixed in with the humid rain, "Just a lil' squall. We'll be at the port soon!" He swatted away droplets from his head between the waves.

The deckhand hesitated, the metal rod tight in his hands as he balanced himself against the ship, "Should I let the passengers know? I doubt they can sleep through all this."

The captain gave a jolting nod, his jaw tight, "Yeah, let 'em know. Tell 'em it'll pass soon."

The deckhand turned and staggered out of the cockpit. He led himself down a flight of slippery stairs to the narrow hallway that led to the sleeping quarters. The air here was thick with salt and heavy with rust and oil. The ship's aging walls were peeling with red paint, like old bloody wounds.

The metal doors groaned as the ship tilted again, a low, slow, metallic creak.

He reached the cabin at the end of the hall. With a hard knock against the metal door that bruised his fat knuckles, he shouted, "Hey! The storm's just a rough patch—we're almost through!" His words rang through the hollow space, swallowed by the greed of the thunder. He waited, but no reply came. Confused, he knocked again, harder this time. "Are you okay in there?"

Another wave slammed into the ship, and the door slid slightly, creaking open as if the storm had forced it loose. The deckhand stepped inside, "We'll be to the coast soon—"

He stopped short in the door, his breath caught. The room was empty.

The bunks were unmade, the bedding torn asunder under the sway of the ship, but there was no sign of the passengers. No luggage, no shoes. Only silence, broken by the storms howl. 

"Hello?" He called, his voice shaking now.

He moved further into the room, as if the two were hiding out of view.

The thunder boomed again as the ship lurched violently to the side, throwing him against the undone bunks. He grunted, flailing his arms for something to balance him. 

But the passengers were gone.

"Tsk," The deckhand turned to leave. He swore under his breath, his mind racing, but something stopped him. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed something pricking at the paint on the wall.

A white raven.

It tore at the red paint, pecked at it, and a portion of it fell onto the carpeted floors. A faint, dark, smear like ash or perhaps soot, carved into the wall under the paint. It was jagged, unnatural, like a tree. He strained his eyes as if they deceived him. And the ashen shape took form, molting itself into what he realized was a cross.

He blinked, and both were gone.

Shaken, he staggered back up the stairs, his heart racing, muttering something under his breath as if maddened by the rain. A chill colder than the air shook him in his bones. "Captain!" He shouted, his voice now octaves above the calming storm, "The men are gone…"