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Up until the stranger’s arrival, the voyage aboard the Carinthia had been routine. Outbound from Cairo, the ship made port in Malta where an odd individual walked up the gangplank as he joined the ship, never coming in contact with any of the guests. This newcomer brought an eerie aura reminiscent of one who is acquainted with the bizarre, with the supernatural to the ship. Our vessel took on several other passengers, some additional cargo, and sailed west once more.
Passing Gibraltar several days later, the Carinthia entered the rough waters of the North Atlantic. There, upon those cold seas, the reclusive, reserved newcomer mingled with his fellow passengers for the first time. As he entered the ship’s taproom, his dark form appeared to float in on the head of a raging wind which followed him through the door. With his sudden entrance, the relatively small portal to the previously quiet lounge seemed to tear open, altering the ambiance through the added noise of the gale and the raging seas. As he made his way up to the counter, the eyes of the patrons fixed upon the stranger and the relaxed conversations in the room ceased.
The intruder seemed oblivious both to his immediate surroundings and to his strange effect upon his fellow guests. He spoke not a word to a soul he passed. The only syllable uttered after he sat down on one of the many vacant stools at the bar was the name of his beverage.
“Rum!” his rough voice demanded.
Of that chosen alcoholic poison, this sombre individual drank continually and heavily, emitting an aura of evil the presence of which grew as time passed.
On first glimpse, the stranger appeared to be just shy of forty, but the dark bags under his eyes and his shock-white hair stood out in stark opposition to this. Physically, he looked young enough, but his dishevelled state and his untidy attire presented clear evidence that he had endured some malady or some horrid experience which had greatly affected the cheerfulness of his spirit. The bizarre contrast between his apparent youth and the spectre of wear made him appear unnatural. He drank as one possessed, seeming to hold some dark secret within his soul, an unspoken malignity which gnawed at his essence. With each new drink, it became increasingly apparent to those within the saloon that some revelation was forthcoming. Between sips, he would turn his time-worn eyes toward the other guests, slowly panning his surroundings as if in search of people he could confide in. As those troubled orbs met the eyes of the other patrons, they seemed to silently cry out for help. That haunted look affected the guests within the scope of his vision equally and, although he drank well into the night, not a single person left that room.
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