Day 7 at Sea: The Castaway

A journey begins with an unexpected visitor and storm brewing

You’re reading the Paranormal Dinner Club — a work of fiction about a peculiar group formed to take on the threat of a mysterious island. It’s told in letters from The Invisible Man’s brother back to him.

New to the project? You can find a Table of Contents here.

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Day 7 at Sea — An Unexpected Visitor. The Storm Gathers. A Warning.

To my unfeeling brother, grumpy boss, and reluctant landlord:

The journey to the island continues. Upon leaving our last port and taking on supplies and the last of our passengers from Africa, we continued nearly straight west out to sea as far as I can tell from —

[EDITOR’S NOTE: GEOGRAPHIC INFORMATION REDACTED]

Every person boarding the ship has agreed that they will have no access to navigation documents, charts, or specific headings. Yet, that hasn’t stopped the passengers from trying to determine our location, our course, and how to return. When the captain or navigator sees them trying to hide their own charts and maps behind notebooks or stacks of paper, they simply chuckle. But there is also an enormous man not chuckling.

This man is something of an enforcer onboard — he must be six and a half feet tall, with a large beard and his bright blonde hair pulled back into a tight bun. He resembles an ancient Viking down to a large a tattoo of two axes crossed over one another poking out from under his collar. When he catches someone capturing data they shouldn’t he removes the notebook forcibly and tosses it over the side after reviewing it. More than one protesting scientist has stormed off angrily to the Captain’s cabin.

Yet, despite the lack of navigational data, I know we must be getting closer. There has been a mood of tension—like the electric air before a lightning storm.

As is my habit I’ve taken to walking the deck of the ship at night. You’re used to me pacing the library on sleepless evenings (which is all of them). Given no library onboard, I’ve taken to pacing the ship after the rest have gone to their cabins. Last night the air had turned colder and the waves slightly choppier as clouds formed on the horizon. The ship rocked and groaned as if in regret that we appeared to be heading into the clouds rather than away from them.

Then I heard it — a cry from the water. It was weak but still very clearly human and not animal.

The crew on deck ran to the side and searched the dark water, but the little moonlight and starlight was hard to see by. Then we heard it again—a half cry and half groan. There was a discussion among the captain and navigator, some disagreement, but eventually the sails were furled and we stopped to search.

By some lucky chance, we heard a loud thunk from the side of the ship and looked down to discover a severely damaged small sailing vessel. The mast of the sail was broken, and the tiny ship appeared to be taking on water and listed heavily to the side. Only one survivor remained on the boat, his hair unkempt and his clothing cut and stained. The sailors were hardy men unafraid of the ocean, but when they saw that man they looked as though they’d seen a ghost.

While they spoke many languages among them, they often used English as their common tongue. I was able to make out murmuring among the crew:

— “It’s not possible!”

— “We must throw him back. He will curse us.”

— “How did he come to be here in the first place?”

But the captain ordered the man brought up. His skin was covered in bruises and he could barely speak, his lips were so dry and cracked. Yet, when I looked closer, I saw that he was dressed not in a sailor's uniform but in a coat and dress pants and one dress shoe. He’d been, apparently, a smartly dressed man when he took this boat on its ill-fated voyage.

But what was a man dressed in fine clothes doing on a small broken sailing vessel in the middle of the ocean?

Then the captain and two strong crew members moved toward him cautiously. They looked less like a crew rescuing someone and more like a crew capturing a wild animal. Soon their strong hands were on him as they half-supported, half-restrained him.

The clouds ahead rumbled ominously, so the rest of the crew were quickly directed back to their stations.

I approached the wounded man and sought to offer some assistance: “Can I be of use?”

The castaway said through parched lips, “You’re not with them. You can still escape. Get out of here. You don’t understand. Oh, that place! A paradise? Ha!”

And he began laughing but soon broke into a coughing fit. He swooned and his knees buckled.

But when he looked back up at me, he appeared to mistake me for someone else in his ill state.

“You! You did this to me! Your empty promises and your mad dreams. You promised a paradise—but you created a hell in those tunnels below, didn’t you?”

He was obviously suffering from sun stroke and dehydration and swooned to unconsciousness. One of the sailors tapped his face (not gently I might add), seeking to wake him, but he didn’t return. Finally, the captain came near and slapped him full across the face.

He woke then, his eyes wild, and a sudden burst of strength came upon him. He began to strain and yell, “I refuse! I refuse! I won’t do it! I will escape! You can’t stop me!”

With a powerful rage, he broke free of the hands around him and ran. He dodged the sailors around him seeking to lay hands on him. He swung his fists wildly, managing to knock down at least one sailor.

Then I could see where he was aiming: toward the lifeboats.

And he had nearly arrived when a man appeared in front of him as if from thin air. He was strong and muscled and wore a wild mustache bent downward in a deep scowl. He had the look of a man who’d seen his share of brawls.

“Stop there,” he said.

But the castaway man didn’t. He barreled straight on. Stepping deftly to the side, the mustached man landed a blow in his stomach. The wild man buckled then and tried to escape the opposite way.

But he found his path blocked by a man wearing robes in the Middle-Eastern style. They billowed around him in the wind and the moonlight glowed behind him.

He spoke in a deep and accented voice, “My friend—you will not survive. A lifeboat is your certain death. You have no choice but to journey with us now.”

The wild man tried to throw himself past the Middle Eastern man, but the man in robes moved with surprising quickness and held him fast. At first, I worried whether this wild man could be held by one man, but there was a surprising strength to the man in robes. Through his thin outer robe, I thought I could make out his arms glowing as he held the man fast—must have been a trick of the light.

Quickly the captain gathered a few crew members to restrain the castaway. I followed as they began dragging him toward the captain’s quarters.

But as he was dragged away, the castaway began trembling, then weeping as he reached his arm out to me. He appeared to still mistake me for someone else.

The man said to me, “Please, you’ve got to let me go home, sir. I’ve made a terrible mistake. The hatred of nature here is poison to my soul. Can’t you see it, Doctor? Beauty. Beauty all around and yet you see none of it—none! You see only monsters. And a monster you’ve become. Let me go, please. I won’t tell anyone anything. I’ll live a quiet life.”

And with that the castaway collapsed. He was carried unconscious into the captain’s quarters by strong men and was locked inside.

I turned to find the Viking enforcer staring at me. He must have been below decks with the excitement happened. And he looked unhappy to have missed the commotion. He towered over me, scowling, and a long moment passed. He appeared to be deciding what to do with me and I sensed that I’d seen something I shouldn’t.

Finally, he told me simply in a strong northern European accent, “Do not speak of this. To anyone. The scientists and passengers do not need to be made…uneasy. We will care for this man until he is sane again. But now we sail into a storm. We cannot avoid it. The Captain needs the minds of the crew on that and the minds of the passengers as calm as they can. This will be a day or two of tough sailing. Then we will arrive.”

I swallowed hard and nodded. But my curiosity got the better of me and I asked, “Who was that man? The crew appeared to know him…”

“I can assure you that would be impossible. How could they? He is a castaway from a sunken ship most likely. Driven mad with lack of water and food. I would not ask too many questions right now if I were you. The Captain needs the minds of the crew clear as we make preparations for the storm. I suggest you get below deck. The storm will arrive soon.”

So I turned to go back to my cramped cabin. But as I turned, I noticed the mustached and muscled man as well the man in Middle-Eastern robes still there. They’d been watching my exchange with the Viking enforcer carefully.

Were they enforcers too? Or bystanders? What did they make of all this?

But before I could ask, they disappeared below deck.

Not for the first time, I regret you sent me on this journey.

I hear the rain beginning to hit the side of the ship. We’re sailing into the storm.

There’s no going back now.

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