The Port of New Orleans, 1888. A suffocating blend of burning coke coal, whale oil, and rotting fish clung to the throat. As eleven o'clock at night approached, the voyage began.
Thick, wet ropes were cast off from the wooden pier. The steam engine coughed hoarsely, spewing a black cloud of choking smoke. Slowly and heavily, the dilapidated ship clove through the stagnant harbor waters; a mass of rusted iron and salt-eaten wood. It carried six men led by a captain blinded by greed, swaying away from the city lights to plunge into the heart of the open sea.
Two hours of silent sailing passed in the Gulf of Mexico. This route was not new to them. Only a week ago, they were here at the coordinates drawn on that cursed leather scrap the captain had bought from a drunken old man at the port. They returned disappointed that day after the lead weight snagged on something solid that the hemp ropes couldn't budge. But they returned today with harder hearts, equipped with a steam crane and iron chains that had drained the last of the gold coins from their pockets.
By midnight, the engines died completely over the target. The captain wiped the grease from his palm with a filthy rag. "Tighten the bindings. If we don't pull this wreckage up tonight, let each of you prepare to sell a kidney in the port streets. This box is our only salvation from poverty."
As three in the morning approached, when the thick fog swallowed what remained of visibility, the battle began.
The mechanical crane spun violently. A massive steel pulley connected to a steam boiler groaned under the pressure. Below, the iron gears let out an ear-piercing screech. One of the workers stood, his face smeared with soot, his eyes nailed to the brass pressure gauge. The needle trembled violently, kissing the final red line.
The worker wiped the pouring sweat from his forehead with the back of his trembling hand. "The boiler is going to explode! The chains are so taut they're throwing sparks! The engine is boiling and the crane will tear from the wood and drag us to the bottom!"
The captain spat to the side, tightening his grip on his wooden pipe. "Lock the gears! If the chain snaps, I'll cut your necks. Pull it up even if it costs us sinking the ship!"
A sharp metallic screech. Bolts flew into the air. Sparks illuminated terrified faces. Snap! The silence tore apart. The box shot up from the bottom. It slammed onto the deck with a colossal force that shook the masts. Wood splintered beneath its crushing weight.
The workers collapsed to the ground all at once. They sprawled across the wet wood, chests heaving madly, their bodies completely drained after the death struggle with the crane. Soot covered their faces, and their sweat mingled with the chains' rust. None of them could utter a single word, only muffled groans amidst the sudden silence of the sea.
The captain ignored the exhausted bodies of his men. He advanced toward the ugly mass covered in rust and barnacles. A scent of ancient brine, the stench of an exhumed grave after centuries of oblivion, emanated from the box.
The captain picked up the heavy chopping axe. He raised it deliberately, then brought it down on the thick chain encircling the right side of the coffin. Clang! Shards of rust scattered. He moved to the other side, striking the second chain with an equally violent blow. Then the third and the fourth, one by one from every side. Clang... Clang... Clang. The chains broke free, crashing onto the metal deck with a deafening ring that jolted the workers from their fatigue.
He wedged the axe blade under the edge of the heavy stone lid. Using it as a lever, he pressed down with all his weight until the veins in his neck bulged and sweat poured from his temples. The coffin lid rose with a sharp creak, then slid slowly to reveal what lay within.
The captain stepped back. The axe slipped from his hand. His features froze in utter shock, a look of profound bewilderment painting his grease-stained face. "Damn it... it's a corpse! What is this?!"
It was the corpse of a man with unnaturally pale skin, white with the coldness of alabaster. He wore aristocratic garments of black silk embroidered with golden threads, appearing as if some mysterious force had protected them from decay throughout those centuries. His features were rigid, terrifyingly handsome, and his dark hair was carefully styled as if he had been placed in the coffin mere minutes ago.
What hitched the captain's breath was the silver blade plunged deep into his chest, directly over the heart; a long blade gleaming with the engravings of a complex talisman, its hilt encrusted with a massive, blood-red ruby that glowed with a faint light beneath the fog.
Curses rose behind the captain from the workers who were struggling to their feet. A bitter disappointment blanketed the air. "All this effort for a dead man?!" one of them yelled.
But the captain didn't hear them. An internal silence reigned in his mind as he stared at the enchanting gleam of the blade and the ruby. He swallowed hard, his eyes bulging, a strange greed beginning to override his fear. "What kind of madman plunges a silver blade into a corpse? This ruby alone will buy me a merchant ship fit for a nobleman."
The captain leaned in, his trembling hand gripping the hilt of the blade buried in the corpse's chest. He yanked it out.
In a fraction of a millisecond, with a blinding motion that left the eye no time to form an image, the body resting in the coffin lunged forward. Its jaws clamped onto the captain's neck. Fangs sank deep into living tissue.
Under the terror-paralyzed stares of the workers, no one dared move a single muscle. Breath froze in their chests. A sensation took hold that the air itself had grown heavy and cold, as if the Angel of Death had settled upon the deck of their dilapidated ship.
Slowly, he released the captain's neck. He tossed the corpse aside with disdain. It struck the wood with a hollow thud, like a worthless old rag. He wiped a drop of blood from the corner of his lip, then fixed his crimson gaze upon the panicked workers.
He spoke in a low, resonant voice, carrying a weary aristocratic tone. "I apologize... it seems I have caused you terror. I simply cannot recall the last time I drank..."
An absolute silence fell among the crew for seconds that felt like an eternity; they couldn't comprehend how a pale corpse trapped in an ancient coffin could transform in mere seconds into an elegant man radiating with aura. Nothing broke this stillness except the sound of the ocean waves crashing against the ship's hull, and the sound of their own frantic, heaving breaths.
Suddenly, the man took a single step forward. Their hearts seized.
In a foolish, reckless move, two workers lunged forward, each gripping whatever knives and sharp tools their hands could reach, pointing them at him. He spoke again with chilling coldness. "What fools you are."
In the blink of an eye, the first one's head flew off, and the second one's heart was ripped from his chest.
The man looked at the remaining workers, finding one beside him who had soiled his trousers in pure terror. He spoke this time with a commanding tone. "Do not move from your spot."
The worker raised his head, nodding frantically in blind obedience. Only in that very moment did he witness the corpses of the others dropping before his eyes, while the elegant man savored the taste of their blood.