by K. T. Tomb
Franco did not want to think that what he had seen was anything more than a trick of the light. Clearly he was the level headed one between the two of them.
“Can you translate this?” he asked, placing his hand on the journal. Nick turned his head away from Franco and did not answer him.
Lisa stood up, adjusting the blood pressure cuff.
“Look, I'm going to have to ask you to leave. He needs to rest and unless you are going to submit to an evaluation, too, then I need to clear the area.”
Franco stood up to go, but he placed the journal on the small table next to Nick's bed. He gave Lisa a quick nod, and then left to return to his cabin. After pulling the wet suit off of himself, Franco took a quick cold rinse in the shower. He tried to ignore the growing feeling of unease that clung to him from the dive. He had seen something down there; that much had become apparent. But Nick using the word ‘ghosts’ seemed a bit far-fetched. Perhaps he would call Leo in the morning and see how he wanted to proceed. Franco brushed the water over the stubble on his shaved head, thinking over the conversation he’d had with Mr. Matvei when he accepted the job. The old man had seemed rather sentimental about the diamonds, and Leo Matvei was rich enough that he could have hired them to find a missing sock from the Titanic if he had wanted to. The diamonds were not the payout to the old man, Franco mused. What he wanted was to reclaim an old family heirloom. He had told Franco that he could not find a legitimate commercial diving team to take the case, so he'd had no choice but to go to the black market.
Hiring Franco had been his first step. The captain and ship's medic he had worked with before. Neither of them liked the idea of doing an illegal dive, but work was work. Captain Martin had accepted the job based on Leo Matvei's wealth and reputation. Franco turned off the water and reached for his towel on the hook outside the stall. For a moment, as he stood naked in the shower, covered in water, reaching blindly out of the enclosure, he imagined another hand reaching from an unseen place, curling blackened, bloated fingers around his wrist and pulling him under the ocean. Unable to breathe or scream, he stumbled briefly. Another instant and he found his towel; the scratchy feel of the nubbed cotton brought him back to the present. No monster would be dragging him down to his death, at least not today. He decided to check on Nick again in the morning. What he really needed after the day's events was a solid night of sleep. He put on his robe and sat down on the edge of his cot and tossed the towel into the laundry basket. The memory of the vision from below seemed so far away and distant at that moment. Franco felt silly for even considering the idea that he had seen anything other than a trick of shadows. He settled in and drifted off to sleep.
A high keening sound woke him moments later. The sky outside the round port window had darkened to a pitch black and Franco could see that a storm was brewing on the horizon. He stood to find the source of the sound. Taking a step forward, he realized that his room had changed. An oriental rug and an opulent settee just as he had seen below in the wreckage, met his vision. A small writing desk was placed against the far wall. Somehow, impossibly, he found himself standing in an exact replica of the room he had seen on the Titanic. A woman sat with her back to him at the writing table; the same woman from the photo, Darya Nikita. He realized it was she who had emitted the sound. She rocked back and forth, crying in high unnatural wails. The sound she made sent shivers along Franco's spine. He took a step toward her. Her hand was holding one of the pens over a piece of stationery, scribbling furiously.
“Miss,” he said in a small voice, taking a few steps toward her.
She did not turn or acknowledge him, but increased her frantic marking on the stationery. He could see that she was not writing words, just swirling the pen in an angry, frenzied motion. He could not see her face, just the surface of her hands. He could not quite determine, but there was something wrong with her skin. She looked pale, nearly too pale. He walked toward her; the crying sound beginning to blend with the sound of the wind outside. He was close enough to reach out and touch her, but still something seemed wrong, very wrong. She picked up the paper she had been scribbling on and with angry, violent motions, she ripped the paper in half. She picked up the pen and started scribbling on the next blank page. She held the pen like a knife, with her hand clasped around the body of the instrument, slashing at the page before her. Her angry movements were like that of a child in the throes of a tantrum. Page after page, she continued this frantic motion. Slashing at the page with the pen until it became covered with scribbled lines, then tearing the page to shreds with wild frenzy.
Franco reached out to touch her shoulder.
She turned to face him and Franco screamed, stumbling backwards. Her face looked pale and bloated. Where her eyes should have been, he saw open sockets, black and empty. Algae covered her hair almost like a tangled shawl mingling with the strands of her black hair. Her mouth hung open at an unnatural angle as if her jaw had been broken. Still letting out that terrible scream, her face resembled a gargoyle. He could see her hands now clasped toward him, nails black against bloated fingers. Underneath the sleeves of her dressing gown, large dark marks showed on her wrists and forearms. He realized these marks were blood, black and decayed. Open gash marks extended from her wrists nearly to her elbows on both arms, yet she reached for him with impossible, grasping fingers. Franco stumbled backwards onto his cot. The ghost woman stood and took a step toward him. Her bare feet left wet footprints in the carpet, fringed with specks of debris and algae. She took another step. The movement of her body looked unsure and unnatural, like her bones had settled and the frame of her skin no longer hung in quite the right way. The train of her dressing gown dragged along the floor as she stepped forward, making a sound not unlike stone scraping against stone. Franco stumbled, finding himself tangled in the sheets of his cot. He twisted frantically, but every movement made him more tangled. He could see her drawing closer to him, pale fingers reaching for him. Her fingertips were inches from his flailing feet. The lights flickered, and the room plunged into total darkness. He could no longer see her, but he knew she was still there, stalking toward him, clammy hands reaching for him. Then he felt a cold wet hand close around his bare ankle.
He screamed.
Waking in his cot, Franco found himself in his own room, struggling against his tangled bedclothes, the calm night sky dark outside his port window. He caught his breath, looking around the room as he came back to himself. He realized he was alone. The woman had been a dream. A vivid frightening dream, but a dream nonetheless.
Franco got out of bed, unable to sleep at least for the moment, and stepped out into the hallway. There was a light on in the mess area of the ship, and the scent of freshly brewed coffee greeted him. A cup of coffee sounded wonderful to him at that particular moment; anything to distance himself psychologically from the vision of his dream. He brushed his hands across his head and walked into the mess area. He saw Nick hunched over a set of notebooks, writing furiously on one page. Darya's journal lay open on one side of him and Nick had one hand tracing along one of the pages.
“Couldn't sleep?” Franco said gently, not wishing to disturb him.
“Nah,” Nick said, his eyes not leaving the pages before him. “I couldn't stop thinking about what I had seen down there. I know I saw Stephan's murder, and I wanted to try and find some answers. Have a seat. You might find this interesting.”
Franco walked over and poured himself a cup of black coffee and pulled up a chair across from Nick.
“What have you got?”
Nick turned the notebook toward Franco.
“It's letters. Darya was writing letters to her sister. Perhaps she intended to send them once she reached America. This is a record of nearly everything that happened to her on the Titanic.”
Franco picked up the notebook and looked at what Nick had written, translated from the Russian diary.
April 10, 1912
Dearest Masha,
By the time you receive these l
etters, you will have been missing me for quite some time. I can assure you that I am quite well, despite missing you dreadfully. I think about you every moment of every day. As you know, I had been betrothed to Igor Davidovich, the man that works for our father. But alas, I have a confession to make to you. I never loved Igor. I have run away aboard the Titanic, traveling to America to marry Stephan Ivanovich. We kept you shielded from it, but our parents and I fought bitterly over my devotion to Stephan. No matter what I did, I could not make them see that he was the man of my heart.
We boarded the Titanic just this morning and are even now sailing across the Atlantic Ocean toward America. This is such a grand adventure and I just know that this decision is the beginning of a new start for me.
It saddens me to think of you as well as Mother and Father. There are times when I am overcome by a feeling that I may never see any of you again. This is the sacrifice I had to make to be with Stephan, and to escape my fate of marrying that vile man, Mr. Davidovich. I have faith that once we reach America, I will be in constant contact and that I will see you again.
All my love,
Darya
Franco looked at the date of the letter.
“She wrote this aboard the Titanic.”
“Yes, she did,” Nick said.
He still had a wide-eyed look about him, though he had calmed considerably since that afternoon.
“And check this out,” Nick turned a few pages. “Read this one.”
April 12, 1912
Dearest Masha,
We have been sailing for two days aboard the Titanic. While Stephan and I are blissfully happy, I cannot help but feel a sense of growing unease that I cannot place. This afternoon we met a man named Vlad Afanasy. He is also Russian and claims to feel a kinship with us. As a result, he has invited us to dinner this evening. I do not trust him and I fear that Igor may have hired him to follow us. It was foolish of me to think that once we boarded the Titanic, we would be safe from Igor's reach. I am frightened of him, but I do not wish to worry you with tales of my distress. At best, he is a spy sent by our parents to watch me. If he tries to bring me back, it shall be under great duress.
I am excited to reach America. Stephan and I will wed as soon as we are able. I am saddened that you will not be there, but I am overjoyed at the thought of presenting my dowry diamonds to Stephan on our wedding day. This is part of how I know that he truly loves me. He has no idea about the diamonds! He believes us to be penniless wanderers and yet, he chooses to be by my side. For now, I have them hidden in my sleeping quarters, in a place that he cannot find them. I will send you a detailed description of his reaction when I present them to him.
I hope you are well and that Mother and Father are not too distraught at my absence. Please give Burkut a pat on the head and a tickle on the tummy from me.
All my best,
Darya
“The diamonds are in the room,” Franco said.
“At least they were at the time this was written,” Nick said.
“We have to do another dive,” Franco said, taking another sip of his coffee.
“I'm not going down there again.” Nick shook his head vehemently. “I'm not doing it.”
“I'll go.”
Harper stood at the door of the mess hall.
“How long have you been standing there?” Franco said.
“Long enough to know the diamonds are on the ship,” Harper replied. “We have to get them. If Nick can't go, I'll go.”
“We'll discuss this in the morning,” Franco said with finality, draining his coffee and standing to leave.
Chapter Five
April 12, 1912
The RMS Titanic, First Class Deck
The stars twinkled above them like a canopy of jewels. Darya walked with Vlad along the deck of the Titanic. Several steps behind her, to Darya's dismay, Stephan walked escorting Vlad's sister, Katinka.
“My sister is ill, you see,” Vlad said to a disinterested Darya.
She struggled to keep a polite smile upon her face. Vlad continued.
“She suffers from spells when her mind is sometimes out of sorts. On occasion, she feels faint and weak. I often travel with her to ensure her safety.”
“And what is it that you travel for?” Darya asked. “Is it business related?”
“On the contrary,” Vlad said. “My sister will be seeing a doctor once we reach America; an expert who specializes in her condition.”
“That must be difficult. I'm sorry,” Darya said, pausing and looking out over the rail at the black expanse of night sea.
She wished to bring the conversation back to something more casual.
“Look at the stars. It's breathtaking how bright they are tonight.”
“May I ask you a question?” Vlad said suddenly, not taking his eyes off of Darya.
“I suppose,” she said, turning to look at him.
“You are a beautiful woman,” he began. “An aristocrat. Well-traveled and born to riches. What is it about that poor farm boy that has caught your fancy?”
Darya turned away for a moment and then simply said, “He has my heart. I cannot explain any more than that.”
Upon meeting him, Darya had felt a bit of conflict about Vlad. He was a young man, just about the same age as Darya. As much as she wanted to remain distant, Vlad had a very likeable quality that made Darya want to relax around him. Her senses picked up on this effect he had and she therefore trusted him less.
Stephan and Katinka had almost made it to them, when Katinka suddenly swooned. Vlad tried to move forward to catch her, but the distance was still too great and she landed in the arms of Stephan. He lowered her onto a bench nearby steadying her. Vlad rushed forward to attend to his sister. After only a moment, she spoke in a whispery voice.
“I should go and lie down,” she said.
“Let me take you,” Vlad began.
“No darling,” Katinka said, waving a hand. “It would be a shame for you to also miss this beautiful evening. You stay. You are always watching out for me. This time, let someone else help.”
Katinka looked up at Stephan with wide, blue eyes and a trembling hand, reaching for him to support her. Stephan glanced at Darya, who stood like a statue, unable to move. Stephan finally took her hand and allowed her to lean into him as they headed back the other way, toward the hall to the first class quarters.
After they had disappeared into the night shadows of the ship, Darya turned and said, “I must retire as well, I fear.”
“Nonsense!” Vlad exclaimed, with a tone of genuine regret. “The night is young. Please indulge me. It has been some time since I have been in such captivating company. Let us walk for a little while.”
Darya glanced in the direction that Stephan and Katinka had gone, but then she turned back to Vlad. She decided she might take advantage of the opportunity to figure out if he had been hired by Igor or her parents. She believed him to be a spy. Perhaps he would let something slip.
“Alright,” she said. “That would be lovely.”
He extended his arm for her to take again and guided her in the opposite direction.
“Tell me, Vlad,” Darya said, as they continued along the deck. “Having to take care of Katinka must be exhausting for you. How do you find time for yourself?”
“It is difficult, I must confess,” he said. “She can be quite a handful, it's true. Forgive me, she is my sister. I should not say a word against her.”
Darya decided to play the part a little bit. She smiled and leaned in to him ever so slightly.
“I must ask you a similar question as you did I, Vlad. You are a handsome, well-traveled man of means. Surely I am not the only lady who has noticed this. Do you ever have an opportunity to pursue any of these possibilities?”
Vlad chuckled lightly.
“You do not mince words, do you?”
“I've often been chided for my frankness. It does not go over well in aristocratic circles for a lady such as myself to speak h
er mind.”
Vlad's face grew serious.
“Perhaps,” he said in a grave voice, locking eyes with Darya. “Perhaps in a different time and place... if we had met I think you and I, Darya, would have been very well-matched.”
Darya was taken aback by his words. The sudden declaration caught her off guard. For a very short moment, she pictured herself on the arm of the handsome stranger who stood before her. He seemed amicable and she would have remained with her family. Her loneliness for her sister briefly consumed her, washing over her like a large ocean wave. Before she realized what was happening, Vlad reached forward and slowly brushed aside a small tendril of hair, caressing her cheek as he did so. He never took his eyes off of her. Unconsciously, Darya leaned into the contact of his fingers on her cheek.
The moment passed and Darya spoke suddenly.
“Now I must insist that I retire for the evening. The hour is late, and you must see about your sister.”
“Yes,” Vlad replied. “You are correct. Forgive my forwardness...”
“Let us not speak of it again,” Darya said sharply.
Vlad extended his arm and they walked back to the first class quarters. Darya remembered that she had left her parasol behind when they had gone out as the sun had already begun to set. They walked in silence down the hallway toward Vlad and Katinka's quarters to collect it before retiring to her own cabin. When they reached the door to room 114, Vlad opened the door to allow her entry. Darya walked into the room, not knowing that the next moments of her life would forever alter the course of her days and change everything about her life in a moment.
Katinka lay on the settee, her dress torn and disheveled, with her arms wrapped comfortably around Stephan. His clothes also looked akimbo, his collar twisted. He turned and saw Darya. The look on his face told her everything she needed to know. Of course she had noticed his wandering eye, but he was a farm boy and had not been raised with the training of an upper-class gentleman. At least that is what she had told herself. Surely, he would never have acted on any of it. Clearly she had been wrong.
