The Black Letter

Chapter 1: Drifting into Darkness

The rain began to fall, tapping out a rhythm on the boat's wooden surface, as dark clouds gathered above, casting eerie shadows.

The wind slithered in, cold and sharp like a knife, slicing through the air. It was the kind of cold that creeps into your bones and lingers.

This season was drenched in rain, the sun hiding behind clouds, leaving everything to rot in the gloom.

Something unsettling was about it, a feeling that gnawed at you from the inside.

The boat was an old, creaking wooden vessel, its dark, worn wood groaning with every move. The bow and stern pointed sharply upward, like the fangs of some ancient beast.

An oar, made of bamboo, rested ominously in a corner.

Six passengers huddled in the middle of the boat, seated in pairs, heads bowed, their silence as thick as the fog rolling in.

The rain grew heavier, pounding the boat with increasing force, making it rock precariously.

John looked up, trying to shield his face from the onslaught, but it was useless. The rain was relentless, streaming down his face. He wiped it away, feeling the cold seep into his skin.

The man beside him accidentally nudged John. Instantly, John tensed, glancing over at him. The man was thin, almost gaunt, his black leather jacket clinging to his bony frame. His face was pale, eyes sunken, and his lips quivered slightly.

He was nervous, clutching a cigarette and fumbling with a lighter in the other. He tried to light the cigarette, but the flame kept sputtering out, defeated by the rain.

"Stupid thing!" the man cursed, his voice a harsh rasp as he hurled the lighter into the water with a splash.

A few droplets landed on the person in front of him—a woman. She turned her head, her expression a mix of disgust and indifference, then quickly returned to her brooding silence. The boat continued to drift, the only sound now the rain drumming against the wood.

John exhaled, feeling the weight of the silence pressing down on him. It was suffocating. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his lighter, offering it to the man beside him.

"Here, try this one," he said, in a low voice.

The man eyed John warily, then, after a moment's hesitation, took the lighter.

This one worked better, and soon, the man was puffing on his cigarette, his tension easing slightly.

John seized the moment to introduce himself. "John Smith," he said, extending a hand.

"Tom Watts," the man replied gruffly, shaking John's hand. Maybe it was gratitude, or maybe he just hadn't spoken to anyone in a while.

"This weather is brutal," John muttered, rubbing his ears to ward off the chill. They were so cold he could barely feel them anymore.

"This boat... we're gonna freeze before we even get where we're going." Tom pulled up the collar of his jacket, burying his face in it. He glanced at the water with a scowl, clearly irritated by the miserable conditions.

"So, how'd you end up on this boat?" John asked, his voice low, careful. He glanced around, making sure no one else was listening.

The others were lost in their thoughts, oblivious. John felt a little more at ease.

Tom took a deep drag on his cigarette, the ember glowing brightly for a moment before the rain snuffed it out. "A letter..." Tom's voice was shaky, almost a whisper.

"You got one too?" John's words were barely audible, but Tom understood. His body jerked, his hand trembling so much that he dropped the cigarette.

It hit the deck, smouldering briefly before the rain quenched it completely. John quickly stamped it out, grinding it under his foot.

The woman turned around again, her eyes narrowing, icy and unforgiving. Her face was ghostly pale, her expression blank, but there was something delicate about her features. If she were a ghost, she would be a beautiful one. The thought made John chuckle softly.

"Do you think this is funny?" Her voice was cold, cutting through the air like a knife. She stared at John with a look that could freeze blood, her brow furrowed in irritation.

"No... I just..." John stammered, unable to find the words to explain. He hadn't meant to laugh—it just slipped out.

Now he was stuck, awkwardly trying to think of a way to smooth things over, but nothing came. He coughed, trying to fill the silence.

"If you want to argue, do it now while you still can," a deep voice rumbled from the back. It belonged to a bulky man in a raincoat. "You might not get another chance later."

"What's that supposed to mean? You tired of living?" Tom snapped, his voice rising.

The others turned to look at him, their expressions unreadable. John winced. Tom was the type to get into trouble easily, and it looked like he'd found it.

Before anyone could react, the bulky man moved fast, landing a solid punch right on Tom's nose. Tom let out a shriek, clutching his face as blood poured down, staining his jacket. It was a nasty hit; John could tell that much.

"Watch your mouth," the man growled, his words a warning.

Tom's cries grew softer, turning into low moans. The atmosphere on the boat had shifted, the tension crackling like electricity in the air.

"Fighting won't solve anything," a clear, almost musical voice broke the silence. John turned to see a young girl, no more than ten, with large, bright eyes and a red dress that made her look like a doll. Her ponytail bounced slightly as she spoke.

"Little girl, how old are you?" John hadn't noticed her before, and the innocence in her appearance contrasted sharply with the darkness around them.

"I'm ten," she said firmly, clearly not pleased with being called "little." "You so-called adults are always trying to solve problems with violence, but it never works. We're here for the same reason. We should be sticking together, not tearing each other apart."

Her words were startlingly mature, sending a ripple of surprise through the boat. John wasn't the only one taken aback. It was as if this girl had seen more than her years should allow.

"She's right," said the woman beside the girl, her voice steady and calm. Her age was hard to determine, but the lines at the corners of her eyes hinted at middle age. "We don't know what's ahead, but we'll need each other to get through it."

Despite her words, the others turned away, retreating into their silence.

John understood. Trust was a rare commodity here; everyone was a stranger, and the unknown lay ahead. Trusting anyone felt dangerous.

But one thing was clear: they had all received the same black letter, and that letter had brought them here.