Sea of darkness

I

Well, all roads may lead to Rome, but in this small corner of the world that is Poland, they all seem to lead straight to Wilkowice...

... The sound of water grew louder as gentle waves crashed against the coastal rocks. The bottom was invisible, and the unfathomed depth stretched, weaving a chilling image. There was no endless blue sky, no sun, no stars, but deep darkness—devilish, untamed. The smell of decay and mustiness hung in the air, stirred by the wind that tore at the landscape, blurring it in shades of gray. In the distance, on the water's surface, a figure emerged, submerged in darkness, slowly drifting closer.

The wind intensified, and the waves pounded more violently against the shore. Something had changed. The figure concealed in darkness was drawing nearer.

From the darkness, a body slowly emerged, blurred in the sinking light. Its features were indistinct, and the smell became unbearable. The body, decaying and decomposing, washed up on the shore. Muscles and bones were so decomposed that they resembled more sludge than a human body. The skin peeled away and floated, carried by the turbulent waves.
The figure rose, and the gelatinous mass, torn by the waves, sloughed off. From the black voids replacing its eyes, it gazed towards the shore. Its head swayed on a thin neck.
It stood momentarily. Then, like thunder out of a clear sky, a loud, chilling wail escaped from its mouth. It moaned, wailed despairingly. It cried out in pain. Sludgy filth oozed from its mouth—reeking muck that flowed and dissolved everything around. The greenery beneath its feet withered away.
In an instant, the entire scene blurred and submerged into darkness. As the terrifying image disappeared, the wail subsided, and the raging waves fell silent. There was no longer any scent or the roar of the wind. The figure vanished, but inexplicably, its presence was still palpable, drawing nearer and nearer, closer than anyone could imagine.
She emerged. She walked westward, with a black sky behind her. On her face, or rather what was left of it, was written a demand for murder. She had to set out on her journey... she had to kill...

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Spring, April 1884 A.D

This strange oddball arrived from the north on a sunny April day. He traversed fields and forests, likely coming from the direction of Warsaw. He wore dark gloves on his hands and carried a small, square traveling bag in his grip. Wrapped in a dark coat, he strode purposefully along the sandy road. The sun glinted off his broad shoulders and the head covered by a felt hat. The spurs on his heavy, polished boots clicked rhythmically. He climbed into the carriage with an unsteady step, looking more like a dead man than a living one. He heaved a sigh of relief as he tossed his baggage onto the wooden cart's floor.

- Go to Wilkowice, - he said quietly. The coachman, having seen many springs come and go, didn't quite catch it.

- Could you repeat that? - he asked, peering attentively at the stranger. To which the man replied in the same calm tone, "Just keep going... to Wilkowice..."

In the evening, a buzz hung between the houses. Wilkowice, as this village was named in the central part of the Polish map, was one of those places where one could settle in for a while, but not everyone had the chance to grow old. It sat at the intersection of many roads leading from Gdańsk all the way to Smerek, where horses, goods, and people traversed. Moreover, not far from here, a steel railway ran, ensuring an influx of all those seeking a different life.

This morning, Alexander Ivanovich rose early. Upon waking, he lay for a moment, staring at the ceiling. Then he stretched on the bed and took a deep breath, holding it for five seconds. Though he attempted a small breathing exercise to help himself, he achieved nothing. He noticed sweat trickling down his neck. Light droplets were flooding his eyes and soaking his freshly washed pajamas. He sprang out from under the covers and buried his weary face in his slender hands. He needed to calm down, regain balance. Let the heart and lungs have a moment to recognize. Let them fall into their natural rhythm, he told himself silently.