The storm raged on the horizon as Michael clutched the cold railing of the observation deck. He had been aboard the merchant ship *Aurora Dawn*, charting a course through the treacherous waters of the Atlantic. The distant silhouette of a ship caught his eye, a dark outline against the raging waves. Its hull tilted unnaturally, and Michael realized with a jolt—it was sinking.

As he squinted through the gloom, lightning illuminated the scene. The sinking vessel’s deck was a tableau of chaos. Men and women scrambled for lifeboats, their cries swallowed by the roar of the storm. Among the pandemonium, Michael spotted a figure standing eerily still amid the carnage—a man wearing a ghastly mask that looked like a skull. The mask gleamed wet in the rain, and its hollow eye sockets seemed to stare directly at him.

Michael shuddered. "What in the world..." he murmured, his voice drowned by the wind.

The figure made no attempt to help those around him. Instead, he moved methodically, stepping over the fallen like they were nothing more than obstacles. Michael’s gut churned with unease.

The *Aurora Dawn’s* captain, a grizzled man named Harris, stood beside him, his expression grim. "Don’t get any ideas, lad. We can't stop for them," Harris barked.

Michael was about to protest, but another ship approached from the east. It was a rescue vessel, its intentions clear. Relief washed over him. At least someone was trying to help.

But as the rescue ship neared the sinking one, something strange happened. The crew on the rescue vessel hesitated, their movements slowing. Then, one by one, they began to collapse, clutching their throats or stomachs.

"What's going on?" Michael whispered, gripping the railing tighter.

The captain cursed under his breath. "Dead men. They got too close."

Michael’s mind raced. "Dead men? What do you mean?"

Harris fixed him with a hard look. "Some ships carry more than cargo, lad. That one’s cursed. That masked man… he’s no sailor. He’s Death walking among the living."

Michael recoiled. "That’s just a story."

"Is it?" Harris growled, his eyes fixed on the scene. "Then explain this: why's everyone else dying, but that man stands untouched?"

Michael had no answer. Below them, the sinking ship disappeared beneath the waves, leaving only scattered debris and lifeless bodies floating in its wake. The masked man was gone, as if he had sunk with it—or vanished into thin air.

---

Days later, the *Aurora Dawn* docked at its next port. Rumors of the disaster had already spread, and whispers of the "Ghost Mask" filled the air. Survivors from the rescue ship recounted a strange, overpowering smell—like decay—and how it had left them weak and disoriented before they succumbed to a fever that claimed many lives.

Michael couldn’t shake the image of the mask. Every night, he dreamed of those hollow eye sockets staring at him, of bodies piled high like ants. Determined to understand, he began digging into the ship’s origins.

The sunken vessel, the *Carpathian*, had been a cargo ship carrying relief supplies to a war-torn region. But there was a darker side to its story. According to port records, the *Carpathian* had made stops at uncharted islands. Rumor had it that the crew had looted ancient ruins, stealing artifacts and treasures.

Among the items taken was an obsidian mask, said to belong to a long-dead warlord. Local legends warned that the mask was cursed, bringing death to any who disturbed it.

Michael found himself drawn to the tale, unable to dismiss it as mere folklore. Who was the masked man? Was he a guardian of the curse, or just another victim? And why had he spared Michael and the others on the *Aurora Dawn*?

---

Weeks passed, but the story refused to die. More ships began reporting encounters with the "Ghost Mask." Some spotted a lone figure standing on the decks of derelict ships. Others claimed to hear whispers of warning in the dead of night, accompanied by that unmistakable stench of decay.

Michael decided he couldn’t live with the unanswered questions. Against the warnings of Captain Harris and the rest of the crew, he joined a salvage mission to the site where the *Carpathian* had sunk.

The sea was eerily calm when they arrived. The salvage team lowered themselves into the depths, their lights cutting through the murky water. The *Carpathian* lay like a tomb on the ocean floor, its hull split open like a wound.

Michael followed the lead diver into the wreck. The air tanks hissed softly as they moved through the skeletal remains of the ship. The cargo hold was filled with crates, many broken open to reveal rotting supplies. But at the center of the room was something far more disturbing—a makeshift shrine, adorned with bones and rusted trinkets. And at its heart was the obsidian mask, propped up as if on display.

The moment Michael’s eyes met the mask, a wave of nausea rolled over him. The water seemed to grow colder, pressing against him like a vice. His vision blurred, and in the periphery of his mind, he thought he saw the masked man standing at the edge of the light.

"Get the hell out of there!" the voice of the lead diver crackled through his radio.

Michael turned to leave, but his foot caught on a piece of debris. He fell, his helmet slamming against the deck. The world spun, and then everything went dark.

---

When Michael awoke, he was back on the salvage vessel. The other divers were gathered around him, their faces pale. "We’re leaving," one of them said, his voice trembling. "We’re not taking anything with us."

Michael nodded, too weak to argue. But as the ship began its return journey, he couldn’t help but glance back at the water. A lone figure stood on the surface, his mask glinting in the fading light.

The stench of death filled the air again, stronger than before. One by one, the crew began to collapse. Michael staggered to the railing, his strength fading. The last thing he saw before darkness claimed him was the masked man, walking toward him across the waves.

When the *Aurora Dawn* found the salvage vessel days later, there were no survivors. Only Michael’s journal remained, its final entry scrawled in shaky handwriting:

*"He’s not a ghost. He’s something worse. And he’s coming for us all."