"I think it may have been the Tristitia. It looked like you were dancing with something that trailed rags... and the second time I saw your face, you looked gaunt and you were crying."

A figure waits in the distance, clad in dark rags, with an empty, caved-in chest that aches for what the living can give it. The hood pulled over its head casts a long shadow, hiding the face within... or if there is any face at all.

"You said a name. Emmy? Amy? And the rags wrapped around your throat. Then I woke up."

Perhaps that chill is more real than imagined.