The coffin was back again.
Standing at the stern deck of the Forsaken, Duncan gazed expressionlessly at the elaborate wooden coffin, droplets of seawater slowly dripping from its edges and pooling around his feet. This unmistakably proved that the coffin he had tossed overboard was indeed the same one now resting stubbornly at his feet, defying every natural law he could imagine.
Such bizarre occurrences should've unsettled him deeply, yet, strangely enough, Duncan felt surprisingly calm—almost annoyingly so.
Perhaps it was the influence of this haunted ship itself, which defied logic at every turn, or maybe the near-catastrophic experience of his recent collision in the spirit realm had hardened him. More likely, it was simply days of enduring nonsensical conversations with an overly talkative wooden goat head that had immunized him to supernatural absurdities.
Truth be told, when he'd thrown the cursed doll into the sea last time, Duncan had already suspected things wouldn't end so easily.
He stared down at the ornate coffin again. As expected, the nails he'd painstakingly hammered into it and the chains he'd wrapped around it were gone without a trace. Sighing, he slipped the tip of his pirate sword beneath the coffin lid and pried it open again.
Inside lay the same elegant Gothic doll, still motionless upon the luxurious crimson velvet lining. Her hands were neatly folded, serene as ever—yet Duncan couldn't miss the subtle dampness on the edges of her gown. A faint scent of seawater drifted up from the coffin's lining.
Up until now, the doll had done nothing dangerous aside from stubbornly returning time and again—but that alone was more than enough to confirm it as a "cursed object."
He stared at the doll silently for several long moments before finally breaking the quiet with a dry smirk. "You know, my curiosity is officially piqued."
Without another word, he turned and headed towards the deck entrance, casually leaving the coffin—and its occupant—open on the deck.
Duncan knew the risks, but he also knew the Forsaken. If the doll proved troublesome, the ship itself was more than capable of handling her. Meanwhile, he had preparations to make.
Descending into the dim lower deck, Duncan swiftly navigated toward the gunnery bay. Rows of antiquated cannons lined the hull, alongside barrels of black powder and solid iron cannonballs stacked neatly between them. They appeared as ancient as everything else aboard this ghost ship, covered in layers of rust and decay.
Duncan paused, suddenly struck by a thought. If he was truly alone aboard, who had been handling these cannons? Could it be that, like the ship itself, these weapons operated autonomously? Did the Forsaken repair itself, replenish its own water supply—was damage even a meaningful concept aboard this vessel?
New questions piled atop older uncertainties. Duncan had explored the upper sections of the ship superficially over the past few days, but his deeper understanding remained minimal. He'd once hoped merely to escape back home, but after taking control of the helm, he now felt compelled—even eager—to fully understand and control this mysterious ship.
Shaking off these thoughts temporarily, he turned to the piles of cannonballs and began collecting them.
Minutes later, he returned to the stern deck, his arms heavily burdened with several iron cannonballs. As he expected, the doll remained perfectly still within her open coffin.
"Did she move?" Duncan asked casually into the air.
"Not at all," came the goat head's immediate, overly enthusiastic reply. "The young lady remained perfectly quiet and harmless, as I previously suggested. Perhaps there's a special bond between her coffin and our ship, indicating—"
"Shut it."
"Oh, of course."
Duncan stared thoughtfully at the doll for a moment longer. He wondered if she truly couldn't move or was simply stubbornly pretending to sleep. Either way, it didn't matter. He was determined to test something.
Cannonballs were brutally heavy, often used aboard pirate ships to drown traitors in the deep. He carefully placed four cannonballs into the coffin, surrounding the delicate doll. After a moment's hesitation, he returned to the lower deck and fetched another four, stacking them neatly alongside the first group.
Eight solid iron spheres now encircled the elegant Gothic doll. The coffin's luxurious interior now radiated menace rather than grace, the doll's dignity overshadowed by weaponized lethality.
Without ceremony, Duncan resealed the coffin lid, nailed it shut again, and strained mightily to shove it toward the ship's edge. Even with his enhanced strength, the coffin proved incredibly heavy.
Finally, with a decisive kick, he sent the coffin plunging into the sea.
A loud splash echoed as the coffin sank immediately beneath the waves.
Duncan remained at the edge, silently watching the spot where the coffin disappeared. Moments passed quietly.
"Captain," came the goat head's hesitant voice, "Are you regretting discarding her? If you wish, the anchor has volunteered to retrieve—"
"Shut up."
"You've been standing there a long while now..."
"Shut up."
"Understood."
Duncan remained standing quietly, staring outward, fiercely maintaining his dignified silence. He couldn't admit to the goat head—or anyone—that his toes ached terribly from kicking that stupid coffin.
After several minutes, once sure the goat head would remain quiet and the pain had dulled somewhat, Duncan moved casually to the lower decks once more.
He waited patiently, counting minutes silently in his head. When he judged enough time had passed, he opened the observation window at the stern, looking intently at the ocean behind the ship.
"What are you looking for, Captain?" The goat head's curiosity finally overcame its restraint.
"Just wondering exactly how that cursed doll returns," Duncan replied, not bothering to hide his curiosity.
"Because she's cursed, Captain," the goat head remarked plainly.
Duncan sighed, slightly annoyed but mostly intrigued. "I admire your simplistic thinking, but even curses follow some form of logic. She pretends to be dead, refuses communication, yet keeps coming back. I intend to catch her in the act, then force her to communicate."
The goat head paused thoughtfully, then said tentatively, "Captain, your mood has improved noticeably. It's a great relief. Ever since you awoke, you've seemed unusually withdrawn—"
"Silence."
"Of course."
Duncan continued staring into the calm sea, waiting patiently. He had no intention of leaving until he understood this anomaly.
Finally, a faint shadow appeared among the distant waves.
He squinted. The shadow grew clearer—a small, familiar wooden coffin riding the waves like a miniature boat.
Then Duncan saw something truly astonishing.
Standing upright within the coffin was the Gothic doll herself, poised dramatically like some bizarre navigator, holding the heavy coffin lid as a makeshift paddle. With furious determination, she was vigorously paddling her coffin toward the Forsaken, cleaving through the ocean waves with remarkable agility and stubbornness.
Duncan's jaw dropped, eyes widening in disbelief.
The dignified Gothic doll, paddling her own coffin with a lid like a desperate sailor trying to outrun a storm, presented an image so absurdly bizarre it shattered his composure entirely.
Elegant? No, she had clearly abandoned elegance. Disturbing? Yes, far more unsettling than all eight cannonballs combined.
Utterly flabbergasted, Duncan could only stare, frozen in stunned silence as the coffin drew ever closer. He had expected many strange things from this cursed doll, but nothing quite this absurdly determined, resourceful, or downright ridiculous.
Finally, Duncan muttered incredulously, "Now that... is just ridiculous."
The goat head interjected quietly, sounding strangely respectful. "Captain, I must admit—her dedication to returning to you is truly extraordinary."
Duncan didn't bother responding. He simply leaned forward, resigned to the inevitable, and awaited the doll's triumphant return to the Forsaken.