This wasn't Eliot's first voyage through that unsettling doorway.
Days ago—though time itself seemed twisted and uncertain now—he'd awakened to find himself trapped within his own apartment, surrounded by that unnatural fog that erased the outside world. In his desperation for an escape, he'd soon discovered the peculiar place that lay beyond the door: the deck of an ancient ship, floating in an endless, surreal ocean.
After the initial terror and confusion, after those first harrowing moments when he realized he inhabited a body that was not his own, Eliot had forced himself through several cautious explorations of the vessel. Despite the strangeness, he'd slowly accumulated knowledge about the ship, discovering clues scattered throughout its deserted halls, though much remained unanswered. Questions piled upon questions—what had happened to him, what was this ghostly vessel, and above all, why did he awaken each time in the body of its missing captain?
As before, Eliot shook off the lingering dizziness that accompanied his passage through the black fog. Quickly, methodically, he assessed himself: he flexed his fingers, feeling the strength in his unfamiliar hands, and confirmed the antique pistol was exactly where he'd last placed it. Everything matched precisely—clothes, equipment, even the position of items tucked into pockets. The transition was seamless, perfect, and instantaneous.
"If only I could set up a camera on this side," he muttered aloud, the sound of his voice comforting in the oppressive silence. "I could at least confirm what happens when I cross back. But nothing from the apartment can pass through the door… and nothing from here can return."
He grimaced slightly at the thought. He had managed one test: his cellphone in the apartment had recorded him stepping through the doorway, disappearing into the darkness. That video was tangible proof of his passage—but it couldn't reveal what happened afterward. The transformation happened in the fog itself, beyond view or recording.
Eliot realized he must seem insane, talking aloud on the empty deck, but the act reassured him of his existence. On this ghost ship, alone and uncertain, his voice was his anchor.
A salty gust blew over the deck, rustling the strange, richly embroidered coat he wore. He sighed, turning back toward the door he'd just passed through. He reached out, placing his hand firmly upon the brass handle. He knew from experience that pushing inward would return him instantly to his dim apartment. Instead, he pulled the door outward, revealing a dimly lit captain's quarters filled with shadows and mystery.
The heavy oak door creaked open. Beyond lay a room lit faintly by lantern-like lights whose sources he had never found. Ornate tapestries hung upon paneled walls; shelves of mysterious artifacts and polished instruments hinted at countless voyages long past. A broad navigation table, covered in maps and scattered tools, dominated the room. At the far end, another smaller door waited, partially hidden by shadows.
Passing through the doorway into the captain's quarters, Eliot habitually glanced to his left, toward the full-length mirror fixed firmly to the wall. The man reflected was still unsettlingly unfamiliar: tall, powerfully built, with short black hair and a neatly trimmed beard. The captain's face was handsome but stern, his deep-set eyes radiating a commanding presence that felt utterly foreign to Eliot.
He experimentally twisted his neck, grimacing and then attempting a friendly grin. It didn't work. The mirror reflected back not a reassuring smile, but something unsettling, bordering on threatening. Eliot sighed, giving up—no matter how hard he tried, the man in the mirror stubbornly refused to appear approachable, looking instead more like an unstable menace.
As he stood there, contemplating his altered image, a subtle creaking sound emerged from the direction of the navigation table. Eliot wasn't startled; by now, this was routine. Slowly, deliberately, he turned his head toward the noise. Sitting atop the table was a carved wooden goat's head, polished dark wood adorned with eyes of gleaming obsidian. The statue was turning, slowly, jerkingly, its lifeless eyes seeking him out with an eerie precision.
Eliot's first encounter with this unsettling artifact had left him breathless with panic, heart pounding painfully. Now, familiar irritation replaced fear. He approached the table deliberately, the goat head's gaze tracking him as it completed its wooden pivot.
A dry, grating voice emanated from the wooden carving, the sound as unsettling as the turning had been: "Name?"
"Duncan," Eliot replied evenly, eyes locked on the eerie effigy. "Duncan Abnomar."
The wooden head's manner shifted instantly, transforming from solemn interrogation to exaggerated warmth. "Good morning, Captain Duncan! How wonderful that you remember your own name. How are you feeling today? Did you sleep well last night? Pleasant dreams, I hope. Today is a fine day to set sail, indeed! Calm seas, fair winds, and no bothersome naval patrols or noisy crew to spoil our serenity. And speaking of noisy crews—"
"You're quite noisy enough already," Eliot interrupted, feeling his patience thin. Even knowing what to expect, the goat's incessant chatter grated deeply. "Quiet."
"Oh yes, Captain, of course! Quiet it shall be. Your ever-faithful first mate, second mate, bosun, deckhand, and lookout remembers perfectly your fondness for silence. Silence has so many virtues. Why, once a renowned expert in medicine—or was it philosophy, perhaps architecture—"
"I meant, be quiet!" Eliot snapped, the edge in his voice clearly marking it as an order.
The statue immediately fell silent, wooden eyes unblinking, fixed submissively upon the table. Eliot sighed heavily, seating himself at the broad navigation desk. He was, at least for now, captain of this eerie, abandoned vessel.
Duncan Abnomar. It was not his name; it felt foreign on his tongue, uncomfortable and unfamiliar. But from the moment he had stepped through the veil of fog, this name had been etched in his mind, inseparable from this identity. Duncan Abnomar—the true captain, the one whose body Eliot now inhabited—had evidently vanished long ago, leaving behind only fragmentary memories and the echoes of authority.
Eliot's own memories were confused and sparse, disconnected fragments tangled with impressions left by Captain Duncan. It felt as if he had inherited only the faded remnants of a dead man's most powerful, unresolved emotions—an obsession with some mysterious voyage, vague dread of forgotten dangers, the terrible urgency of a mission whose details remained hidden.
Instinct warned Eliot that Captain Duncan's past concealed grave dangers—especially here, aboard a vessel clearly steeped in unnatural phenomena. The talking goat's head was merely one unsettling example. Yet, despite misgivings, he knew adopting the captain's identity was his only safety. The ship itself seemed designed to constantly verify the captain's identity, an endless cycle of checks implying dire consequences should the captain forget his own name.
Eliot wasn't certain precisely what those consequences would entail—but intuition suggested strongly they would be catastrophic. The wooden goat head alone, he suspected, was far from benign. Yet while he wore Duncan's name, everything aboard the ship remained polite, even accommodating.
With a resigned sigh, he turned his attention to the peculiar map spread out before him on the desk. It was unsettlingly devoid of recognizable features—no landmasses, no islands, no traditional nautical markers. Instead, the parchment depicted swirling, shifting clouds of gray and white fog, obscuring everything but a vague outline of a single vessel, frozen at the center of the map.
Eliot possessed no sailing experience, but he was certain that no normal nautical map looked like this. Like the wooden goat head, this map seemed an object steeped in supernatural strangeness—a tool he had yet to decipher fully.
Noticing Eliot's attention focused on the map, the goat head began to stir again, cautiously at first, then more insistently, rattling gently in its mounting until the sound became impossible to ignore. The carving quivered violently, as if desperate to catch the captain's eye, wooden surfaces creaking ominously.
Eliot finally yielded, turning sharply toward the persistent carving. "What now?"
"Ah, Captain Duncan! Allow me to repeat myself—the seas await! Today is indeed perfect for sailing. Your ship, the Forsaken, stands ready and eager for your command. Shall we raise the sails?"