A/N: Thank you to everyone who reviewed and followed my story! It means a lot to me. Anyway, I'm really sorry this took forever to be updated, but I hope you guys enjoy this chapter. (I don't own anything POTC related except for all of my OCs. Cool? Cool.)


Sat on the splintered steps of her tiny, withered bungalow, Abigail Wright counted the ships on the coast less than a mile away. There seemed to be more than usual—for that season, at least. Precisely three more, she noted to herself.

"How sad," Abigail mumbled."I'm young and vibrant and so is the night, yet here I am…"

"Well, Abby, it could be worse," said Tommy. Tommy was a young lad, deader than the lot of Davy Jones' Locker, whom Abigail befriended when she was a child.

"I could be dead?" she asked knowingly.

"You could be dead."

Sighing, Abigail nodded and rested her head on the tops of her knees.

"Have you ever noticed how each ship that comes to Tortuga is already battered and horrific looking, like they finally found their way to this wretched island where they always belonged?"

Abigail turned to look at Tommy, her brows furrowed as she thought for a moment before replying, "I don't think I've ever seen a nice looking ship before in my life."

"I have. My father was one of the first English colonist on the island and he came over here on the grandest ship you've ever seen," his childlike wonderment caused Abigail to smile, despite the fact that she'd heard this story many times before, however, she knew Tommy couldn't help it; memory loss was an unfortunate result of head-trauma.

And she knew this because she knew nearly everything there was to know about Tommy—they'd been friends for so long, it simply developed with time. He was, after all, the first spirit she had ever encountered. In the beginning, his presence was frightening, but his soul was so young and so sad, he refused to leave Abigail alone until she learned to embrace her gift and the friend she got out of it.

"It's getting late," Tommy interjected, glancing at the heightened tides. "You should probably eat something."

"And then go to bed and repeat the process over and over again until I'm as dead as you are and bound to this earth to go through it as a spirit for the rest of eternity—"

"Ah, but us ghosts don't eat or sleep, so I'm afraid you'll be leading an even more boring existence."

Abigail opened her mouth to speak when a large, thick gust of wind ripped through the front lawn of the bungalow, causing its shutters to rattle and the trees surrounding it to quiver.

Tommy's presence felt lighter and Abigail's eyes began to water, obscuring her human and otherworldly vision.

"Tommy?" she shouted over the sound of the wind.

Nothing.

Gripping the railing, Abigail lifted herself up and trudged up the steps towards the front door.

Once she was there, her hands gripped the doorknob and with one great pull, she stepped inside the wooden house.

"Abigail!" her mother's worried voice rang through the foyer. "What's going on out there?"

"I don't know...it's windy, so I suppose nature has something to do with it."

The older Wright sneered but engulfed her daughter in a bone-crushing hug, anyway."Come, let's eat."

Pulling back, Abigail coughed in order to regain her breath and followed her mother back to the kitchen after struggling to close the front door shut.

"How's Tommy?" Adriana asked as she went back to her cauldron.

"He's alright. Still dead and forgetful, but I love him for it regardless." said Abigail, taking seat at the table. "How's supper?"

"Nearly ready..."

'Nearly ready' eventually meant 'not ready any time soon' and Abigail, bored and curious, decided to relocate to the foyer. There, she found herself a spot beside a window and watched as the trees restlessly tousled about while the waves crashed against the shortened coastline.

It was all so stunningly chaotic—something Abigail found weirdly calming.

As she sat by the ledge and her thoughts deepened with every second spent staring outside, a figure appeared crawling out of the waters. Instantly, Abigail was brought back to reality, gasping as the same figure collapsed onto the sandy stretch of land with its back up.

Without thinking, she stood and raced towards the door—stopping only briefly to warn her mother, "Someone's outside! I think they're hurt," before running into the storm.

The ocean wasn't too far from the Wright's modest bungalow, so it took Abigail less than five minutes to reach the coast.

The winds weren't the least bit merciful as she trudged towards the figure, her skirts fluttering behind her and her hair obscuring her vision more than the rain was.

"Hello," she shouted lamely.

Eventually, she could tell that the figure was a man.

He was wearing a wig whiter than cotton and clothes she'd never seen before but recognized nonetheless. He certainly didn't look like the pirates that usually washed up onto Tortuga's shores which, ironically, made Abigail feel even more uneasy.

"Are you hurt?" her voice wavered a bit but the man began to stir—at least he was alive. "Sir?" she asked again.

"Am I in hell?" he shouted back at her, sounding genuinely curious to know.

Abigail stifled a laugh and shook her head, despite the fact that he couldn't see her. "No, but you're close; you're in Tortuga,"

And then he raised his head to look up at her, his forehead covered with wet sand. "So I'm not dead?"

"Are you supposed to be?" she asked with her head tilted to the side—what a strange question to be asked...

"At this precise moment, I wish I were."

Unsure of what to say, Abigail tried her best to keep her hair out of her face as the storm seemed to worsen. "If it's any consolation you soon will be dead if you don't get out of the rain,"

The man's face wrinkled before plummeting back into the sand.

Clearing her throat, Abigail knelt down beside him. "I left my dry, warm house to see if you were alright and if you were in need of help, so if you don't mind, I'd like to get on with my heroism and assist you in anyway possible."

Seemingly interested, the man's head lifted up once more. "Alright, then get on with it; assist me."

"Okay, but what's your name?"

"James, and yours?"

"Abigail. Please get up, you look very heavy and I don't think I can lift you."

With a sneer on his face, James complied and did as he was told, though as soon as he got on his feet, he swayed forward ever so slightly as if he hadn't walked a day in his life.

"So you are hurt," Abigail proclaimed, reaching forward to steady him.

"No, I'm alive."

"Yes, and the sky is blue—well, not at this moment,"

"I'd really appreciate it if you'd tone down the sarcasm," James snipped as he walked beside Abigail towards the bungalow.

"Then maybe you don't need my assistance after all—"

"Abigail!"

Looking up, Abigail noticed her mother waving frantically from the porch. "I'm coming, mother!"Turning to look at James, she also noticed he'd stopped walking.

"Mother? You live with your mother?"

She opened her mouth to reply when a flash of thunder erupted above their heads. "Come on," reaching for his arm, Abigail pulled James into a sprint towards her house. "dinner's nearly ready."