The ship barrels through the turbulent murky waters, dipping over the foamy white crests of the waves like a cork bobbing through an overflowing gutter. The spray arcs up in a billowing fountain, pattering lightly over the deck, imitating light rain, save for its salty bitterness. At the helm of the ship - avoiding the sea's spray - stands a statuesque figure resplendent in a fine midnight-black ball-gown; serene in her dignity, reminiscence of an ancient Grecian goddess. Her tranquil pale face seems almost stark against the dark velvet of both her dress and the night sky. The winds pulls at her long hair, unfurling it like a triumphant silken banner. Her dark eyes mirror the glinting stars above, highlighted by long lashes and perfect, sculpted cheekbones. Not one wrinkle mars her delicate skin, nor a freckle blemishes her faultless features. She stands so tall and graceful and unfaltering on the deck it is almost as if she was carved from marble; a perfect personification of the goddess Aphrodite.

Barely heard over the crashing waves and screaming winds, she hums a low tune under her breath. Regarding the stormy sea and sky in melancholy, her wide eyes reflecting the lightening flashes flickering through the grey layers of heavy clouds, she tilts back her head as tears roll down her porcelain face. She whispers the timeless sea shanty in a low murmur, her voice whipped up by the winds and carried out to sea. Pirates and sailors alike turned from their duties or stirred in their sleep that night, swearing they heard a voice echoing over the mist of the sea, bewitching them with its heart-wrenching beauty; a siren's song.

"My Bonny lies over the ocean,
My Bonny lies over the sea.
My Bonny lies over the ocean.
Oh bring back my Bonny to me."

Salty tears roll down her face, etching deep paths into her cheeks. At that moment the ship tackles a towering seven-foot wave head-on, the dark night is completely erased by the wall of water. The broken wave envelops the deck in a solid curtain of water, drenching the lower sails and masts, washing all the decks clear of any loose debris. Anyone standing on the deck would have been swept out to sea with the jetsam – completely obliterated – but as the water recedes, draining off the deck, the figure still stands, alone, at the helm. Her gown is no longer a magnificent velvety-soft material; the fabric is torn and rotted, the hem and sleeves fraying and moth-eaten. Her skin is no longer a creamy satin-smooth white; instead it is ulcerated - covered in open sores that refuse to heal, and pus-filled wounds that erupt to seep and ooze, staining her ruined dress even further. Her hair is no longer the rich, luxuriant raven-black; rather it hangs, limp and matted - great clumps missing to reveal a yellowed skull underneath. Her face is no longer the perfect oval – the reproduction of a marble statue of Venus – instead flesh falls and hangs off her face, revealing glimpses of white bone beneath. Her eyes - in which the very stars themselves once danced - are a milky-white; dead and sightless. Her deep sockets hold rheumy lifeless eyes and her once-full lips are frozen into a sneering grimace – her blackened teeth crooked and snarling. Instead of spending ten seconds underwater, it is almost as if the maiden had spent ten years rotting under the deepest depths of the ocean.

The sea revealing her for what she truly is, she laughs; a dry, guttural, whispering growl, and begins to sing again, picking up where she left off as if nothing had occurred. Her voice now sounds like nails over a blackboard; the cry of a dying animal. Again the wind steals her words, carrying them far over the sea, forcing them into sailor's ears, reverberating through their brain until they wake up in sheer terror, covered in a thin sheen of sweat, heart beating wildly in their throat.

"The winds have gone over the ocean,
The winds have gone over the sea.
The winds have gone over the ocean,
May they bring back my Bonny to me."

At the completion of the song, the winds suddenly die down and the storm retreats, rolling away over the waves to its next destination. The figure finally turns to disappear back into the gloom of the cabin, chuckling evil to herself.

"Jack Sparrow – I will find you. I will track you down and ferret you out. You will be the one who breaks my curse, and I will hunt you and track you and haunt you, until I am finally freed." Lightening sears down, striking the main-mast of the ship, scorching the rotted wood and illuminating the ship's figurehead – a corpse beckoning out of the mist with glowing ruby eyes.

Jack…Jack… Jack…

I love writing these type of chapters – they're a bit disturbing and gross, I know, and not much action occurs – but they make me sit down and think about how this story is going to tie together, because these scenes are actually quite pivotal in their explanation (it will all eventually come together and things become clear, I assure you). Not to mention, it's just fun writing the description; it's a bit angst-y, it's a bit horror-movie, it's a bit of fantasy.