"The Curse in the Coffin"
A tale of a cursed, rotten-fleshed sailor
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“Pirates! PIRATES!!”
The scream of a terrified boy echoed across the coastline. He stood trembling at the edge of the weathered wooden quay, his eyes locked on the black sail piercing through the sea mist on the horizon, a tattered Jolly Roger flapping in the wind.
Panic spread like wildfire through the harbor town. Civilians ran in every direction. Among them, a group of merchants frantically untied their ship from the quay. The vessel, named The Providence, pulled away from the docks and headed into open waters. Few aboard knew the true reason for their haste…
It wasn’t fear of the pirates.
It was what they were carrying in their cargo hold.
One week ago, deep in the jungle ruins of an uncharted island, the crew unearthed something unnatural: a heavy, rotting, coffin-shaped crate bound in iron. Its wood was blackened as if charred, and it reeked of centuries-old decay. When they first tried to open it, their tools crumbled in their hands, metal rusted to dust the moment it touched the box. Hammers dissolved, crowbars melted like wax.
Fear overtook curiosity. Convinced it was cursed, the merchants encased it in a stone sarcophagus built hastily at the edge of the shore. Yet, when rumors of pirate sails approaching spread through town, they decided to take it with them. Their logic: if left behind, the pirates might open it, and if opened, whatever was inside could unleash darkness on the world.
From the Eagle’s Nest of the pirate ship The Dagger’s Wrath, a lookout squinted toward the sea.
“Captain!” he bellowed. “That merchant ship, she’s fleeing like the devil’s chasing her! Never seen anything like it. They must be hiding something valuable.”
Captain Varell, a brutal man with a scarred face and eyes like dead coals, didn’t hesitate.
“Hoist the black sails! We take what they’re trying so hard to protect.”
Despite The Providence’s head start, it moved slower than expected, burdened by the unholy weight in its hold. The pirates caught up swiftly. Cannonfire tore through the hull, and boarding hooks clanged against the railings. Chaos erupted as steel clashed with steel, and screams filled the ocean air.
Within minutes, the pirates overpowered the crew. Blood slicked the decks. A few merchants were left alive, only long enough to reveal the location of the mysterious cargo.
Captain Varell and his men descended into the hold, torches flickering in the dark. The air grew colder as they approached the stone tomb.
“What in hell’s name is this?” one pirate whispered.
“Treasure, perhaps?” said another.
“No,” Varell muttered, eyes narrowed. “Something… older.”
They pried the lid open with difficulty, using iron chains and brute strength. The air hissed as if exhaling after centuries. A foul stench erupted from the coffin, thick and choking.
Inside lay a corpse or what was left of one. Its skin was waxy, stretched tight over half-exposed bone, and riddled with rotting wounds. Its eyes opened suddenly jet black, like ink-filled voids. A low groan, not of pain but of ancient hunger, echoed from its throat.
The pirates stepped back in horror. Something was wrong, deeply, unspeakably wrong.
Then it spoke, its voice rasping in Ancient Latin, the words rolling like thunder from a forgotten abyss:
“Those who awakened me from my slumber… thank you. Now that I am free, I shall cover this world in a darkness you’ve never imagined.”
Before they could react, the creature stood, faster than anything that dead should move. A blade, rusted and jagged, appeared in its hand as if summoned by rage alone. It fell upon the pirates and merchants alike, tearing through them with savage precision. Blood sprayed the walls. Screams were cut short. Limbs severed.
No soul was spared.
When the massacre ended, the deck was silent, save for the sound of bones snapping underfoot. The creature began to feed ripping flesh, cracking ribs, gorging itself until all that remained were piles of blood-soaked bones.
As the ship drifted across the sea, ghostly quiet and cloaked in mist, only the cursed one remained, standing at the bow, his black eyes gazing toward the horizon.
The sun never rose on The Providence again.
And from that day forth, sailors whispered of a cursed ship that sails with tattered sails and a rotting figure at its helm. A sailor of old flesh and older hatred.
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Some doors were never meant to be opened.
Some coffins should never be unearthed.
And some monsters never die… they wait.
Written by Armando Gomes Guincho
Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0
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