The Flying Dutchman

Captain’s Log: April 15th, 1681

Finally, we’ve cast off from Cape Verde. The Dutchman sails heavy, her hold laden with precious cargo bound for the Americas. Officially, we are transporting goods—salt, ivory, textiles—but only fools would take those words at face value. The true cargo, locked securely in the lower hold, is something far more lucrative, though equally damning if known. It is not my concern to moralize over the Company’s dealings. My task is to deliver and profit.

Amsterdam made it clear before I left port: delays are unacceptable. The economy waits for no man, and our investors expect results. I’ve been given a tight schedule, one that leaves no room for error. That damned letter from the directors—so polite on the surface but soaked with veiled threats—still sits in my cabin. I’ll meet their demands, as I always do. This ship has earned me their favor more than once.

The crew, a mixed lot as always, grumbles about the journey before it has truly begun. A few have complained about rations already, as if they expect feasts aboard a merchant ship. Their talk is low, whispered when they think I’m not listening. Fools. Let them mutter. The lash will teach them discipline soon enough if they step out of line.

The wind favors us for now, and The Dutchman cuts through the waves like a blade. I feel the familiar thrill of command, the rush of power that comes from bending men and nature to my will. The sea, for all her fury, is a predictable mistress, so long as you respect her boundaries. Still, there’s an unease I can’t quite shake—like the faint shadow of a storm on the horizon.

I will dismiss it for now. There is too much at stake to allow idle worries to creep into my thoughts. For now, we sail, and the promise of riches awaits.

Captain’s Log: May 30th, 1681

The wind holds steady, though the crew grows restless. This stretch of the journey is always the dullest—a monotonous expanse of endless blue. We’ve yet to see another ship for weeks, and the horizon offers no hint of change. It tests a man’s patience, though I find solace in the quiet. The same cannot be said for the men.

Van der Meer, my first mate, seems distant. He’s a capable man, but he spends too much time watching the men, his brow furrowed as if their complaints trouble him. I’ll speak with him tonight and remind him where his loyalties must lie. A crew divided is a captain’s worst enemy, and I’ll not have mutiny fermenting below deck.

Discontent simmers below deck. Van der Meer has reported an increase in arguments among the crew, petty squabbles over duties and rations. I suspect it stems from the cramped quarters and stagnant air, though it is not my role to coddle them. If their spirits waver, they must harden them, as I have. I’ve ordered an additional shift on deck to keep idle hands busy. Work is the antidote to boredom—and rebellion.

I’ve also noticed the cargo in the lower hold has gone quieter. Before, the muffled sounds of movement and the occasional voice were unavoidable—a grim reminder of the trade we conduct. Now, silence. I’ve ordered the guards to keep a closer watch, but they’ve reported nothing unusual. Perhaps the heat has subdued the cargo. If so, it’s a small blessing; I have no interest in entertaining complications.

The skies remain clear, the seas calm. Were it not for the undercurrent of unease among the men, this would be an ideal crossing. But even I cannot shake the feeling that something is amiss. A shadow crosses my thoughts when I least expect it, like the ghost of some forgotten memory trying to claw its way into my mind. I dismiss it, of course. The sea has a way of playing tricks on even the sharpest minds.

Still, I’ve taken to sleeping with my pistol at my side. It’s a precaution, nothing more. A captain’s duty is to remain vigilant, after all.

Captain’s Log: July 25th, 1681

The coast is within reach at last. The men have grown restless, their patience worn thin by the monotony of the voyage. Their constant grumbling grates on my nerves like barnacles on the hull. They don’t understand what it takes to command a ship of this magnitude, to bear the weight of profit, deadlines, and damn fools who think themselves my equal. Were it not for my firm hand, this vessel would already be adrift in chaos.

I’ve received no end of complaints from Van der Meer. He seems to think I care about the crew’s morale as we near the Cape. He’s a competent first mate, but soft—always concerned with keeping the men happy, as if this were some pleasure cruise instead of a business venture. He had the gall to suggest increasing their rations today. “They’re worn down, Captain,” he said, his eyes darting to the deck as if he were chastising me. “The heat’s taken its toll, and we’ll need them strong for the next leg.”

“Strength comes from discipline, not indulgence,” I told him. “If they’re weak, it’s because they lack the will to endure. Remind them of that.” I don’t intend to waste valuable supplies coddling men who can’t handle a bit of adversity. A good crew knows their place, and mine will learn it if they’ve forgotten.

The cargo remains quiet—a small mercy. I’ve kept the guards on rotation, though some of them have reported strange noises during the night. Scratching, they say, and whispers. One even claimed to hear laughter, low and guttural, as if some beast were pacing the hold. I dismissed it as fatigue-induced nonsense. They’re lucky I didn’t have them flogged for spreading such drivel among the men.

Still, I’ve noticed an unease spreading through the crew, a tension that wasn’t there before. They glance over their shoulders more often now, as if expecting to see something lurking just out of sight. Even Van der Meer looks more haggard by the day. He’s taken to avoiding me unless absolutely necessary, though whether that’s due to fear or exhaustion, I couldn’t say. Either way, I’ll tolerate no insubordination, from him or anyone else.

The weather holds for now, but the skies to the south are darkening. I can feel the wind shifting, carrying with it the promise of storms. The Cape has a reputation for treacherous waters, but I’ve navigated it before and will do so again. I refuse to let some tempest delay us further. Every day lost costs the company money—and my reputation.

Captain’s Log: August 3rd, 1681

The storms have arrived, and with them, the true test of my command. It came without mercy, as if the sea itself conspired to drag us into its depths. For three days now, we’ve been battered by unrelenting winds and waves that rise like walls, slamming against the hull with deafening force. The deck is a chaos of frayed ropes and drenched men scrambling to keep the ship afloat. And yet, I refuse to yield.

The Cape of Good Hope, they call it—a bitter irony. There is no hope here, only the howling of the wind and the fury of the ocean. The men are breaking under the strain. Cowards, the lot of them. Van der Meer had the audacity to suggest turning back this morning. “Captain,” he shouted over the storm, his face pale and dripping with rain, “we’ll lose the ship if we continue! The cargo—”

“Damn the cargo!” I bellowed, my voice cutting through the roar of the tempest. “We press on, or we drown like rats! You dare question my orders? Get back to your station before I throw you overboard myself!”

He hesitated, his eyes filled with something I’ve come to recognize in the men lately—contempt. He’s grown insolent, emboldened by the crew’s grumblings. I’ll deal with him once we’re through this madness.

The truth is, I can feel the weight of the storm pressing down on me. The ship groans beneath us as if the very wood is crying out in pain. The cargo hold reeks of fear and desperation, the guards reporting that the slaves have taken to chanting in their native tongue, a haunting melody that seems to rise and fall with the waves. Some of the crew whisper that it’s a curse, that their voices are calling the storm upon us. Fools. Superstitious nonsense is the last thing I need right now.

I won’t let fear take hold. If there’s a devil in this storm, I’ll drive us through it. I’ll see us to the other side, and I’ll make these men remember why they call me Captain. We’re close to rounding the Cape; I can feel it. The winds will shift in our favor soon enough, and the sea will bow to my command as it always has.

I am in control. I must be.

Captain’s Log: August 7th, 1681

The storm rages on, relentless as ever. No man can endure such fury, and yet here we are, clinging to what little sanity remains. The sea roars like an unholy beast, the wind screaming through the shredded sails. The crew no longer answers my orders, huddling in shadows like frightened animals. Below deck, the slaves cry out, their wails blending with the cacophony. We are drowning in fear—every last one of us. And yet, I refuse to succumb.

But tonight, something changed. Tonight, the storm stilled—not entirely, but enough to feel unnatural, as though the ocean itself held its breath. It was then I saw the figure emerge from the mist, walking toward the ship as if the waves were solid ground.

It—it was not human. At first, I thought it some monstrous hallucination conjured by exhaustion, but as it drew closer, the air thickened. It was tall, cloaked in writhing shadows, its face obscured beneath a hood. Eyes like burning gold stared out, unblinking and infinite. When it spoke, the sound was everywhere and nowhere, a low, reverberating hum that pierced through my chest.

“Captain,” it intoned, the word dragging like a blade over stone. “You summoned me, though you did not know it. I have come to offer you a way out.”

For a moment, I could only stare, the weight of its presence pinning me in place. Then, gathering what remained of my resolve, I asked, “What are you?”

The figure tilted its head, amused—or something like it. “I am the storm and the calm. The darkness beneath the waves and the fury of the wind. But you, Captain—you are something rare. Ambition burns within you, stronger than fear. That is why I am here.”

“What do you want?” I demanded, though my voice cracked like brittle wood.

The creature stepped forward, its shadows pooling at my feet. “It is not what I want. It is what you need. Survival. Power. Glory. These I can grant you. But everything has a price.”

Its words clawed at me, and in the back of my mind, a desperate voice begged me to turn away. But I could not. The storm outside raged louder, and the truth was clear: this thing—this demon—was my only chance. “What price?” I asked, though the answer already weighed heavy in the air.

It smiled then, a grotesque twist that stretched its shadowed face too far. “Your crew,” it whispered. “Their souls, their pain. And the cargo below—the lives you already deem worthless. Offer them, and I will guide you through these waters. More than that, I will make you eternal, Captain. The storms will bow before you.”

I hesitated. For a moment, I saw Van der Meer’s defiant sneer, young Pieter’s wide eyes, and the terrified faces of those locked below deck. But the storm outside screamed louder, and my choices narrowed to nothing. “Do it,” I said. “Take them. But let me live.”

The demon’s eyes burned brighter. “A bargain is not sealed with mere words,” it said, extending a clawed hand. “An act of blood, Captain. You must give willingly. You must kill.”

My breath hitched. “Kill who?”

The demon’s smile widened. “Choose,” it purred. “It matters not to me. A sailor, a slave—spill their blood, and your path will be clear.”

It was young Pieter I found first. He had been cowering near the galley, his small frame trembling like a leaf. I told myself it was mercy—that his death would be quick, sparing him the torment of the storm or the lash of mutiny. I told myself many things. But the truth? I chose him because he was the weakest, the least likely to fight back.

The boy’s eyes widened as I approached, my knife gleaming in the dim lantern light. “Captain?” he stammered, confusion quickly turning to dread. “W-what are you doing?”

I said nothing. I couldn’t. My hand trembled as I raised the blade, his voice breaking into frantic pleas. “Please! I’ve done nothing! Captain, no—”

The blade struck deep, silencing him mid-sentence. Blood pooled quickly, staining the floorboards, warm and sticky beneath my boots. I stood over his lifeless body, the storm howling once more, as though the sea itself mourned the boy I had taken.

When I returned to the deck, the demon was waiting, its form darker, more substantial now. It nodded once, approvingly. “The bargain is sealed,” it said. “You will have what you desire. At dawn, your journey begins anew.”

The creature vanished as suddenly as it had come, leaving me alone with the storm. The wind screamed louder, the waves rising as if to devour us whole. But I felt no fear—only the cold weight of what I had done.

Tomorrow, I will see if its promise holds. But tonight, the blood on my hands feels heavier than the sea itself.

Captain’s Log: August 8th, 1681

The storm broke at dawn, just as the demon promised. The sea lies calm now, unnervingly so, as if mocking the chaos of the night before. The sun rises red on the horizon, casting a blood-like sheen across the water. I should feel relief—relief at having survived when all seemed lost—but the weight in my chest tells me otherwise. Something is wrong.

The crew awoke to an unnatural silence. The howling winds that had kept us on edge for days were gone, leaving only the creak of the ship and the faint lapping of waves against the hull. At first, they cheered, thinking the storm had spared us by some divine miracle. But their celebration was short-lived. They noticed the boy’s absence. Pieter. I could see the questions forming in their eyes, the suspicion lurking just beneath their whispered conversations. I told them he must have been swept overboard in the storm. A lie, but one they had no choice but to accept—for now.

The slaves below deck were another matter. Their cries are different today. Not the fearful wails of prisoners, but something… otherworldly. It’s as if they’ve seen something—felt something—I cannot yet comprehend. One man, his wrists raw from struggling against his chains, screamed in a language I do not know, his voice echoing with a desperation that chilled me to my core. The others joined him, their voices a haunting chorus. I ordered the hatch sealed. I cannot face them now.

It was during the quiet hours of the morning, when the crew busied themselves repairing the sails and rigging, that I noticed it. My reflection. I was standing by the helm, staring into the still waters, when I caught sight of my face staring back at me. But it wasn’t my face—not entirely. My eyes were darker, the pupils unnaturally large, swallowing almost all of the color. My skin seemed pale, almost translucent, with veins like black tendrils creeping up from my neck. And my hands—they looked… wrong. The nails sharper, longer than they had been.

I turned away quickly, my heart hammering in my chest. The crew mustn’t see this. Whatever is happening to me, it must remain hidden. I pulled my gloves tighter and adjusted my coat, all the while cursing the demon’s name under my breath.

I returned to my cabin, locking the door behind me. My reflection in the small mirror above the desk confirmed my fears. My transformation is not limited to the surface. There’s something inside me, gnawing at the edges of my mind, whispering thoughts I dare not entertain. It’s as if my soul itself is unraveling, piece by piece.

This curse is not just for them—not just for the crew or the slaves below deck. It’s mine as well. I feel it now, a tether pulling me down into some unfathomable abyss. The bargain was supposed to save me, to grant me the power to command the seas and weather any storm. Instead, it has chained me to something far worse than death.

I tried to write a letter to send back to Amsterdam—to warn them, perhaps—but the words would not come. Every line dissolved into gibberish, symbols I did not recognize spilling from my pen. I threw the paper aside in frustration, watching as the ink seemed to bleed and twist, forming shapes that looked like eyes—hundreds of eyes—staring back at me.

The demon lied. Or perhaps it told the truth, but in half-measures. I will survive, yes, but at what cost? My body? My mind? My very soul?

Captain’s Final Log: October 14th, 1681

I write this now as a futile act—a testament to my damnation, a record for no one. The ink stains these pages as if it burns, and the ship groans beneath me, alive and hateful. The Dutchman is no longer mine, nor is it the ship that left port those many weeks ago. We are something else now. Something twisted and eternal.

The first attack happened at dusk, as the sun sank beneath a horizon that seemed painted in blood. A merchant vessel, small and unassuming, crossed our path. The crew—my crew—saw it as prey. Their eyes burned with a hunger I could not fathom, a ravenous desperation that surpassed plunder or survival. It was a madness, a compulsion that even I could not resist.

We descended upon them with a speed and fury that defied reason. The Dutchman moved as if possessed, its sails billowing with an unnatural wind, its hull cutting through the water like a blade. The merchant crew screamed as we boarded, their cries swallowed by the night. I watched as my men slaughtered them, their hands drenched in blood and their laughter echoing like the howls of beasts. I did nothing to stop it. I could do nothing.

When the last man fell, the true horror began. The bodies were dragged aboard our ship, but not by my order. The Dutchman itself seemed to claim them, its planks shifting and twisting to pull the corpses into its depths. The ship drank their blood, their very essence, and I could feel it—the power coursing through the vessel, through us all.

The demon’s voice returned, cold and mocking. “You sought power, Captain. You sought life everlasting. And now you have it, for as long as the seas churn and the storms rage. You and your men shall hunt the waters, neither alive nor dead, until the end of time.”

I tried to resist, to curse the demon’s name, but the words caught in my throat. My body betrayed me, moving to the helm as if guided by unseen hands. The ship turned, seeking its next prey, and I felt the weight of the curse settle fully upon me. I am no longer captain of this vessel. I am merely its prisoner, bound to its will, condemned to lead it in its eternal hunt.

The crew has changed as well. Their faces are no longer human, their features warped and monstrous. Their eyes glow with an unnatural light, and their laughter carries a cruelty that chills me to my core. They revel in the slaughter, in the torment of those we attack. The slaves in the hold are gone, their screams silenced, their souls claimed by the Dutchman—or worse.

We attacked again last night—a brigantine this time. Its crew fought valiantly, but it was no use. The Dutchman is unstoppable, its hull impervious to cannon fire, its sails immune to flame. We boarded them in minutes, cutting down their men and dragging their bodies to the ship. Some we left alive, only to hear their cries as the ship consumed them. Their terror sustains us, and I hate myself for the satisfaction it brings.

I see now that this is my fate, my punishment for my hubris. I thought I could cheat the storm, cheat death itself. Instead, I have become its instrument. The demon’s curse binds me, and the sea is my prison. There is no escape, no redemption.

The Dutchman sails endlessly, its mast casting a shadow even in the moonlight, its hull groaning like a beast in pain. We are the nightmare of the seas, the ghost ship whispered about in taverns and told as bedtime warnings. Sailors fear us, and they should. We take all who cross our path—crew, passengers, and even the souls of the innocent.

This will be my final entry, for I have no need of logs now. Time means nothing aboard the Dutchman. Days blur into nights, storms into calm. We are eternal, cursed to hunt, to kill, to claim. I do not know if this book will ever be found, or if these words will fade into oblivion as I have.

To those who read this: beware the Flying Dutchman. Beware its captain, for I am no longer the man who set sail from Amsterdam. I am a wraith, a specter bound to the sea, and I will come for you.