The Rules of the Vanished

The Goat-Headed Deputy

Alice paused outside the captain's quarters.

The gothic doll tilted her porcelain face upward, staring at the dark oak door before her. Carved into the frame above it, in elegant script, were the words: The Door of the Lost.

Such a name felt fitting aboard the Vanished, yet it wasn't the words themselves that gave her pause—it was the strange, sudden realization that she could read them.

She didn't remember ever learning to read. In fact, she didn't remember learning much of anything. She had no recollection of ever studying, of practicing language or memorizing vocabulary. And yet, somehow, she could read. She understood objects, furniture, etiquette. She could speak fluently and react accordingly. It all came effortlessly.

How?

She'd never questioned it before. But after speaking with Duncan—Captain Duncan—her mind, which had always operated with mechanical stillness, had begun to stir with something new: curiosity.

She recalled the moment he had asked about her name.

That had been the beginning.

In trying to recall the origin of the name "Alice," she had encountered a hollow space within herself, and from that space, an unsettling dissonance had spread—like something once locked tightly had started to shift.

She didn't like that feeling.

Shaking her head, Alice brushed aside the creeping questions and composed herself. Then, with one hand on the handle, she pressed forward against the door.

Nothing happened.

She blinked. Tried again, pushing a little harder.

The door didn't budge. It felt like trying to move a wall made of iron.

Just as she was about to attempt a third time, a deep, dry voice creaked out from behind the door. It was the kind of voice that sounded like it had been soaked into old wood over centuries.

"The door opens outward, miss."

Alice flinched. It wasn't Duncan's voice. But she quickly recovered, uttered a flustered "Oh!" and pulled the door instead. It swung open effortlessly.

She recalled now that Duncan had pulled it open when they first came here.

Still adapting to this strange new world—and to walking and thinking and being again—Alice gave herself a mental shake. These little missteps were only natural… right?

Peeking her head inside, she scanned the captain's quarters.

Empty.

The great navigation table sat under a swaying lantern, illuminated in soft yellow light. Wisps of fog curled along the map's surface. And there, perched along the table's edge, was it—the jet-black goat head carved from wood.

Two obsidian eyes turned toward her, hollow and watchful.

"Please come in, miss," the goat head said. Its tone was surprisingly courteous. "The captain is busy at the moment, but you're welcome to wait here for him. And do avoid peeking around like that—the Vanished has a few overly sensitive types, and making them feel disliked can be… troublesome. Also, if your head falls off again, I can't help you. No arms."

Alice stood stunned.

It talked. She had been told it talked, yes—but hearing the wooden figure rattle off a full paragraph was another matter entirely.

"I—uh, okay," she stammered. "My head doesn't fall off that easily, you know. I even tightened the joint this time. And wait—did you just say there are other… things… on this ship?"

She suddenly froze as realization struck.

That casual comment the goat had made—it implied she wasn't alone. Not really alone. And not just talking to Duncan and a talking desk ornament. There were others. She slowly turned her gaze about the room, half-expecting every shadow to blink back at her.

"This surprises you?" the goat head responded with an almost indulgent tone. "Do you think a ship of this size runs itself? Or that our great Captain Duncan swabs the deck with his own hands?"

Alice hesitated. As eerie as the goat's logic was… it made a strange kind of sense.

"So… there are more like you?" she asked.

"There is only one loyal first mate aboard this ship. The rest are brainless husks, unworthy of conversation," the goat replied haughtily. "But seeing as you're a new crew member, it's only fair I give you a proper orientation. You're unfamiliar with the rules, and naturally, our captain wouldn't stoop to such explanations himself."

Alice blinked. "Wait, I came here to—"

"No interruptions, please. The orientation begins now."

She opened her mouth, but the goat plunged forward at full speed.

"Rules of the Vanished for All Crew Members"

Rule One: Captain Duncan is the supreme authority on this vessel. The Captain is always correct. If reality contradicts the Captain's word, reality is in error.

Rule Two: Crew members may only enter areas the Captain has expressly permitted. Any unpermitted areas are considered nonexistent. Do not attempt to access nonexistent places.

Rule Three: Should you find yourself in a restricted area and somehow remain alive, stay where you are. Wait for Captain Duncan to retrieve you—or die quietly. Do not return on your own. If you do, you are no longer aboard the Vanished.

Rule Four: The Vanished always sails the correct course. Do not question the navigation. If the scenery shifts unexpectedly or the ship appears to descend into deeper seas, this is part of the plan.

Rule Five: The Captain may leave the ship from time to time. During such periods, the vessel continues its journey autonomously. No crew member is allowed near the helm. The steering ropes are… sensitive, and prone to strangling would-be usurpers.

Rule Six: There are only six rules aboard the Vanished.

Rule Seven: The door to the Captain's quarters opens outward.

The goat head delivered this list with flawless confidence, rattling it off as though he'd recited it a hundred times.

Alice, still processing, tilted her head.

"Wait… just now, you said there are only six rules," she pointed out. "But then you added a seventh."

The goat replied without pause: "Rule Seven: The door opens outward."

Alice narrowed her eyes. "That contradicts Rule Six."

"Absolutely not."

"…But…"

"Not at all."

The doll stared at the carved figure in stunned silence. For a moment, she began to doubt her hearing. Then she began to doubt her understanding of logic itself. But then she remembered—she didn't have a brain to doubt with.

She opened her mouth again, thought better of it, and simply sat down on a nearby chair.

Some truths, it seemed, were simply immutable.

Like the fact that the captain's door opened outward.