I'm The Captain on Oil Rig 32. We have some STRANGE RULES.

My name is Captain Peter Jensen, though most  folks just call me Jensen. For forty years, I’ve called the sea my home. Now, as I prepare to  hang up my captain’s hat and step back onto solid ground for good, I feel it’s my duty to leave  something behind.

Not for my crew—no, most of them have their sea legs by now—but for the rookies who  will follow. Rig 32 is no place for the foolhardy or the unprepared, and if my stories can keep  just one greenhorn from making a fatal mistake, then I’ll consider this guide worth writing. I wasn’t always a man of the sea.

Once, long ago, I thought my future lay in a much quieter life. My  father was a carpenter, a man who worked with his hands and built things that lasted. I inherited  his knack for crafting, but I wasn’t interested in making chairs or fixing roofs.

I wanted  something bigger, something wilder. The sea called to me, as it does to certain people,  and once I answered, I never looked back. I’m not a complicated man.

I like my work steady,  my coffee strong, and my boots broken in. I’ve got no use for neckties or crowded offices  with buzzing lights. I’ve always preferred the open air, the sound of waves against steel,  and the quiet satisfaction of knowing I’m part of something bigger than myself.

Running an oil rig  isn’t glamorous work, but it’s honest. It requires discipline, grit, and a willingness to face  whatever the ocean decides to throw your way. And believe me, she has her moods.

I’ve spent most of my life out here, watching the sun rise and fall over endless  water. The routines of the rig suit me. There’s comfort in the predictability of a shift,  the rhythm of maintenance checks, and the hum of machinery.

But there’s a flip side to it, too.  The isolation can wear on a man, and the quiet can turn heavy. You’ve got to learn how to carry  it without letting it crush you.

Not everyone can. Now, about Rig 32. It’s a colossal thing, a metal  island in the middle of nowhere.

Officially, we’re in the South Sea, though our exact  location changes with the currents and the company’s orders. The rig has seen its share  of storms, and she’s weathered them all. She’s built for it.

The men and women who work here?  Well, some of them are, too. Others aren’t.

The crew changes often. Some last a few months,  others a few weeks. The turnover is high, but I suppose that’s to be expected.

Life out  here isn’t for everyone. The work is grueling, the weather unpredictable, and the  ocean—she’s as beautiful as she is unforgiving. You’d do well to remember that.

When you arrive, you’ll be given a silver pin. It’s small, round, and engraved with what  looks like a sea monster. You’re to wear it at all times, no exceptions.

Most rookies don’t  think much of it. They figure it’s some kind of company tradition or a way to identify workers in  an emergency. That’s partly true, but there’s more to it than that.

You’ll understand soon enough. The rig operates under strange circumstances. For one, none of us knows exactly who owns it. 

Sure, there’s a name on the paycheck, but it’s generic—a holding company, nothing traceable.  Before you start, you’ll sign a non-disclosure agreement. Standard stuff, but the rules that  follow?

They’re not written down. You’ll hear them from the veterans, piece by piece, until  they become second nature. That’s why I’m writing this guide—to fill in the gaps and tell you the  things that don’t make it into the safety manuals.

This is not a place for careless mistakes. People  have been lost out here, some to the waves, others to. .

. well, things we don’t talk about.  There are forces at work in the South Sea that defy logic and reason.

I’ve seen things I  can’t explain, and I’ve heard stories from men I trust that would make your hair stand  on end. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Before I dive into all that, let  me start slow.

You’re new here, after all. Take it one step at a time, and  maybe—just maybe—you’ll find your footing. Life on the rig is hard, but it’s honest  work.

There’s something gratifying about it, though most people would never understand. Out  here, you live by routine. You wake up at the same time every day, put on your gear, and  head out to do your tasks.

Some days, you’re in the engine room checking gauges and making  sure nothing’s about to explode. Other days, you’re up top, tightening bolts or clearing  debris off the deck. It’s physical, demanding work, and by the end of the day, your muscles  are sore and your clothes smell like salt and oil.

But there’s a kind of satisfaction  in it that you don’t get anywhere else. The food helps too. I’ve worked rigs where  the cafeteria serves gray slop that could pass for dog food, but not here.

On Rig 32, the  meals are hot, and the coffee actually tastes good. The beans come from Colombia—I don’t  know who’s paying for that kind of luxury, but I’m not about to complain. Every morning,  there’s bacon.

Crispy, greasy, the kind that makes your mouth water before you’ve even gotten  in line. Fridays are pizza nights, and they don’t skimp on the toppings either. It’s the little  things like that that keep morale up.

Out here, you learn to appreciate the little things. The sunsets are another gift. No matter how rough the day’s been, when the sun dips below the  horizon and paints the sky with streaks of orange and pink, you can’t help but stop and watch. 

The sea turns into a shimmering sheet of gold, and for a moment, the rig doesn’t feel so  cold and industrial. It feels. .

. alive. Now, the rig itself is noisy.

It’s a constant hum  of machinery, the clanging of metal against metal, and the occasional burst of steam.  At first, it can drive you crazy, especially when you’re trying to sleep.  Most of us wear earplugs to block it out, but after a while, you get used to it.

The noise  becomes part of the background, like the ticking of a clock or the buzz of a refrigerator.  You stop noticing it until it’s gone. But you didn’t come here to read about bacon or  sunsets, did you?

You’re here for the stories, and I’ve got plenty of them. Some you might  not believe. Hell, if I hadn’t seen them with my own eyes, I wouldn’t believe them either. 

But they’re important, and if you’re smart, you’ll remember them. Out here, the ocean doesn’t  just take; she tests you. And sometimes, she shows you things you’d rather not see.

Let’s start small. The fish. Every once in a while, a fish will wash  up onto the rig deck.

At first glance, they don’t look like anything special. Black  scales, sleek bodies, the kind of fish you’d see in any fishing port. But you need to leave  them alone.

Don’t touch them, and don’t try to keep them as a trophy. If you catch one  in your nets, throw it back into the water as soon as you can. I can’t stress this enough.

You see, these fish aren’t normal. Not even close. They look fine on the outside, but if you’re  curious—or stupid—enough to open their mouths, you’ll see something that’ll stick  with you forever.

Teeth. Not sharp, jagged teeth like a shark or piranha. No, these  fish have human teeth.

Straight, a little yellow, but undeniably human. I’ve seen plenty of  strange things in my time, but there’s something about those teeth that makes my skin crawl. One rookie decided to keep one once.

He thought it was funny. “Look at this! ” he said, holding it up  like it was a prize.

We told him to throw it back, but he just laughed. Later that night, we heard  him screaming. When we found him, he was curled up in the corner of his bunk, muttering nonsense and  clutching his arm like it was on fire.

He didn’t stay long after that. No one ever does. Then there are the salt statues.

You’ll only see them after a storm. I’m not  talking about a little rain shower—I mean the kind of storm where the waves are so high, they slam  against the rig like they’re trying to pull it under. On nights like that, everyone stays inside. 

You don’t step out onto the deck unless you’ve got a death wish. The wind howls, the rain pounds,  and the whole rig shudders under the force of it. It’s a reminder of how small we are out here,  just a speck of metal in the vast, angry ocean.

But when the storm passes and the sea calms down,  that’s when you’ll see them. The salt statues. They’re not always in the same place, but they’re  always there.

Figures made entirely of salt, standing on the deck like they’ve been carved by  the waves themselves. At first, you might think it’s just a trick of the light, or maybe some kind  of erosion. But then you’ll notice the details.

Arms, legs, torsos, and faces. Human faces. It’s the faces that get to you.

They’re so detailed, down to the creases in the skin and the  wrinkles around the eyes. But it’s the mouths that really stick with you. They’re always open, like  they’re screaming.

Some of the statues have their hands outstretched, like they’re reaching for  something—or someone. It’s like they’re frozen in their final moments, whatever those moments were. We don’t touch them.

We don’t talk about them. By midday, they’re usually gone, dissolved back  into the sea or blown away by the wind. But they always come back, after the next storm or  the one after that.

I’ve asked myself a hundred times where they come from, and I’ve never  found an answer. Maybe it’s better that way. So, if you’re out on the deck one morning  after a storm and you see one of them, don’t go poking around.

Take it as a warning,  a reminder of what the ocean is capable of. She gives, she takes, and sometimes, she leaves  you things you’d rather not think about. That’s enough for now.

There’s plenty more  to tell, but you’ll need time to let this sink in. Life on the rig might seem routine  at first, but it doesn’t take long for the strange and the unexplainable to find you.  And when it does, you’d better be ready.

The ocean is full of strange things, some  things I’ll never understand. I don’t have answers for all of it—hell, most of  it—but I’ve seen enough to know this: the less you poke at it, the safer you’ll be.  I’m writing this down because the rookies need to know.

You’re coming to a place where the  rules of the world don’t always seem to apply. The sea is as old as time, and there’s more  to it than we could ever hope to grasp. There are nights out here when the water  looks like liquid pitch.

No light reaches it, and it stretches out like a vast, endless pool of  oil. But then, just when you think it couldn’t get darker, you’ll see something that catches your  eye: stars. Tiny pinpricks of light reflected off the surface, shimmering like a second sky. 

It’s beautiful, sure, but it doesn’t make sense. When you’re far from shore with nothing  but the rig’s lights to break the darkness, you learn to question beauty like that. One of the scariest nights of my life happened when I was still new to the rig.

It  was forty years ago, back when I was green, eager, and maybe a little too bold for my own  good. I’d just finished a shift and decided to head up to the observation deck for a smoke. It  was a quiet night, or so I thought.

The air was heavy with the promise of a storm, and the  clouds overhead were thick enough to block out every last trace of moonlight or stars. I leaned against the railing, lit my cigarette, and took a long drag. The ocean was as black  as I’d ever seen it, but after a while, I noticed something odd.

There were tiny dots  of light scattered across the water below me. At first, I thought they were reflections from  the rig’s lights, but that didn’t add up. They didn’t move with the waves like reflections  do.

They stayed still, fixed in place, like stars pinned to a black canvas. I stared at them, mesmerized, until a terrible thought hit me. The sky  above me was completely covered in storm clouds.

There weren’t any stars to reflect. That was when I realized they weren’t stars at all. They were eyes.

Dozens of them, maybe  more, all staring up at me from the water. My stomach dropped, and my cigarette slipped from  my fingers. I don’t remember much after that, just the sound of my own boots pounding  against the metal as I ran back inside.

It took me months to step back out onto the deck  after dark. Even now, all these years later, I avoid looking at the water too much.  You never know what’s staring back.

That wasn’t the last strange thing  I’ve seen out here. Far from it. The ocean has a way of showing you things  that stick with you, no matter how much you try to forget.

One of the things I can’t  shake is the ship. Every man on this rig knows about it, even if they don’t talk about it. It only appears on stormy nights.

You’ll be out on the deck, fighting to secure the equipment or  making sure everything’s holding steady, and then you’ll see it: a massive ship in the distance.  It looks like something out of a history book, with big, tattered sails and a wooden hull so  covered in barnacles it’s hard to tell where the wood ends and the sea begins. The thing moves  through the water like a ghost, silent and smooth, no matter how rough the waves are.

And you  never see anyone on board. Not a single soul. The first time I saw it, I thought it was some  kind of mirage.

Maybe I’d been out in the sun too long, or maybe the stress of the storm was  playing tricks on me. But when I looked around, I saw the same expression on the faces  of the men beside me. They saw it too.

We didn’t say a word. No one ever does. But we  all think the same thing: that’s Davy Jones.

You’ve probably heard the legend  of Davy Jones, but if you haven’t, let me fill you in. They say he’s the captain of  the Flying Dutchman, cursed to sail the seas for eternity. Some stories say he was a greedy sailor  who betrayed his crew for treasure.

Others say he was a man who fell in love with the sea itself  and made a deal with the devil to stay on it forever. Whatever version you believe, the story  always ends the same way: Davy Jones is doomed, and so are those who cross his path. Sailors have feared him for centuries.

They say he collects the souls of those  who die at sea, dragging them down to his locker at the bottom of the ocean. When  you’re surrounded by nothing but water, the old stories start to feel a little more real.  They’re the kind of stories that keep you alive.

So, when that ship passes by, you don’t call out  to it. You don’t wave, and you sure as hell don’t try to signal it. You keep your head down, do your  job, and hope it keeps moving.

It always does. There’s one rule on Rig 32 that you need to  understand better than any of the others: never go through the red basement door. You might not even see it during your time here.

It’s not always there, but when it  is, you’ll know. It’s a heavy, rust-red door, tucked away at the far end of the rig’s lower  levels, near the stairs that lead to storage. You could walk past that spot a hundred times  and never see it, but then one day, it’ll just… be there.

Nobody knows why. Nobody knows who  built it or why it comes and goes like it does. If you see it, do yourself a favor:  turn around and leave.

Don’t touch the handle. Don’t even stand there too long  looking at it. The longer you linger, the more curious you’ll get, and curiosity on Rig  32 is the kind of thing that’ll get you killed.

The last person who ignored that rule didn’t live  to regret it. His name was Marco. He was a welder, a good guy, always joking around and quick to  lend a hand.

He’d been on the rig for maybe six months when he came across the door. I don’t know  what made him open it, but he did. He didn’t tell anyone—he just slipped inside during his shift  and didn’t come back.

We searched high and low for him, tore the rig apart looking, but he was gone. Weeks later, during a storm, his body washed up onto the deck. That was the first and only time  I’ve ever seen something like that happen.

The sea doesn’t give back what it takes, not usually.  But there he was, sprawled out on the deck, cold as the metal beneath him. I didn’t always follow the rules, though.

When I was young and new, I had a streak  of rebellion in me. I didn’t like being told what I could and couldn’t do, especially when no one  could give me a good reason why. So, one night, when the door appeared during my shift, I decided  to see for myself what was on the other side.

It was stupid. I knew it even as I turned the  handle and stepped through. The door was heavy, and it groaned on its hinges as it opened. 

Beyond it was a metal staircase that spiraled downward, deeper than I thought possible. The air  grew colder with every step I took, and the sound of the rig’s machinery faded into a muffled hum. When I reached the bottom, I found myself in a strange, narrow room.

The walls were steel, slick  with condensation, and the floor was uneven, like it had been warped by the pressure  of the water surrounding it. The whole room was submerged, with a wide, circular window  taking up most of one wall. Through that window, I could see the ocean—dark, vast, and endless.

There were no other doors, no signs of any purpose for the room. Just the red door behind  me and that window staring out into the deep. I didn’t stick around long.

The longer I stood  there, the more I felt like I didn’t belong. I climbed back up the stairs, closed the  door behind me, and never looked back. The next day, the door was gone.

I’ve only seen it a handful of times since then, and every time, I give it a wide berth. I don’t  know what would’ve happened if I’d stayed longer, or worse, if the door had disappeared while I  was still inside. That’s the thing about it—you can’t trust it to stay where it is.

It comes and  goes on its own terms, and you don’t want to be caught on the wrong side of it when it vanishes. I don’t know why the door exists. I don’t know who built that room or why it’s there.

Maybe it’s  part of the rig’s original design, something left behind from a time when people didn’t ask so many  questions. Or maybe it’s something else entirely, something that doesn’t belong in this world.  Whatever it is, it’s not for us to understand.

All we can do is stay out of its way. If you’re unlucky enough to stumble across it during your time here, remember  this: leave it alone. Do not go inside.

Then there’s the captain’s room. No, not mine. It belonged to the captain before me.

The room’s been empty for years  now, and no one goes inside. It’s not locked—you could open the door if you wanted to—but no one  does. It’s a nice space, too, bigger than the regular bunks, with its own desk, a window that  looks out over the ocean, and a bed that’s more comfortable than anything else on the rig.

But  it’s been left alone, untouched, like a museum exhibit sealed off from the rest of the world. The thing is, the old captain disappeared. Just like that.

One day, he was here, running the rig  like usual, and the next, he wasn’t. There was no warning, no goodbye, no sign of struggle. He  was just.

. . gone.

The crew searched high and low, tore through every inch of the rig, but  they didn’t find so much as a footprint. That was decades ago. His disappearance is still a  mystery, one of many on Rig 32.

I’ve asked around, tried to piece together what happened from the  men who were here back then, but no one knows—or if they do, they’re not saying. All they’ll  tell me is that he was a good captain, fair and hardworking, the kind of leader people respected.  And then, one day, he wasn’t there anymore.

The room stays empty now, not out of  superstition, but out of respect. At least, that’s what the crew says. But that’s not the strangest part.

On calm nights, when the sea is still and the rig  is quiet, some of the crew say they’ve seen a man in a yellow jacket out on the observation  deck. He’s always standing by the railing, smoking a cigarette. If you get close enough,  you’ll see he’s wearing a silver pin—the same one every worker here gets when they start.

The first time I heard about him, I thought it was a joke. A ghost story told to spook  the rookies. But then I saw him for myself.

It was a calm night, the kind where the sea  looks like glass and the stars stretch out forever. I went up to the observation deck for a  smoke, like I always do after my shift. At first, I thought I was alone, but then I saw him: a man  in a yellow jacket, standing with his back to me, staring out at the water.

I don’t know why, but I nodded to him and said, “Good evening. ” He turned his head slightly, just enough for me to see the outline of his face in the dim  light. He didn’t say anything, just nodded back and took another drag from his cigarette.

I  stood there for a minute, unsure of what to do, and then I walked away. I didn’t go back  to the deck for three days after that. That’s the rule.

If you see him, always say  something—acknowledge him, be polite—but don’t linger. Don’t push your luck. And whatever you  do, don’t go back to the deck for a few days.

The crew says it’s safer that way. Some of them believe the man in the yellow jacket is the old captain, still watching over the  rig in his own way. Others think he’s something else entirely, something the ocean sent to remind  us of our place.

Whatever he is, sometimes people disappear after seeing him. Not often, but enough  to notice. There’s Marco, the welder who vanished after the red door.

Before him, there was a  deckhand named Vic who ignored the three-day rule. He went back to the observation deck  the very next night and was gone by morning. No one knows what happens to them.

I’ve taken to leaving a cup of coffee on the deck when I see him. It’s nothing fancy,  just the same stuff we drink in the cafeteria, but it feels like the right thing to  do. My parents weren’t religious, but they always taught me to respect things I didn’t  understand.

The coffee is my way of doing that, a kind of offering, I suppose. I don’t know  if he takes it—by the time I check, the cup is always empty, but that could just be the wind  or the sea spray. Still, it makes me feel better.

I’ve only seen him a handful of times over  the years, and each time, it’s the same. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, just stands there  with his cigarette, staring out at the water like he’s waiting for something. Or someone.

If you’re smart, you’ll follow the rules. If you see him, nod your head, say good evening,  maybe ask a question if you’re feeling brave. He won’t answer, but that’s not the point. 

The point is to show respect. After all, if it is the old captain, he’s earned that much. That’s all I’ve got to say about the man in the yellow jacket.

You’ll have to  decide for yourself what to believe. Finally, there are the badges. Every crew member on Rig 13 gets one when they come aboard.

It’s about the  size of a silver dollar, made of some kind of polished metal that doesn’t tarnish, no matter  how many storms you’re caught in. On the front, there’s an engraving of a kraken wrapped around  an anchor, along with the company’s logo etched in a way that catches the light. Officially, the  badges are just company IDs.

They let you identify yourself, clock in and out, and access certain  areas of the rig. But like most things out here, there’s more to them than meets the eye. The badges are also keys.

Certain badges open doors that don’t exist on any blueprint,  doors tucked away in the lower levels where the rig descends deep into the water. These aren’t  your usual maintenance rooms or storage spaces. No one talks about what’s behind those doors,  and I don’t think anyone really wants to know.

There’s something about them that makes your  gut twist, even if you’re just walking past. And then there’s what’s below the rig. We don’t know what it is, only that it’s big.

Bigger than the rig itself. It’s not violent—not  so far, anyway—but it’s there. Sometimes, when the rig groans, I can’t tell if it’s the  machinery straining or if it’s that thing in the depths letting out a low, guttural sound. 

Whatever it is, you don’t want to get too close to it. And you don’t want it noticing you.  That’s why we wear the badges.

They keep us safe. At least, that’s what we believe. But the badges do more than keep us safe from whatever’s down there.

They also serve as  a lifeline. If you ever find yourself thrown overboard during a storm—and believe me, you  don’t want to be in that water for long—the badge is your only chance at survival. It  doesn’t happen often, but when it does, it’s something you’ll never forget.

I’ve only seen it happen once, about ten years ago. It was during one of the worst storms  I’ve ever experienced. The waves were towering, slamming against the rig with enough force to  make it shudder.

The wind was deafening, and the rain came down in sheets so thick you could  barely see your hand in front of your face. We were all strapped in, trying to keep the equipment  secure, when one of the rookies lost his footing. He went over the railing, and just  like that, he was in the water.

The waves were brutal, tossing him around  like a rag doll. We shouted, threw ropes, tried everything we could, but the current was  too strong. Then, as we watched, the dozen eyes I told you about appeared.

They dotted the  water’s surface. And then, from the depths, something else emerged—a mouth. It was enormous,  as wide as half the rig, and circular.

It wasn’t filled with sharp, jagged teeth like you’d expect  from a sea monster. These were human teeth. Rows and rows of them, straight and yellowed, just  like the fish we sometimes find on the deck.

The mouth started sucking in water, creating a  whirlpool that pulled everything toward it. The rookie was doomed. We could see it in his  face as he struggled against the current, his screams lost to the roar of the storm. 

He clutched his badge, holding it tight, and that’s when it happened. The badge began to glow  a light that cut through the chaos like a beacon. Out of nowhere, a kelpie appeared.

It rose  from the water like a figure from a dream—or a nightmare, depending on how you see it. It looked  like a horse, but its mane was made of seaweed, and its eyes glowed. The rookie didn’t hesitate. 

He grabbed onto the kelpie’s neck and held on for dear life as it fought against the  whirlpool. The kelpie’s strength was unreal, and it managed to pull him out of the  current, carrying him back toward the rig. We were there waiting, hands outstretched,  and when the kelpie brought him close enough, we hauled him onto the deck.

The kelpie didn’t  linger. As soon as the rookie was safe, it vanished beneath the waves, along with the kraken  and its terrible mouth. The storm quieted not long after, like whatever power had been unleashed  was satisfied and retreating to the depths.

That’s the only time I’ve ever seen something like  that happen, but it’s not the only story. Some of the crew say you can toss your badge into the  water and make a kind of bet. You ask for help, and if whatever’s down there likes you, it’ll  answer.

But you don’t know what you’ll get—or if you’ll get anything at all. It’s a gamble,  and not one I’d recommend taking lightly. What I do know is this: you don’t want to  lose your badge.

Keep it close. Wear it always. It’s more than just a piece of metal  with a company logo.

It’s your protection, your lifeline, your connection to whatever  forces keep this rig afloat. And out here, with the ocean stretching endlessly in every  direction, sometimes that’s all you’ve got. That’s the last story I’ll tell you.

If you’re  reading this, you’re probably already on the rig, settling into your bunk, adjusting to the  constant hum of the machinery and the smell of salt in the air. Maybe you’ll never see the red  door, the man in the yellow jacket, or the kelpie. Maybe your time here will be nothing but routine  shifts, warm coffee, and Friday pizza nights.

If that’s the case, consider yourself lucky. But if you do see these things, if you hear the groan of something massive beneath you or catch  a glimpse of glowing eyes on the water’s surface, remember what I’ve told you. The ocean  is beautiful, yes, but she is also vast, ancient, and filled with mysteries we’ll never  fully understand.

Respect her, follow the rules, and keep your badge close. Good luck.