"A bathysphere is the pinnacle of 1930s oceanic exploration," Pierre spat out his cigarette butt, "a 2-ton steel sphere with quartz portholes, bolted shut before being winched into the depths, probably safe to a thousand feet." His snooty French accent was grating.

"Smells worse than a poop deck in here," muttered Sasha, and held her nose. "Are you sure this is ready?!" A wave crashed against the ship's hull, and she quickly climbed inside, her feet sticking to the floor, Pierre slammed the hatch shut behind her.

"Putain," Pierre rolled his eyes and began securing bolts in place, "It's poupe, not poop, uneducated American. It's the bloody stern deck."

She couldn't hear him, but his face said it all. Pierre and his fucking obsession with naval terminology. Sighing, loud inside the steel vessel, she removed a skull from her satchel.

Outside, rain lashed and lightning leapt across the sky, as Pierre struggled to fasten the bolts. Before she could do anything, another huge wave crashed onto the deck, Pierre was swept away, just as the final bolt was locked in place, but not tightened.

Inside, the world lurched and suddenly Sasha was weightless, the skull floating with her, before the sphere hit the waves, and Sasha's head hit the deck.

When she came to blue light played against the wall, and she could see the Explorer outlined on the surface above, which she knew should not be possible, as portholes are oriented horizontally, not vertically.

"Shame that," said a voice. "Got a hobnob?".

She jerked to one side, the Explorer forgetting, and stared into floating skulls eyes. Skulls famously cannot talk, as they lack the requisite meat parts, also they were dead.

"No?!" Muttered Sasha, panic subsiding.

"You don't seem sure."

"No!"

"You are not sure if you don't have a hobnob?"

She blinked, confused and ran her fingers over her scalp searching for a bump that would explain it. When she found none, she did the thing when you know you're dreaming, and attempted to wake herself up. No result. She looked at the skull; it was smiling.

"It's grinning, not smiling, luv.. Get your words right."

"Are you not smiling?"

"I suppose I am, it's the assumption that bothers me, ya know…"

He was right, she thought.

"Damn straight."

"Hold on a damned minute." Sasha struggled to control herself, this is Pierre all over again, "Can you read my thoughts?"

"Every spirit can read another spirit's thoughts. How else do you expect us to, ya know, commune?"

Couldn't argue with this, she thought.

"Also, I ain't Pierre."

This had to be a hallucination then.

"Well, no… I am more of a guide of sorts."

"A guide?" She felt around the bathysphere for her satchel to put over the skull when something warm coated her fingers. "A guide for what?" This all felt very real, she had to admit.

"For the dearly departed, luv." The skull angled downwards and Sasha followed his gaze.

"Oh,..."

"Oh, indeed."