Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - 3 Secluded Island Horror Stories

Episode Date: August 5, 2021

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Talk to nicely. Hey guys, I will now be posting new episodes every weekday at 1 p.m. Eastern standard time. Be sure to follow the podcast to get notified when new episodes are released. Thank you all for tuning in, and now time for the story. Of course the howler exists, Todd says, an air of defensiveness about him. He shoves a sausage-like finger against my chest and leans his jowly face close to mine. You're just denying it to act tough in front of the younger kids, trying to make me look stupid. I want to tell Todd I don't have to try and make him look stupid, because he does a good job

enough of that on his own. I want to, but I don't, because Todd is twice my size with a fuse, half is short, and could probably snap me like a twig. I'm just saying it's a silly urban legend, I say. There isn't any such thing as werewolves or howlers or whatever you want to call it. It's made up. Todd and I have known each other for years. We both grew up attending Dogbone summer camp, And now that we were 14, we'd both become junior camp counselors, which is really just a fancy way of saying we got to herd kids to and from camp activities. Then how'd all those kids go missing? One of the younger campers pipes up.

I feel myself tense. Another kid jumps in. Yeah, my brother says the kid's gone missing from Dogbone every year for the past three years. He says there's got to be a monster scooping us up. He swears he saw it standing on the rocks at Dogbone Beach. Plus, a girl chimes in. I've heard the howling. We all have. We hear it as plain as day, coming right from dogbone spit, out there in the lake.

There's got to be something out there, right? The kids erupt, arguing over the existence of the howler. Some of the younger ones have scrunched up faces on the verge of tears. No doubt, the idea of a murderous beast, stalking the campgrounds isn't doing much to keep their spirits up. Enough! Todd shouts, and the camper shut up like a light switch. He narrows his bushy eyebrows at me, and then says in a quiet voice, It's fine, Derek. You can pretend you know what you're talking about, or that you're so brave,

but we all know you're a giant fucking pussy. Seriously, Todd? Oh, do whittle swear words hurt your ears? He pantomimes, unwrapping a giant chew. A chocolate bar so disgusting and I've only ever known Todd to risk eating them. Don't be such a bitch. With one fell swoop,

he stuffs the chocolate bar into his mouth, like a trash compactor, teeth clamped down, smearing themselves with great globs of half-devoured caramel. How about this? He says, mouth full. Since you're so convinced the how it is nothing but a legend, why don't you go on a little adventure tonight? Oh, to dogmone spit, the urge to roll my eyes is almost overpowering.

Yeah, no thanks. For one thing, I'd like to keep my job. And for another thing, the weather is supposed to be garbage, and our boats are made of driftwood. Figure you'd have an excuse. Some of the kids start chuckling. And one of them asks why I'm being such a baby. Todd goads them on.

You should have seen him last year, he says. And there's a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. He cried his eyes out every night because he was so afraid. Fuck you, Todd. I say, my voice shaking. My dad died, asshole. I wasn't scared of some made-up werewolf then. And I'm not afraid of it now, but I bet you are.

Todd opens his mouth to reply, but I cut him off. So here's my counteroffer. I'll go there. but only if you're along for the ride. See, I think you're just trying to act big and cool for all the little kids here. I think when push comes to shove, the big bad howler scares you so much because you know you're too fat to run away. The words fall out of my mouth without thinking. And it's not until I hear some of the kids break out into fits of laughter that I know I've screwed up.

Todd's ham-like hands ball into fists. If there weren't so many voices chuckling, I'd bet dollars to donuts I could hear him growling. Then, it's like the storm passes. Maybe Todd realizes he's overreacting. Maybe he realizes that losing his cool is going to lose him his status as the fun counselor. Whatever the case, he unfurls his fists and sticks out his hand. Fine, he says. Tonight we'll go to Dogbone spit, and I'll even escort you, since you're too scared to go alone.

It's dark when we pull the boat into the water. It should be a full moon, but you'd never be able to tell with the storm clouds obscuring it on the horizon. The sensible thing to do at this point is call it off. Reschedule. There's no good that can come of a rowboat getting caught out in a storm in the middle of a lake. Of course, that's not what happens. The truth is, we're both in too deep for that. We're young, reckless and stupid, and neither of us want to risk losing face. So we push the little thing into the water as quietly as we can,

making sure we don't wake up any of the senior camp staff, and I grab the oars and get to work. The level of effort we're putting in feels lopsided. I've been rowing for damn near 40 minutes while Todd sits back flipping the pages of his novel, some fantasy pulp titled War of Salgram Book 3, The Age of Reaping. He looks totally drawn into it, entranced. What's that about? I ask. He looks up, and there's sweat on his brow.

He looks nervous. Worried? Whatever it is, it's a new look for Todd. Just some wizards and stuff, he says. Then, as if remembering he's still supposed to be putting on a tough front, he adds, What do you care? Thanks a lot, by the way, for dragging us all the way out here. me, I say, incredulous. You're the one who started this whole thing.

No, I wasn't, Todd snaps back. I was telling the kids a campfire story, and you barged in and ruined it. What was I supposed to do? Tell them, yeah, I was lying to you. There's no such thing as the howler after all, and just ruin it for everybody? I, my words die on my tongue.

Was I the asshole here? Silence stretches between us, and Todd goes back to his book. I never pictured him as much more than a bully. But seeing him read that dorky stuff and go to this extent to maintain the equivalent of Santa's reel has me rethinking my opinion of him. Maybe he isn't such a bad guy. Awkward and insecure, definite. But take away the crowd and the social pressure, and he's just a quiet teenager with a short temper.

I wonder, as my paddle slosh in and out of the dark lake, if Todd isn't just another kid with a rough past, trying to put on a tough front so people won't pick on it. Do we really need to go all the way to the island? I ask. Now that we've both admitted the howler is just a made-up legend, he sighs. Let's just go there and snap a picture by the big rock on the beach. Then the kids will know we went, and we can say the howler chased us off. He shoots me a smile. They'll get a kick out of it. Sure, I say, smiling and dipping the oars into the lake. Why not? Thunder rumbles overhead as sheets of rain crashed down in a torrent. When I thought the weather would be rough tonight, I never imagined

it would be this row. There's a storm brewing, and it's brewing quickly. Quickly enough that we don't have the luxury of turning back around, because in this piece of crap, I'm not sure we could make it all the way to camp without capsizing. The tiny rowboat is tossing and turning in the waves. The white cap's now large enough to occasionally dip into the hull itself. We're most of the way to the island now, just a little further, but God are my arms tired. It turns out, rowing is hard, and it takes a very long time in these old boats. They're not built for speed. They're built to paddle around the dock, not actually go somewhere. If you told the guy who made this thing you were planning on taking it out on the storm, he'd probably laugh in your face and pronounce you dead on the

spot. All this to say, we have one option. Dogbone spit. At this rate, we'll probably have to stay the night. My arms feel like twin bricks of lead. Todd looks drop dead terrified. He's long since dropped the war of Sal groan and taken up clutching the sides of the boat for dear life. Believe it or not, Big bad Todd is whimpering. You're supposed to row into the waves, aren't you? He says, at a 45-degree angle or whatever, so we don't capsize. Every swing of the horse feels like I'm bench-pressing an elephant. I grit my teeth and remind Todd that 45 degrees into the waves means rowing back into the lake.

And we want to get to dog-bone spit, because if we don't come ashore soon, we really are going to capsize. Just be careful, Todd yells. His pudgy face is red, embarrassed as he adds, I'm not a very good swimmer. Before I get a chance to respond, the sound greets our ears, low and drawn out. It echoes across the lake,

piercing the chaos of the storm and calling out to us from dogbone spit. A shiver runs up the length of my spine. It's the sound of howling. Did you hear that? I shout to Todd, wiping water from my face. He doesn't respond.

The kids curled up in the bottom of the boat, trembling as he tries to make himself as small as possible, tries to keep himself from falling overboard as the storm ravages us. Lightning streaks the sky, and for a brief moment, the island is illuminated. The pebble beach, the trees keeled over in the wind, and there, on Big Rock, a shape, a silhouette, tall, with gangly limbs and sharp ears. My mouth goes dry. My heart blasts my ribcage at a thousand beats per minute. The helmet. I lower an oar, shouting to Todd as I point toward

big rock. I'm shouting at Todd to just turn his head and look, to get ready because once we get to that island, we're going to have to defend ourselves against a fucking monster. But Todd is cradling himself in the boat. He's out of it, scared to death. Then something strikes us from the side. A wave, a big one. It crashes over me, and even though I'm already soaked from the rain, I feel cold now. And Todd is shouting, and then, just when I think the night can't get any worse, I realize that the boat is lurching a little too much. The angle, it's all wrong, too steep. My vision goes dark as we tumble into the lake. Something hits my head, and I realize it's the hull of the boat. It's upside down and quickly falling beneath the waves. Breezing and

disoriented, I feel around the hull of the capsized boat, maneuvering myself around and gasping for air as my head breaches the dark lake. Todd, he said he couldn't swim very well. I look around, throwing my sopping hair from my eyes and calling out, sputtering Todd's name. No response. Then I hear gurgling. I hear the sound of Todd drowning to death a short distance away, and I swim to him, blind in the dark chaos of the storm. I feel his hood. and grip his arm and get him into a position I can maybe save him with. Then lightning flashes, and once again I see it. Out there on Big Rock, the howler waiting for us on Dogbone.

Hard hammering, I start swimming for the island. Sometimes you really don't have a choice. I said rowing in a storm was difficult, but it's really nothing compared to dragging Todd's unconscious body onto shore. The kid's big, heavy. I'm not weak. I'm pretty fit, but I'm not a weightlifter. I'm run-a-long time fit.

I'm bikes to school fit. I'm not dragged Todd through a storm and up a beach fit. Still, I managed to pull it off. Then I'm even kind enough to give him mouth to mouth until he starts coughing up a lung full of water. On top of that, I throw him in the recovery position free of charge, all so that he won't die and can finish reading his stupid book someday. I catch my breath while Todd lays there, disoriented but alive. A thin trail of blood is winding down his forehead.

No doubt a souvenir from the boat bashing his lights out. I want to give him better help, but I don't have any bandages. And besides that, the lightning is flashing again, and I'm reminded that we're not alone on this island. My eyes drift up to big rock, looming before us. Framed in the brightness of the storm is the legend of dogbone spit, the howler. Except, it's just some trees. In fact, from this angle, it doesn't look like anything. I stumble to my feet and investigate the waving branches, squinting in the downpour.

Sure enough, if I position myself in front of the branches, it looks just like a wolfman brooding in the darkness. But once you step to the side, it's just a couple of pine trees waving in the wind. I knew it, I say aloud, shaking my head. I fucking knew it. Then something rises from the forest, a sound. It's long and low, echoing through the storm like a siren call, or perhaps a warning to steer clear. It's a howl. Todd's sitting up and rubbing his head.

Listen, I tell him, jogging over. Do you hear that? It's howling, and it's coming from the woods. Don't care, he groans. The kid looks in rough shape, and I don't blame him. Not 10 minutes ago, he very nearly died. Howl are not real, remember? Sure, that's what I said.

That's what I even thought after I saw those pine trees masquerading as a werewolf. But then who was howling? Was there a wolf on the island? A stray that had gotten separated from the pack? You should get under the trees, I tell him, covering my eyes from the rainfall. You'll freeze to death if you sit around out here. Yeah, in a second. Just need to catch my breath.

The howling rumps, even louder now. It's everywhere, all around us. Curiosity takes my reins, and I find myself stepping off the beach and into the forest. Take whatever time you need, I tell him. I'm going to check out this howling. It's a stupid idea, maybe, to go into a dark forest, however small that forest may be, to investigate the sound of an animal howling. Generally speaking, animals that howl are not herbivores.

In fact, one might even call them predators. Dangerous. Still, I need to know. What does the howler of dogbone spit? Is it really a stray wolf? If it is, is it plucking wayward children from outhouses and dragging them away for a snack? Wouldn't somebody have heard their screams? I stepped through the forest carefully, guiding myself by errant flashes of lightning and the sound of howling in the trees.

The closer I get, the stranger the sound becomes. It becomes almost constant, like the damn animal never needs to take a breath, high and low, loud and soft. It's a minute later that I reached the foot of a soft. small hill. At the top of it, I hear the howling clear as day. I set to work at clambering up the thing. It's steep and wet, and my sneaker slipped like I'm climbing a glacier, but I get to the top. I get to the top, and I see it. The howler of dogbone spit. No lichen, no rabbit dog, no rogue wolf. It's just a couple of boulders sitting tightly together with a small slit between them.

I gaze at it, listening as the howling fills the air. It takes me a second, but I realize the howler is just the wind passing through the tiny opening, almost like whistling lips. Turns out, the legendary howler of Dogbone Spit is nothing but some pine trees on the beach and a couple of rocks in the woods. Go figure, trekking back through the woods, ready to tell Todd my triumphant discovery. I catch sight of something in the glow of the storm. A bundle of sticks, a sort of homemade shelter? Probably a fort some kids made the previous summer. Whatever it is, it makes for decent shelter from the rain. We could stay the night, I figure, then Todd and I would row back ashore with our tails tucked between our legs,

get a good reaming out from senior camp staff, and probably lose our jobs as junior counselors. But hey, at least we survived. Before I head back to give Todd the good news, that I've solved the mystery and found a shelter, I pause. There's something familiar in the fort. I bend low, beneath the twig roof,

and brush aside some dead leaves. It's a candy bar wrapper for a giant chew. Beside it is a faded paperback book, with soggy pages wrinkled from exposure to the elements. It looks like it's been there for months, maybe years. It's the War of Salgram, book one. I chuckle, realizing I probably just found Todd's secret fort, his little getaway.

I wonder if he comes out here to let the mask slip for a while and give himself permission to not always have to be such a tough guy asshole. Turning to leave, my foot catches on something soggy. I cursed, already feeling disgusted by the thought of the giant chew candy bar, let alone some sweaty old sweater that used to belong to Todd. And then I realize it isn't a sweater at all. And it definitely doesn't belong to Todd. What it is, is a dress, a small one.

Maybe for a girl five or six years old. Pieces of it are cut open. The fabric slashed, and red streaks of tie-dye cover its blossom front. I swallow, stepping away. The dress looks familiar, horribly, awfully familiar. And those red splotches don't look so much like tie-dye. Not really. They look like blood.

What you're looking at? Todd whispers. I wheel around. Todd stands a couple meters away. rain pouring down his face, eyes detached, empty. Find anything cool? I, uh, I stammer. Yeah, actually, I figured out what was causing the howling. Oh, that? I know. Todd says emotionless. His eyes drift around the fort, from the giant chew wrapper to the war of Salgram to the bloody dress lying in a crumpled heat. It's those two big rocks over there. It happens anytime it gets

windy enough. I swallow, stepping backwards from Todd. Yeah, exactly yeah. I laughed, nervously. I was just thinking we could use this fort as a shelter tonight. Crash here. I haven't had a chance to look around, but... You haven't? Todd says, bending down and picking up the bloody dress. He lifts it to his face and puts the blood-stained fabric into his mouth,

chewing on it. You can hardly taste anything anymore. It's a real shame. If it just lasted long enough, I wouldn't need to do this so often. I could just use memories to make me feel better. This was you, I say. Disgust, Ming. wringling with fear, mingling with hatred in my voice.

Those kids that went missing, you... I had to do it, Todd says, tossing the dress down and stepping toward me. You don't get it, Derek. I feel so empty inside. I can't feel things. Not like you. The only time I feel anything is when I'm afraid

or when I see other people afraid. Did you know we all have a spark in our eyes? You can watch it go out if you look closely, right at the moment you kill them. Jesus Christ, Todd. You're a fucking maniac. My back bumps against the tree, and I scramble around it, keeping my eyes on Todd as I continue to put space between us.

Is that why you fed them that dribble about the howler? Not as some fun urban legend, but as a cover? It made it easier, yeah. There's so many of those kids that I figured they'd be bound to notice something sooner or later. But if you can convince them, the howler is the one after them. Well, they don't think twice about going anywhere with you. It's easy that way. To think I actually thought Todd might have been half decent beneath all his maliciousness.

It makes me sick to my stomach. I wonder how many other kids Todd's buried his evil for. How many people has he manipulated to get their guards down? And me, I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. You didn't come out all this way with me for a photo op, did you? He shakes his head, and he takes a couple quick steps toward me, causing me to skitter backward. Todd throws back his head and laughs. You're such a fucking pussy, Derek.

Really? I'd only ever chanced killing kids. Younger ones, because they were dumb enough to trust me. But then I saw the chance to get you out here, and I had to take it. Todd's tongue slips across his lips. It was the perfect setting. Incoming storm, shitty rowboat, I'd bash your stupid fucking face in with a rock,

then toss you into the lake and flip the boat over, and say you hit your head when we capsized. Everybody would buy it. Why wouldn't they? You're actually insane, I say, realizing with mounting dread that I have no way to escape the psycho. The storm actually did capsize our boat, and there's no way I'm swimming to shore in this weather.

I should have let you drown out there. Shoulda or coulda didn't, Todd says, rushing me. I twist around a bolt, slipping on a wet slosh of leaves. My face hits the ground hard, and I get a mouth full of dirt. Todd's footsteps thunder toward me, and then he's on top of me, slamming his fists into my face. My ears ring and my vision blurts. Fuck, he's killing me! I kick out and manage to catch him between the legs.

He groans, relenting just long enough for me to get back to my feet and dash away. My world spins. The storm is raging. Dogbone is howling, and the rain is coming down in sheets. As I clear the forest, I'm greeted with the sight of large waves, crashing perilously against Big Rock. I'll fucking get you for that. Todd's voice roars.

He's barreling through the forest, and for a guy as big as he is, he's moving fast. Fuck! I clamber up Big Rock, hoping maybe it's just slick enough that Todd's weight will keep him from following me. He explodes through the tree line. Eyes wild.

Stones kick up behind him as he charges toward Big Rock, jumping toward it, his fat finger slapping against the wet stones as he tries to grab onto it. He's struggling, can't make it up. Good. I watch him. slide helplessly down the slick face of the rock again and again, figuring I can wait it out here

for a little while, maybe catch somebody's attention ashore while Todd tires himself out. Then he vanishes, and I see him near the trees again. He runs his hands along the bark, confused. I watch him stick a fist into a tree hollow and pull it out, then shove another fist inside. What the hell? I muttered to myself. Think you're so smart, Derek? Todd yells, walking back to me, chest heaving. But I know a thing or two about using nature to my advantage too. He reaches a the bottom of big rock. There, beneath it's smooth, slick stone face, and he shows me his hands. They're covered in something, something brown, yellow. It's not until he slaps them together and then grips the rock that I realize what it is. Tree sap. Sticky, thick tree sap. He heaves himself up, bit by bit,

clambering up the face of the rock, clambering up toward me. Todd, I shout, don't do this. You can get help. You think I'll get help after this? He snarls, his head clearing the peak. If I don't kill you, You'll tell everybody and then my life will be over. You don't get it, Derek. I have to do this. With that, he pulls himself onto the rock, panting for breath. Wish I could say it wasn't personal. But it really is.

Todd lunges. I dive. It's suicide, but it's my only choice. I crash into the roaring water, swimming against the waves. Todd's twice my size and already made his intentions clear. The lake might be a death trap, but I've still got a better chance in here than up there. I kick myself over a wave and then hear something behind me. A splash.

Hands grab onto me, while a gurgling voice curses me by my ear. Make me water fucking hate so much. Deserve this. Fat fists pummel into the side of my skull, and I thrash. He's in the water with me. I realize he's trying to drown me. Todd's fingernails tears at my face as I push myself away from him. Too slick in the water for him to keep hold up.

I take one stroke, two strokes away, and his hand snaps hold of my foot. He drags me backward, even as he sputters in the waves. Not letting go. Get away, he says. I spin in the water like a crocodile, trying to free myself of his grip, but it's iron-clad. Gonna bash your head in. My foot shoots backward. It shoots backward as hard as I can, right against Todd's face, and I hear something crack

like the bone splitting in two. I hear Todd shriek, and his hands let go, pressed to his now bloody face as he chokes and sputters in the water, me no longer there to act as a makeshift flotation device. I don't stick around to watch him struggle, seizing my chance. I swim away from him, as hard and fast as. as I can. Behind me, I see him paddling after me, splashing against the water, his head dipping below and then back up. He's chasing me, but he's too slow, too ineffective of a swimmer. A minute later, and his voice is gone. He's gone, disappeared, vanished beneath the waves.

Now though, I'm tired, exhausted, and the storm is beating the shit out of me, and I don't even know if I can make it back to the island. My arms are heavy. Damn it, they're too heavy. Over there! A voice shouts. I think I see one of them. I turn. turning, treading water in the waves and see a light in the darkness. It's a boat, a bigger one, with a proper motor. It's bouncing in the waves, but it's not a slave to them, like the tiny rowboat, or me and my out-of-gas arms. It's coming my way. I swim toward the light.

The camp staff, it turns out, caught word of where Todd and I were because of the younger kids, the ones who were crying about Todd's legend of the howler. Once the storm kicked in and they heard the howling, they figured Todd and I were probably going to end up as a werewolf snack. concerned, and unable to live with that on their conscience. They woke up the senior camp staff and informed them that we'd taken a midnight excursion into the storm, and thank God they did. After the staff pulled me into the boat, I told them everything. I told them about the kids, about the so-called howler, and about how Todd had been

luring his victims under the guide of keeping them safe from the howler. We didn't find Todd that night, but his body washed ashore the next morning. The police linked his DNA to the bloody dress, and then several more articles of clothing they found buried in the dirt nearby. With my testimony to fill in the gaps, it was an open and shut case, the end of a nightmare. As for me, it's been a long time now, decades really, but I still go back to dog bone spit every year, not for Todd, but for the kids that he stole. I go back to be with them, to tell them that I got the howler, and that he won't hurt anybody ever again. Mostly though, I go back to tell them sorry, sorry that I didn't realize sooner.

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18-8 and plus, 1, 1-Depos only depot only depot all-off sullenance-Begas-Bonanza. Depos minimum of $10. DePosononononon. DeConsonsons apply. Last month, I responded to a distress signal originating from an uninhabited island. I discovered a journal whose contents are disturbing.

Last month, my team responded to an SOS in the Southern Pacific. When we arrived, we were unable to locate any of the stricken individuals, or indeed, any evidence of their whereabouts. All I found was two curious items in a local cave system, a journal and an audio recorder, both of which were owned by a man named Albert Vess, Vess, an archaeologist, and one of the individuals who deployed the SOS. The contents of the journal are disturbing, but perhaps worse still is the audio recording. Since reading the journal and listening to the audio, I've been feeling strange, unwell. My mind feels like mush, and my moods have been

erratic. No medication has helped. My doctor thinks I just need some rest, but I'm not sure. It's just hard to describe? I don't know why, but I feel like the island has something to do with I feel like the journal does. I've transcribed it below in case anybody can help me better understand it, but be warned, it's an uncomfortable read. June 1st, 2021. The valley is steep. For an island in the middle of the Pacific, it feels almost unnatural, certainly uncommon. I've done plenty of these expeditions, and I've rarely encountered geography such as this. The shoreline is sparse, thin. It gives way to a scatter of trees and a sharp drop-off into a hollow of palms and brush. It's incredible, claustrophobic. It's where we're going, all four of us. Bernard, the research lead,

Darien, the Cave Explorer, and Allison, one of the most accomplished archaeologists I've ever met, and of course, myself. My stomach is still upside down, recovering from the sail it took to get here, but the worst is over. Once we finish our survey of the ruin below, we can set up camp and get some shut-eye. It's not so bad, really, and we're so very close. This, I think, could be the discovery of a lifetime. The sun is setting in the sky. When we look down into the valley this afternoon, we never anticipated it'd be this slow going, or that the canopy of leaves would be this blinding. Allison recommends we make camp and get some rest. She says the ruins will be there to excavate in the morning, and we'll be better off with

more daylight to spare. Bernard disagrees. He says we've got lanterns and rations, and that the scene survey won't take that long. Besides, he's not planning on doing any excavating until he knows the ruins are actually there. His remark catches us off guard. I remind him that there are already aerial photos of this site, that there's no need to prove it's actually there because we can see that it is. It takes Bernard a minute to answer, and when he does, he admits the aerial photos of the ruins were doctored. He admits that the research he submitted to secure this grant was false. The liar. All I have, he says, is what's written in here. He shows us a leather bound book with yellow pages. It belonged to his ancestor, apparently, a merchant captain who was shipwrecked

on this island over a century ago. According to the journal, there really are ruins, but the thing is, they're underground. You'd never know they were there if you weren't looking for them, and it's why nobody's discovered them before. I can hardly believe it. I want to be furious at him. But Allison is angry enough for the both of us. She's fuming. Darien doesn't seem to mind terribly, maybe because it's her first expedition, and she still has stars in her eyes. Trust me, Bernard says. This will be the discovery of our lives. I suppose we don't really have a choice. The boat that dropped us off won't be returning for another week, for better or worse. I and everybody else are stuck on this little spit of land.

Allison heads into the trees to pee, and when she comes back, she's a nervous wreck. Her shoulders are quaking. Her voice is uneven. I heard footsteps out there, she says. Footsteps and laughter, out there in the jungle. I remind her that there's nobody out there, that this island is as empty as it's ever been.

Then who's laughing at me? She snaps. The trees? The jungle ends in moonlight. It opens to a clearing, a dusty expanse of stone boulders and saplings. We made it to the bottom of the valley, to the site of the supposed underground ruins.

Bernard tells us there should be an opening somewhere, a hole. It might be tiny, or it might be large enough to fall into if you aren't careful. The four of us split off, flashlights in tow. Allison in one direction, scowling, and Darien in another, beaming. She's young enough that I hope we really do find something. Otherwise, this might just sour her opinion in archaeology for good. Before I can step off, Bernard stops me. He asks me if I can hear that.

Hear what? I ask. The laughter, he says. It's not 40 paces away that something catches my eye. It's small, difficult to make out in the dark, even with the light of my lantern and the moon above, but it's there. It's making my skin crawl. Between two squat boulders is a circle of small stones arranged in a spiral.

They frame a recess into the earth that's filled with decaying wood, charred black by the heat of flames, a fire pit. I gaze at it, stunned. This island should be deserted. As my mind churns, I spot something sticking out of the dirt and the ash. It's broken, crumbling. It looks like Mother Nature has had its way with it, but it's unnatural enough to stick out to me. It isn't wood. It isn't stone. It's strange. I bend low, digging into the mess, hoping the debris above has managed to preserve what lay beneath. A moment later, and I know that it has. My hands, pull something free, something that's decomposed into three pieces, something familiar, a fractured human skull. It's odd, but I stare at the skull for a long while. There's something about it that I can't quite

put my finger on, but it's fascinating to me. I feel almost entranced by it. Before I can properly process my find, I hear screaming, shouting. I hear Bernard, Allison, and Darien all calling my name. They're shrieking for me into the night, telling me the good news. They found the ruin. When I reach them, They surround a hole in the earth the size of a basketball. Bernard's lantern is sitting next to it. He's explaining in an excited tone how he nearly fell into the damn thing. He's explaining how he knew it would be here, about how he never once had any doubt. I'm trying to tell him.

Them, about the fire pit. I'm trying to tell them about the human skull split into three pieces. What does it matter? Daryon asks. If somebody died here, that was probably a hundred years ago. She's already getting herself ready for her first big find. She's tying a length of rope to a nearby boulder to serve as an anchor point. Bernard strapping a headlamp to her helmet.

Why it matters, I say, is that human skulls don't generally burn themselves on deserted islands. Why it matters is that whoever burned that skull was doing it very much on purpose, and there are very few reasons that would ever be okay. Bernard sides with Darien, but tells me that I'm probably right, that whoever burned that skull was up to no good. He tells me we can't do anything about it since it's ancient history. Before I can argue my point, Allison calls us over. She's on her belly at the entrance of the hole,

with her flashlight angled down trying to get a look inside the ruin. She tells us she thinks she saw something move down there. Darien reasons that it's probably just water bouncing the light around, making shadows. She says she sees it all the time while exploring underground caves. I figure she's probably right about that. In a valley like this, it'll be a small miracle if these ruins aren't already flooded. Still, the skull looms in the back of my mind. It unnerves me. Darian rigs the rope to her Karabina and slips her legs into the hole, a moment later, and she shimmies the rest of her

body through the opening until the white of her helmet disappears beneath the earth. As she lowers herself down into the ruins, Bernard asks her for details about what she's seeing. For the first while, she says it's just a long, tight drop, nothing to see, just stone pressing against her on all sides. Then she says it's opening up into a cavern. She says she's inside of them now, the ruins, or rather, a cave system. I don't see any ruins, she tells us. All I see are, her voice trails off. It sounds concerned.

There's writing down here, she says. Lots of writing, all over the cave walls. It looks like it was scratched into the stone. Bernard looks ecstatic. He asks her what language it's in, and whether or not she can read it. She responds by saying that, yes, she can read it. It's English numerals, she says. There are numbers all over the cave.

A pause. Two breaths. Her voice echoes out of the dark hole. Are these dates? Nobody gets a chance to ask her about the dates or exactly how many there are because our attention is stolen. In the distance, from deep within the jungle,

we hear the low sound of footsteps, heavy, desperate footsteps, footsteps that are coming our way. I call into the hole, ordering Darien to get out. I tell her something. Somebody is coming. My heart is beating through me.

my chest, my mind replaying images of the scorched skull. It feels insane, absurd. There's nobody on this island. We know that. We have the records. And yet, I feel that something is very wrong. Allison holds her only weapon, a brush-wacking machete, and she's shrieking at Bernard, demanding whether he forgot to mention the existence of cannibal tribes on the island. Bernard's too shell-shock to speak. I holler at him to help me heave on the rope, to bring Darien up faster. Thankfully, he does. It's exhausting, but we managed to pull her up to the top of the hole, just far enough to see the white of her helmet and her terrified features. She tells us that she's stuck, that she can't move any further. I hear the footfalls nearing. So close, whatever's coming is running now, and the sound is like thunder in my ears. I watch as Bernard

works at freeing Darien from the opening, and I realize it's taking too long, much too long. I dropped the line and rush over to help, pressing my hands against Darian's shoulders. Then, all at once, the footfalls stop. They stop just outside the perimeter of the clearing. For a moment, the night is silent. None of us so much as steal the breath as we listen for whatever is out there, whatever is coming for us. Allison suggests that our shouting may have scared it off. It's a comforting thought, that it might have been a large species of boar, charging through the jungle, or perhaps an earthquake. Bernard agrees. He adds that we're all running low on sleep and very on edge, and that Allison was right, we should have just made camp and gotten some rest.

Then Darien screams, your body slips, ribs snapping as she disappears back. into the darkness of the room. A split second later, there's a grotesque cracking sound in the screaming stops. It's the sound of Darien's body striking the cavern floor. It is, I think, the sound of Darian dying. Something goes through us that. Allison, Bernard, myself. Something goes through us like a bullet, shutting us up as we wait, desperate to hear Darian call out and say she's okay, that she's just a little bruised up. I call out to her, desperate, horrified. Allison appears at my side and hushes me with a finger. She glares at me, narrowing her eyes at me like all of this.

This entire disaster is somehow my fault. Then she lowers herself onto her hands and knees, machete by her side, ear toward the hole. She asks us if we can hear that. She tells us to listen. Bernard and I press ourselves closer to the opening. We strain our ears. There's a scraping sound coming from inside. A low, sustained sound, like something being slid across stone.

There's something down there, Allison said. I knew there was something down there and I told you, Bernard, I fucking warned you. She erupts, lunging at Bernard like a maelstrom, scratching, punching, hurting him as much as she can. He curls up, but he doesn't try to fight back. He doesn't try to flee. He sits there trembling, I think, because he hears the same thing that Allison and I do, down there in the cavern. He hears the sound of Darien's body being dragged away. We put it to a vote.

Out of the three of us, only Bernard wants to go back down into the hole looking for Darian. Only Bernard wants to face the nightmare he dragged us into. Allison and I, we have no idea what we're dealing with. Bernard's convinced that it's an animal, a family of bears, perhaps, that are using the cavern as a sort of den. There's no other alternative, he says. What I don't say is that there's always an alternative. In this case, the alternative is we're not alone on this island.

In this case, the alternative is that whatever's out there doesn't want to be found. The hike back up to our base camp is long, and by the time we arrive, it's raining. and half-past noon. A wall of dark gray descends toward us from across the ocean. Storm clouds. Lightning flashes on the horizon, followed by rolling cracks of thunder.

The sea laps and churns. All any of us want to do is go to sleep, to rest, and process our grief over losing Darien. But we have work to do. Bernard fires up the H.F. amplifier and attempts to contact rescue services. Static greets him over the receiver. He tells us he doesn't think it's working.

He tells us the radio is fucked. Allison tries her hand at it, and thank God she does, because she gets the thing running again. Over the other end, like the voice of an angel, we hear the operator crackle out of the speaker. Everything all right out there, folks? No, we say in near-perfect unison. God no, the conversation doesn't go as planned. According to the operator, it could be hours or even days before we're picked up. The stormfront in our area is a bad one, they explain, and it's likely to impede any rescue efforts.

Local authorities aren't keen on risking their lives for tourists. At the moment, they're attempting to contact military vessels nearby for a potential extraction, but we shouldn't count on that. Their advice? Hunker down. Batten the hatches. Stay safe. Avoid becoming separated. What if there's somebody out there?

Allison asked them. Trying to fucking kill us? Didn't you say you had a machete? They asked. Feel free to use it. The night passes for me as a string of nightmares. I toss and turn for much of it. It's not clear why, but my...

my stomach is in knots. I feel ill, nauseous, and unwell. I wonder if it's the rations I ate. Maybe Bernard didn't prepare them properly. Maybe they'd gone bad? It doesn't matter. My body and mind are exhausted enough that the pain in my stomach is an afterthought. I awake to silhouettes arguing, Allison and Bernard. My head feels like I just drank a bottle of whiskey and hit it with a hammer. My mouth is dry. I'm sweating and shivering at the same time. Do I have a fever? Pieces of their argument reach my ears. They're not far from me, but they sound so distant, so faint. Give me a break, Allison. Darien's a grown woman who made her own choices. You think we knew she'd slip? She didn't slip. You know damn well.

I stumbled from the tent and warm. Tropical rain is pouring overhead. Wind whistles painfully in my ears. Allison and Bernard are standing beneath the awning nearby, looking at me, but their faces are a blur. I can't make out their expressions. What are you doing up? Allison asks. Eve's dropping? She's holding the machete, pointing it at me. Hands grab me by my arm, roughly. Go to sleep, Bernard orders. He guides me back into the tent, back into my sleeping back. You're not well.

Tomorrow the storm breaks and the rescue team should arrive. I mumble in response, but my words are slurred, barely there. It's okay, he says. Nothing about this is okay, I thought to myself. I spend the night in and out of sleep, my mind swimming. My body feels feverish, alternating between flashes of panting heat and frigid chills. My dreams are a valison. In them, she's calling out to me, begging me for help.

She's trapped inside a pit filled with snakes, covered head to toe in red and blue serpents. They're slithering about her, and I'm holding her machete and chopping at them, trying to save her. Please, she says, please. The next morning my head is pounding. There's an awful pressure near my temples, like my brain is expanding outward and trying to split my skull in three. I need water. I need aspirin. Why is it so quiet? I opened my eyes to an empty tent.

Strangely, there's no sign of Allison or Bernard. It's just me and the remains of our HF radio. Red and blue wires lay strewn about the floor like electrical snakes. Its faceplate is split in two. The circuit board with it. What happened? Wandering outside, I find the storm is clear. A sprinkle of rain is all that's left.

Did the rescue team arrive already? Perhaps Allison and Bernard have taken them down to the ruins to search for Darien. I abandoned the tent and take to the shoreline. calling out their names. It's a short while later that Bernard finds me, emerging from the jungle looking disheveled, manic. His eyes are wild, framed with heavy bags, and in his hand is Allison's machete. It's flecked and crimson. Can't find Allison. His voice is stuttering, moving too fast for his lips. She's gone. I tell him to slow down. My head is in rough shape, and it's difficult to follow what he's saying. Bernard, I ask. Is there blood on that machete?

He shakes his head. He tells me to go back to the tent, to lie down. He says, says he'll keep looking for her. He says she has to be around here somewhere. She has to. As he stalks off, I think I hear him mumble a prayer, but I'm so very tired. My dreams are once more of Allison, of Daryon. This time, they're beckoning me to return to the ruin. They're weeping that Bernard has done this to us, that he's lost his mind. They're saying that he's trying to kill us off so that the discovery can be his and his alone. He pushed me into the hole, Daryon whimpers. He drowned me on the beach. Ellison cries. He's drugging you, they say in unison.

Don't trust him. Don't follow him. Go back to the ruins and you'll see the truth. Do it before he cuts you into little pieces and eats you. Burns your skull and splits it in three. I open my eyes and Bernard is fast asleep. The machete is tucked securely in his arms. As quietly as I can, I leave the tent and make for the ruins.

It's part way through the jungle that the footsteps sound behind me. They're pounding the dirt, moving through the brush like a hurricane. Is it Bernard? I can't tell. My head is aching and my body is exhausted. But despite it all, I press forward at a sprint. I press forward toward the valley below, toward the ruins. I hear laughter in the jungle. Manic, maddening, laughter. It's following me, closing in. Whatever is happening on this island, I realize begins and ends with those ruins. I must reach them. It's a small relief to see the rope still anchored to the stone. I quickly tossed Darien's line into the entrance of the cavern and squeeze myself through the opening.

My palms burn, splitting open in warm blood as they halt my descent. Before I can make it to the bottom, something snaps from above, and my rope gives way. I fall a short and painful distance, with the rest of my rope tumbling down around me. Looking up, I expect to see Bernard standing at the small moonlit entrance. Instead, it's just the empty sky. Bernard? I shout. There's no response. Flicking on my headlamp, I take a look around the cavern. The light reveals a tight cave structure, one splitting off into three separate tunnels,

carved into the walls, just like Darien said, are numerals, dates. What's odd, though. What's borderline impossible is the date the numerals list. October 20th, 1972. It's my birthday. It's everywhere. I'm alone down here. There's no sign of Darian. There's no sign of Bernard. The cavern is empty and feels endless. I've made small attempts to scout the three tunnels, but each presents its own share of impassable obstacles, whether growing too tight to traverse, dropping off into abysmal black, water or twisting steeply upward. I've chosen instead to remain beneath the entrance to the ruins. It is my hope I can shout and gain the attention of the rescue team when they arrive.

Until then, I take this time to update my journal. I filled the entries of my flight from the tent, of my return to the ruins. I filled in other details as best I can while their memory is still fresh in my mind, because even now I feel my stomach roll with hunger and my mouth thirsty for water. I feel myself slipping. These details may prove important to me at a later date. I just need to hang on and hope that somebody will come. But I'm so, so thirsty. Perhaps just to sit from the lake? Only a taste. Just to wet my lips. I am unwell. I feel broken, aching all over. I'm aching in my mind, and it hurts. So, so much. It hurts. There are sounds around me, sounds in the cave. I've recorded them to study later, but it is so difficult to think,

so difficult to write. Are they talking? to me? The sounds are so close. Close. They're surrounding me from every corner of the cavern now, and memories are playing in my head like videos or movies. Ah, I don't feel good. I feel really bad. I see. I see my hands pushing Darien into the hole, down into the ruins. Oh God, I see her eyes as she falls looking at me. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I had to. The radio, it was just so loud, and the rescue team would come so fast that I had to. to call it off. I had to tell them we were just peachy and that there was no need to rush because Darien showed up right as rain. Of course I needed to destroy the radio, snapped the

faceplate on my knee. I had to. What if Allison called them back and told them I was fibbing? Allison, Allison, always with her machete. She never let the damn thing go. What the fuck was it? Her child? I needed to wait forever for her to step off into the jungle for a potty break, but when she did, I gutted her, because she was going to ruin it all. I swear, scouts on her. as she knew something was up with me. Bernard, oh, Bernie, Bernie, you knew the journal was trouble. You knew it was no good.

You brought us anyway because you wanted answers for the dreams you were having since you read the thing. But don't worry, don't worry, don't worry. People are so easy to strangle when they're sleeping. Oh, Lord, the voices, the skull.

It told me it needed them. It needed us all down here. And we were so close to being part of this beautiful place. But nobody wanted to come. And Darien didn't land on her feet, So now it's just me. It's just me. Soon though, it'll be me and you. That's it. That's the final entry.

Note that for Albert's less lucid entries, I attempted to transcribe them as accurately as I could from his writing. The bizarre capitalizations, the sudden misspellings, all of it is authentic to his journal, if that helps at all. Without access to the remains of any of the individuals, it's difficult to say if Albert was simply losing his mind or really did end their lives. The part about him cancelling the SOS signal, however, is accurate. Somebody sent out a call indicating that Darien had reunited with the group

and was not seriously injured, and that rescue at the time was no longer needed. We arrived three days later after their transportation returned to recover them and found their tent cut into pieces, equipment destroyed, and no sign of any members of the expedition. At that point, a search team scoured the island. I was the one who located the cave system, entered it, and recovered Albert Bess's journal and audio recorder, though there was no trace of him, body, or otherwise. Here are the audio files I mentioned earlier. One is a sample of the laughter, and the other is a sample of the voice in the cave. In addition, I visually cited the writing on the cavern walls. The weird thing is that it doesn't

match up to what was recorded in Mr. Vess's journal. The numerals I saw were all different. The date they listed was not October 20th, 1972, but instead, April 4th, 1991. My birthday. The island was nothing without the lighthouse. It was the defining feature, a stone monolith, rising out of the earth like a haunted spire, sweeping its glowing gaze out across the rage of the Atlantic Ocean. Cold Rock Heap was different from other lighthouses, though. Cold Rock Heap had a body count. Ever since anybody could remember, the island had been a haunted affair, a cursed place where ships went to die. The legend went that once upon a time, way back when the town was first erected in God knows when, there lived a coven of witches upon Cold Rock. They practiced

their craft there because they thought the ocean would keep them safe. And it did for a time. But like any old story, the players eventually disappear. And so too was the case with the witches. They died off or were killed. Who could say? History has a funny way of forgetting itself. Whatever the case was, the shipwrecks didn't let up, and so they they had a lighthouse built on the island, a beacon to warn ships away from its serrated shores. The lighthouse, though, didn't seem to help matters one bit. In fact, after it was built, the deaths just went up and up.

And soon the jagged coastline of Cold Rock was filled with the corpses of shattered vessels. It didn't take long for the townsfolk to come to an agreement that the island was cursed, and the lighthouse had somehow become a conduit for that evil. After that, folks just started avoiding Cold Rock, Local folks, at least, we knew better, because our mothers and fathers knew better, and their mothers and fathers had known better before them. They passed down the warnings and bedtime stories or cautionary tales before trips to the sea. Don't drift too close to the lighthouse, they'd say, unless you want the ocean to gobble you up.

My brother often told me the same. A fisherman by trade, George was the captain of a small ship called the Trout's Kiss. It didn't belong to him. It belonged to the company he worked for, but it really should have. He could drive that boat through a hurricane and make it out the other side. Everybody knew it. He wasn't afraid of anything in all the ocean, save for that damn lighthouse. And he'd tell you the same.

I'd sooner row a skiff through a storm, he'd say, a pint of beer in his hand. Then drift the trout's kiss past cold rock. That was then, though. He died three days after my ninth birthday, capsized. His boat tossed him in his first mate. overboard before the trout's kiss smashed into a thousand pieces against the Cold Rock Coast. I went to bed and my brother was alive and when I woke up, he was dead. No goodbyes, no last words, just gone. It was the moment I realized the legend of Cold Rock Keep wasn't just a myth.

It was the moment I realized it was the truest story ever spoken. See, my brother was a superstitious man, a good sailor. There was no way he'd find himself near those rocks if not for some darkness pulling him there. Maybe that same darkness had begun pulling me, or maybe it was just my childhood grief. But not a week after his funeral, I went down to the docks and untied his skip. Then I rode it out into the harbor. I rode it out toward cold rock keep. Too long, I decided, had that towering mausoleum lorded itself over our gentle town. Too long had it stolen our loved ones and filled them with the seal. It was time somebody did something about it, and in that moment, On that brisk summer night, I decided that somebody would be me.

So I set off toward the sweeping beacon that haunted the ocean like a ghost in the dark. I rode and rode until I got close enough that rowing didn't do much anymore because the ocean became all rolling waves and riftide currents. I remember feeling panicked, like I'd made a grave mistake, an impulsive decision that I was now going to sorely regret as I tossed and churned in the soup of the sea. First I lost one more than the other. The boat tipped over like a rubber duck in the bath, and the looming figure of the lighthouse vanished.

Darkness took me. Frid, wet darkness. When I came to, I spat out a river of seawater, trembling and disoriented. I gathered my bearings. Surrounding me was a mess of wood, the remnants of my little skiff, or some other sorry vessel, not ten feet away. Great waves thundered against razor blade rocks jutting out of the coastline like the jaws of a shark while their sea spray washed over me, reminding me where I was.

and what I was doing. I rolled onto my back, there, towering above like a titan of myth, loomed cold rock heap. Its spiral architecture reached up into the moonlit clouds while its yellow light swept in a hypnotizing circle, humming an electric tune. It felt like it was calling to me, beckoning me toward its heavy doors. I pulled myself to my feet and realized I'd come all this way without much of a plan. In retrospect, I wondered if I ever truly meant to make it there at all. Perhaps I had been so sick with grief that I was hoping that the ocean would simply swallow me up the same place it had swallowed George, and then it would let us be together again. Perhaps I just wanted an end to my misery.

Whatever the case, I didn't have anywhere to go but forward now. And so I walked toward the lighthouse. As I did, I passed stone columns. Gravestones, I realized, carved with effigies for men whose stories I knew better than any nursery rhyme. Rupert Duget, 1892. fell from the lighthouse while affecting repairs to the roof. Body inexplicably found 30 feet from the structure. Torso split in half on the rocks.

Seagulls made a nest in his rib cage. Howard Newton, 1903, died peacefully in a slumber, haunted by vicious voices, took a liter of whiskey just to get himself to sleep every night, found dead in his bed, partially decomposed, with his open journal in his hands. His last entry read, I fear the ocean not half as much as I fear

malice in these walls. The lighthouse had always been monstrous. That much wasn't up for debate. Whether it smashed you on the rocks or drove you mad once you washed ashore, cold rock heap would take what it wanted and leave the world more miserable for it. Now, I meant to change that, little nine-year-old me, with nothing to defend himself but a sturdy rock and his brothers hand me down pocket knife. What choice did I have? At that moment, I was there and there was no going back, only forward. So I ascended to the steps to cold rock keep. When I opened the doors, I found old beer cans and nudie mags. The walls inside were dressed in graffiti, and the tables and chairs were chipped and carved with names and memories. A steel spiral staircase wound upwards,

clutching the narrowing walls of the lighthouse. At the very top, sat a hatch leading into the uppermost room. Something tugged at me then. Something pulled me toward it, and I knew then that it was the room, tempting souls to their deaths. It was the source of all this misery. My heart pounding. I took the stairs two at a time. When I reached the top, I found the hatch sealed shut. An old padlock hung off in that red maintenance key number one. While I didn't have the maintenance key, I did have a rock, and so I bashed the padlock clean off the hatch and pulled it. Light blinded me, vicious, vibrant light spilled out like an uncorked supernova. My ears filled with the whirring drone of whatever mechanism drove the artificial sun.

Shielding my eyes, I clambered up the ladder leading into the hatch, one step, two step, until I was in the room proper. And then something strange happened. Things became dim. I opened my eyes and found the blistering light gone. In its place was a faint glow. And even that was quickly fading, receding back into some great void until it was only a firefly speck in the distance.

Then, that too vanished. Darkness enveloped me. Not turn off the lights, it's bedtime darkness, but true darkness. The sort of darkness you find yourself in when you're six feet under. Buried beneath the worms and the dirt. The sort of darkness that's so thick, the pressure of it is almost suffocating. My hand scrambled across the surface, looking for the hatch I'd come through. But it was nowhere. Gone. Caput.

I shouted and I hollered, cursing the lighthouse. Cursing myself for being foolish enough to stroll onto Satan's doorstep, with nothing but a rock and an old pocket knife. But predictably, that didn't solve my problem either. Eventually, out of options, I sat down in the void and cried. I cried for my mother, who would wake up tomorrow worried sick, wondering where I was, calling me in as missing to the sheriff. They'd search and search and never find me,

and she'd just tell them to search some more because there would be no way, no possible way, that she could go on living if she knew both of her babies were gone. I cried for my father, who was out of town on business, and would no doubt blame himself for him always being away or abroad. And then maybe one day he'd get so fed up with all the guilt that he'd turn it around on my mother and tell her she should have been watching me better.

Most of all, though, I cried for my brother. I cried for George because he had always told me to steer clear of Cold Rock Keep. And then he even died to teach me that lesson, but I stuck my nose up at him. I decided I knew better than he did, even though he was the fisherman, and I was the stupid little brother, And I came out here looking for revenge, and all I managed to do was make things so much worse. Look at this one, a nasally voice said.

He hasn't any light. I wheeled around, terror jolting through me. Who's there? He will join the others. The others? I shouted. You mean my brother? Give him time, Agatha.

Came another voice. This one more shrill. Time? The first voice snapped. He is here for violence. He is angry, desperate and murderous, and would see us killed and our home burned to ashes. Don't you see? He has no light, Beatrice, and therefore the cretan has no time. I scrambled backwards on instinct. It was difficult to pinpoint which direction the voices were

coming from, but I was certain they were two of them. Don't be so over-dramatic, Aggie, the second voice said. Can't you see the source of that anger? It's his brother. He's been hollowed out by grief and filled up with pain, poor thing. You're them, I stammered, my mouth too dry to properly speak. You're the witches, aren't you? Agatha's nasally voice snickered. Look how perceptive the child is, sister. I hardly think the world will miss a lightless dunce as he. Let me do it now.

I'll be quick about it. Hush, Beatrice, child. I sense a haunting in your soul, a longing for your brother. Do you miss him? The question made me furious. It was proof. I realized that the witches knew about the murders they were committing, knew about the pain they were causing,

and yet still chose to reap our community again and again. Tears welled in my eyes. Yes, I said, lips trembling. Yes, of course I miss him. Do you have any idea how many innocent folks you've gone and killed? Do you have any idea how many we've saved? Agatha's words caught me off guard. I tried to voice a response to her then,

something well thought out and appropriately accusatory, but all I managed to do was stand there slackshot. See, Agatha, look there, near his chest. Please, that's hardly anything. Still well worth a purge. It's proof the child's got some light in him. Just about anybody's got some light in them, you believe. bleeding heart. The situation was the most bizarre and unsettling thing I'd ever encountered.

What do you mean? People you've saved? What we mean, Agatha began somewhat impatiently, is that Beatrice and I lived peacefully on Cold Rock Island for many, many years. We practiced the magic of the land, grew our crops, caught our fish, we didn't hurt anybody. But one night, a vessel goes and lands on our shores, ties us up in the middle of the night and burns our bodies in a pit. A pit! They drink for hours and hours after that, a real revel, exchanging high fives and how do you do? Beatrice sighs. They slept in our ashes.

Not terribly hygienic, were they? Agatha says. Of course, we had seen their ship on the horizon already, saw it getting loaded on the docks for some time, and so we knew what was coming our way. Took precautions. I took precautions, Beatrice says. You tried to beat them with the club.

Must you always interrupt? I'm being kind enough to give this little cretan some context before we snip him. The least you could do is pipe down for his bedtime story. Agatha takes a moment, and I can sense the two witches glaring at one another in the darkness. Anyway, Dunst boy, where was I? Ah, yes. We made damn sure our murderers met an end that suited them.

Sent them all into a rage, didn't we? Made them chop each other up. Poetic justice, you might say. Beattie and I figured we'd just go ahead and get rid of that bad lot before they infected anybody else with all that hatred. Then, wouldn't you know it? We found out that once you're dead, you're much more in tune with the spirits of folks. Learned we could measure the worth of a man from a thousand yards based on the size of his glow. And often we did.

Not a lot to do when you're dead, you see. And my sister and I do like to keep busy. So we set to work doing the town a favor. We used our magic to lure the worst souls into the rocks, mangled him up good, and saved folks the grief of dealing with him. I shook my head, stunned. So many ships crashed on those rocks. So many. You're telling me that everybody, all those sailors were evil?

Not in the least, sweet little fool, Agatha said. We only killed the bad eggs. The rest of the folks washed up on shore, and somebody came around for them eventually. Same goes for those lighthouse keepers, most of them anyhow. There was that one doing work on the roof before a storm. Poor Sod got blown halfway across the island before making a mess on the rocks. Oh, Beatrice adds. And there was Howie, the sweet man who liked that. I liked a journal. I did so like him. Awfully. Howie? You mean Howard? Agatha let loose a snort of laughter. Poor lad was a smidge clairvoyant and never knew it. Said he heard voices, and I suspect he did. Overheard me and Aggie arguing till the break of

dawn like a couple of braying donkeys. It's no wonder he drank himself to death. A shame. Yes, a shame. The man had a great taste in whiskey. The void, once pitched black, grew brighter. It became bright. It became bright enough that I could make out shapes around me, formless, like laundry in the wind. Oh, Agatha says, somewhat shocked. He can see us now, can he? Of course he can. Look at him. He's glowing, isn't he? The question lingered in my mind.

Why is it that your magic became more powerful after the lighthouse was built? More powerful? Beatrice said, confusion lacing her words. Whatever do you mean? It's just that the folks back in town always said there were more deaths after the lighthouse was built. Did it... Did it help you kill folks? Ha!

Agatha laughed. The child's stupidity is beginning to grow on me, Beatty. I'll give you that. No, you toad-brained fool. The lighthouse didn't make us any stronger, or smarter, or more devilishly beautiful than we already were. All it did was convince folks to come sailing into the harbor, since they figured what could it hurt with the lighthouse guiding them away from all that ails them?

More sinners, more shipwrecks. Easy as that. Oh, I said. And another thought crossed my... mind. As it did, the shapes slowly faded from view. My glow, I realized, was dimming, and the void was beginning to grow suffocating all over again. And my brother, why did you kill him? Oh, Beatrice said, pausing. Well, we didn't kill your brother. This is awkward. Hush now, Aggie, have a heart. Tears formed in my eyes, and I quickly dabbed them with my sleeve.

What do you mean you didn't kill him? He died out there on those rocks. His boat capsized not a hundred yards away. Well, Beatrice said, slowly. We had only ever intended for... Oh, heavens. Who was it? Reed Valus. Agatha offered.

Reed Valus, of course. Yes. We had only intended for that fellow. He was the first maid on the boat your brother captained. That man was an urchin, a rapist, a murderer. He was a stain on this town, and frankly, the world is much better off without him. I sucked in her breath, a sort of weepy, deep breath, the kind you take when you're beginning to calm down, but you're not quite ready to be done with being upset.

Then why did you kill George? Dunst, child, Agatha said. Were you even listening? We just told you. Aggie, Beatrice snapped. Look at him. The boy's glowing again. Faint as it is, we should really be nurturing that light. Agatha mumbled something, sounding equal parts impatient and frustrated. Your brother was meant to wash safely ashore, child.

Honest. Sadly, Reed panicked after the trout's kiss capsized, and not wearing a life preserver, grabbed onto your brother to save his own life, and ended up drowning both of them. The words washed over me like a winter tide. And you let Reed pull him down? You didn't try to help?

How to explain this? Back at the set with a sigh. Our magic is less of a scalpel and more of a sledgehammer. Small incisions in destiny, like pulling your brother free from Reed was impossible for us. It was an unforeseen outcome. Then can you bring him back? I said, desperate and heartbroken.

Since he wasn't meant to die, I never even got a chance to say goodbye and no. Agatha said, we can't. It was exactly what I expected to hear, and yet it still hurt like the day he died. Are there many moments like that? I muttered quietly. The light radiating from me flickering in the dark,

off and on, off and on. It was as though it couldn't decide whether it wanted to stay or go. Do many innocent people die because of the things you do? Silence filled the void. If the darkness had been thick and suffocating, that this silence was like the bottom of the ocean. It felt heavy, crushing. Sometimes, Beatrice said,

sometimes I suppose that innocent folks do get washed away. Is that okay? I asked, my tiny voice cracking under the weight of the question. It didn't feel okay to me. Why did innocent folks have to die so bad people could be punished? Should you really be doing that? I, Beatrice responded. I'm not sure.

Beattie, Agatha said, and her voice was hushed. Shh, you're glowing. Oh, Beatrice said. And the formless shape of windy laundry sort of bent down, as though examining itself. It appears that I am. I'd almost forgotten what that felt like. Look at you, too, Aggie. I can almost see your icy heart with all that light.

True to Beatrice's words, the both of them were beginning to radiate a faint glow. The shapes danced upward, bickering to one another in words I couldn't quite understand. They swirled and snapped and whipped about above my head, until eventually they stopped and floated back down. Now bright lights. We've had it out, Aggie and I, and we've decided you're right. I am, I said, confusion painting my features. Of course you aren't, dunce boy, Akatha said. We got so wrapped up in keeping busy and trying to do good that we forgot to nurture the most important light of all.

Our own, Beatrice Snickered. Oh, look at you, Aggie. First you wanted to purge the poor child, and now you're doting on him. Well, that was before he started glowing like a candlestick, wasn't it? She's right, child. And so are you. It's become clear to us that we can't rightly keep helping other people if we're out of sorts. So we're going to focus on us.

Get back our light. All of it. I, really? That's good, I said, feeling joy for the first time since George had died. The light surged inside of me. That means you won't hurt anybody else then? Mm-hmm. Beatrice said.

We'll leave the hurting to the folks still living and breathing, Agatha said. Which reminds me, we've done some hurting ourselves. Afraid we have, Beatrice agreed. Just then, the two formless shapes began to materialize into something tangible. A human. A pair of glowing corpses appeared. performing with flesh, sloughing off their frames, and boiling wounds upon their faces. One smiling, the other scowling. We know you didn't get to say goodbye, which is partly our fault. All our fault,

Agatha, and it's true that we can't bring George back or take back what we took from you. So, Agatha said, rubbing her mangled hands together with a sign. We've decided to do one last bit of magic. You know, before we leave for good, consider it a parting gift. Beattress pulled me into a tight hug. It isn't much, child, but it's the best we can do. That was my last memory of the witches of Cold Rockiepe. I woke up in my bed, with salt in my hair, and seaweed down my shirt. My mother shrieked for joy when I did. A man I didn't recognize, but would later know to be a doctor, told me I had been asleep for some 14 hours. The police, he explained, found me washed up on the shore. They thought I'd suffered a serious concussion, perhaps fallen into a coma.

I slept like the dead, he told me. I told him that I felt fine and that I was sorry for causing such a stir, but that right now, more than anything, I needed a little space to get my head in order. Just five minutes, I said. My mother and the doctor voiced their concerns, but ultimately respected my wishes. They left the room. Alone, I went to my window. My house sat at the top of a hill and had a nice view of the town.

I looked out over a hundred sleepy houses, a silent school yard, and twenty or so boats gently sloshed. at the dark. Then I looked past that. I looked out to the sea, to a little island with a stone spire. I looked out to cold rock heap, and quiet as a breath. I said thank you. Thank you for everything. You see, dreams are strange things. Sometimes a dream is merely a vignette, a slice of time so infinitesimally small that you wonder if it was ever there at all. Other times, dreams are sweeping, so long and so vast, that you live almost a little bit of a little bit of a little bit of a little bit of a second life inside of them. That night, my dream had been longer and more real than any dream

I've had before or since. It spanned years, decades. In that dream, I played catch, traveled the world, shared pints of beer, and did lots and lots of fishing. In that dream, I said goodbye to my brother. Thanks for listening. Be sure to hit that follow button to get notified every time I release a new episode. If you're tuning in on Apple Podcasts, please take a second to leave a This helps the podcast grow tremendously. Thank you so much.