The Skulls Of The Pagan Shrine
‘There are chords in the hearts of the most reckless which cannot be touched without emotion, even by the utterly lost, to whom life and death are equally jests, there are matters of which no jest can be made’.—Edgar Allan Poe
It is through my revelation that you will know about the unsettling days that still haunt me daily—a reality that, hitherto, remains the sole provocation of my intimate nightmares. Nothing is comparable to its unique nature, nor is there anything that could supersede its brutality.
It is evoked by the death throes of the depth of an island's screams and pleas. I can hear within me at this exact hour its constant noise, and see the horrid images of the endless rows of human skulls and bones stacked, including those I had served with honourably. A myriad of souls who perished and are forgotten by the lapse of time—victims of a madness, whose name bears only the evil of its appellation.
You, the reader, shall know about the ineffable horror that I had witnessed on that wretched island of the skulls of the pagan shrine. Upon the last week of our voyage in the Caribbean, our ship, The Yorkshire of the English Royal Navy, had been damaged by an unforeseen hurricane.
Thus, we were shipwrecked and marooned on an island that was called Montserrat. This island was a British colony, part of the Leeward Islands. It was by sheer coincidence of survival that we reached this island. Our original destination had been the Bahamas—that was the intended route. We were far off course. There were 350 men on board the crew that had once sailed off the English coast, and of these men, only eight of us survived the brutal hurricane.
Amongst the survivors were committed sailors, a Bahamian named Milus, and the captain, whose name was Henry Barnes. My name, you may ask, is James Chilcott, a sailor by occupation. What I shall disclose to the reader is a horror that I was forced to confront in that frightening year of 1888.
I was awakened upon that busy morning of the shipwreck abruptly, by the natural sounds of colourful birds I had never heard nor seen before. The waters off the coast were bluish as the sky, and the unique trees retained an aesthetic purity of green—but it was the towering cliffs that arrested our attention.
Captain Barnes instructed the surviving men to amass all the goods and other materials that remained. Unfortunately for us, there was hardly anything salvageable. Therefore, the only thing we could do was to seek and find urgent assistance amongst the islanders.
That would imply entering the mass of uncertainty that awaited us. We had a compass and a map, but nothing more to direct us through the landscape of the island. Because the ship was beyond repair, there was no sense in having any of the men remain behind to watch over it. And since the island was under the behest of the British Empire, there was no fear of immediate threat from hostile enemies roaming the coast.
Nevertheless, we were cautious as we proceeded from the beach. Of those who had severe or mild injuries, the worst to endure was one of the sailors, named Private Neal. He had a visible wound to his left arm that was heavily wrapped. The island was tropical, warm, and humid. It was enriched with invertebrate fauna and exotic coral reefs that exposed its natural essence to the observer.
After several kilometres, we reached a lone cavern. There we entered to investigate its milieu. What we found inside were flapping bats, sidling lizards, and crawling tarantulas—none of which were to our liking. When we stepped outside, we were confronted by a mysterious man standing before us. His name was George Barwick—but to us, he would be known as Mr Barwick.
He welcomed us and invited us to his home after listening to our account of how we had survived the hurricane. Mr Barwick was impressed by what we had related and was eager to have us as his temporary guests. He appeared genuinely convivial in his demeanour. He had been living on the island of Montserrat for some time.
We reached his home, which was spacious and opulent in magnitude. He had a sugar estate surrounded by lime trees and lush, green fields of vegetation. It was clear to me that he was a powerful man on the island. He had servants to tend to him who were of African descent and spoke in a distinctive Creole language that resembled other forms of speech in the region.
We were properly clothed and fed by him, and we were in debt to Mr Barwick for his kind hospitality. We gathered around the dinner table to discuss the rough voyage and the hurricane. Mr Barwick was interested in knowing and hearing more about our testimonies. For a man who possessed a great amount of property and luxury, it was ironic that he would be so fascinated by the travels of the sea. Perhaps it was due to his isolation and aloofness from British society.
There was one thing that, from afar, I descried as truly bizarre—and that was the imposing volcanic mountain that overshadowed the area. It was the first time I had seen mountains that were volcanic in nature. Although I was not aware of the island's history, I had the vague impression it could erupt at any given moment, since it was only a matter of time before it would awaken from its dormant state.
When I mentioned the mountain to Mr Barwick, he explained in words that were comprehensive.
He told me, ‘The mountain has not released a volcano in decades’.
That was not reassuring to know. I had heard harrowing accounts of volcanoes devouring whole islands in the Pacific Ocean.
‘Don't worry, old boy, there's still life left to see on this island before that mountain gushes its flood of bloody ashes and lava’, Mr Barwick had said.
‘I would hope so—not only for your sake, Mr Barwick, but for the other inhabitants on this wondrous island’.
‘Montserrat will never perish, Mr Chilcott. It has been here for centuries. I can't imagine life without this beautiful paradise that is this place you behold’.
‘Pardon my intrusive nature, but how many years have you been here, sir?’
‘That is a good question, sailor. I have been here approximately ten years. I came here upon a visit one day, when I was much younger than I am today. I can trace my lineage back to the days of the old plantations, when my ancestors once governed the area and grew sugar and rum’.
‘You mean, when there was slavery?’
He chuckled, then replied, ‘Indeed. It was the common practice between the colonists and loyalists. The ending of slavery brought harsh times for our families, due to the falling prices of sugar. If it were not for the introduction of the lime tree orchards, I don't know what my forefathers, or other rich plantation owners, would have done to survive’.
‘This is remarkable, what you have inherited and built here, Mr Barwick’.
The others joined the conversation, with the exception of Private Neal. He was still reposing from his agonising wound. Thankfully, Mr Barwick had a doctor come and examine him. Apparently, his wound was not serious enough to be amputated, but he had to be observed in case of infection. Captain Barnes spoke to Mr Barwick about where he could send a telegraph to alert the Navy in the Bahamas of our exact whereabouts.
He wanted to find material to build a new ship also, since it was impossible to know when a nearby vessel would be passing us by in our vicinity. Plymouth was the closest town that might have that necessary material. The hostile weather and hurricane season were not propitious to send ships at that time. In the meantime, we simply waited for any possible news at Mr Barwick's estate.
That night we spent talking about our extensive voyages and experiences upon the sea to Mr Barwick, who was the proud grandson of a seaman. Everything we related to him, including the exotic places we had visited, he was eagerly intrigued by. I had never seen such excitement stirred within the eyes of a man who was not himself of the sea. He had been to England several times and the surrounding islands, but he had never travelled to the farthest edges of the sea, as we had.
I could tell he was deeply envious of our tales. All the fortune he had amassed, he would have traded for a single day of adventure upon the swashing seas. When I retired to my room that night, I noticed from a distance a strange man leaving the estate. I was not certain who the vague stranger was, and I could not identify him easily. I was too weary to concentrate on him or to wonder what he was doing at that hour of the night.
He could have been a local only seeking shelter, or someone practising some ancient African ritual. It was not uncommon in modern times for former slaves or their descendants to continue their unremitting reverence to pagan gods. The majority of the people on this island were of African descent.
After several minutes, I decided to rest. As I was resting, I heard an obstreperous scream. It startled me at first. Immediately I reacted, but the howling of the wind caused me to believe that it was nothing of a serious nature worth investigating.
Thus, I fell asleep in my bed until I awoke the next morning. Once more, I was awakened by the spry melodies of the island birds. Anxiety is a common factor for a seaman daily upon the seas. A seaman is accustomed to seeing many things and hearing many things foreign to the eyes and ears of ordinary men. Captain Barnes and the others were already awake and gathered at the breakfast table. I joined them, with the fresh memory of the scream I had heard the night prior.
I would be horrified to learn upon my entrance that Private Neal had suddenly died. It was not expected that he would succumb to his wound. How had this happened? We had become intimate brothers, and he was like an older brother to me. Captain Barnes revealed to me that he had developed a rapid infection that was consuming him, within a profound fever that was incurable. He had a sullen look in his eyes that was contagious, as he made that confession.
I queried about the doctor's erroneous diagnosis, and Mr Barwick interjected, saying that he did not die exactly from the infection—he had committed suicide. This was something I categorically rejected, since I knew Private Neal. He then explained that they had found his body missing his wounded limb. It was presumed that he had cut his own arm off, hoping to prevent the spread of the infection.
Once more, this was not in his character, but I could not prove that he did not do this, out of an act of desperation. His body was then buried in a proper interment nearby the estate. Mr Barwick granted us permission to bury him there. We did not have the proper accoutrements or the instruments to give him a proper ceremony; nonetheless, he was given a Christian burial.
It was a damnable cruelty that, after surviving the hurricane at sea, he would falter suddenly to the grievous effects of his injury. The captain spoke to me personally, since I was the closest to Private Neal. We had grown up in the same city of Birmingham, as young boys. I knew his family well, and how much he had enjoyed being a dedicated sailor of the English Royal Navy. There were few in earnest who were braver and more daring than he was.
After the funeral, we returned to the area of the ship to discover that the remnants had disappeared. They were either destroyed and the wood dismantled and taken away to some place, or they had washed away into the depths of the sea.
It was too ironic to believe in the latter and too unthinkable to believe that anyone would want to destroy a ship already shattered from the hurricane. It did not make any plausible sense to me, yet it transpired. We were all amazed by this occurrence, and Captain Barnes began to grow suspicious of what was developing. First, the mysterious death of Private Neal, and second, our destroyed ship had vanished without a single clue.
The problem that surfaced was: where were we men to go then? Our two options were either to return to Mr Barwick’s estate or to have him escort us to Plymouth. The captain opted for us to advance on to Plymouth. Therefore, we returned to the estate and asked Mr Barwick, the proprietor, to take us to Plymouth or have one of his servants take us there. Mr Barwick told us that he did not have enough horses for all of us to reach Plymouth. He instead suggested that half of us go one day, and the others the next.
We were not overtly keen on that idea of his, but it was, without a doubt, the only choice we had. We had to confide in his knowledge of the island. Matthews, Gray, and Palmer would escort the captain, whilst Butler, the Bahamian Minus, and I would remain behind to wait our turn. Mr Barwick told us it was best to leave in the early morning, when the sun was more visible and less intense.
The captain concurred with that idea, and for the remainder of the day, we spent our time making preparations for the trip. For the first time as well, I met a young, beautiful woman who was enchanting in appearance. Her name was Samantha, named after her deceased mother.
She was not a servant. She was the daughter of Mr Barwick. She was half-Black and half-White, and she was born on the island. She had radiant sapphire eyes that were like precious stones, and she was slender, but shaped with sensual contours.
I tried to be discreet with my singular gaze, knowing that she was the daughter of the man who had invited us to his estate as his guests. It was difficult not to be mesmerised by her inherent beauty. Much to my surprise, she offered me a stroll with her inside the estate, and I naturally could not resist her exquisite charm. The others were busied with the journey to Plymouth or were occupied with other matters at hand. It was not a distant jaunt we would take, and Mr Barwick had consented.
He saw in me, I felt, a son that he never had. The estate was remarkable in its essence and grandeur, but it was a life of pure isolation and solitude. Upon our casual stroll, I learnt that Mrs Barwick, the mother of Samantha, had passed away regrettably ten years ago, upon a voyage to England. She succumbed to the dreaded contagion of island fever that she had been afflicted with from the very start of the voyage. Samantha had grown up essentially without a mother.
Her father, Mr Barwick, was the only authoritative figure she had during her adolescence. I knew that feeling all too well, for I too had grown up without a parent—in my case, my father. It was ironic that we had shared such tragic circumstances in our lives.
This, I felt, would bond us more. The more we conversed with each other, the more we found we had much in common. Once back at the house, we joined the others who were preparing for their midday meal. At the table, the topic of the trip to Plymouth was mostly discussed. Yet there was another topic introduced—an offer made by Mr Barwick to any of us survivors of the wreck to permanently stay and work for him at his estate. This tiding of an offer surprised us.
Not one of us had even thought of remaining on the estate. We were all grateful for the offer, but the men, along with the captain, kindly rejected it. They were established seamen and part of the Royal Navy. They did not know anything about running a plantation or its daily tasks. I was the only one who hesitated and did not reject the gracious offer.
Perhaps it was because I had grown a bit weary of travelling, or perhaps it was because I had begun to fall under the sudden spell of Samantha. Whatever it was, I told Mr Barwick that I would meditate on his offer in my privacy. In the meantime, I spent the night once more with the others in the parlour chatting. Once I was in my room, I could not help but think about my old friend Private Neal. It was still hard to believe that he was no longer living. His death lingered in my mind, even after several hours had passed since his unusual passing. I would have preferred that his body had reached England, for the sake of his family. That was not for me to decide in the end.
The morning brought a certain measure of anticipation about reaching Plymouth. After the men took an early breakfast, they departed on horseback. They were guided by one of Mr Barwick’s male servants. I, along with the other men who had remained behind, saw them depart into the thick rows of trees. Captain Barnes was confident that once in Plymouth, he could summon assistance through a direct telegraph to the Bahamas.
Unbeknownst to me, he—as well as the other men travelling with him—would never reach their final destination. What I did not know at that time was the terrible nature of their untimely deaths, at the hands of a murderous obsession.
I spent the day in Samantha’s company, telling her stories about my incredible adventures upon the sea, whilst the other three men spent theirs with Mr Barwick at the sugar fields.
The more time I spent with her, the more I learnt about her life and the wonders of living there. We had gone to the beach for a while, gazing out at the depths of the waters that surrounded the island. I had the feeling that she enjoyed the beach as much as I did.
She was thoroughly enthusiastic to hear about the places I had visited or seen. She was refreshing company to share my time with. Life at sea was often too predictable and too lonesome for a sailor. Whilst we were at the beach, I discovered ancient skulls and figures that appeared to be idols of creatures with unearthly guises and shapes. I showed them to Samantha, and she was equally stunned by my discovery. For how long had these idols been buried or existed? Had they belonged to the original inhabitants of the island? Who were these archaic creatures? Were they gods, revered and preserved?
Their mystery was enough to compel my return. I reburied them, save for one of the strange idols. Samantha had urged me to bring them back to the estate to show her father. We returned just in time for the midday meal to share with the others. I was eager to know if there were any tidings from those who had left for Plymouth in the morning. Yet no news had been revealed. Thus, we waited.
Perhaps the captain was preoccupied with finding lodgings, or something had occurred that we were unaware of. I spoke to Mr Barwick about that ominous possibility. He expressed no concern whatsoever. Rather, he assured me that shortly we would receive word of their whereabouts. I wanted to believe him, to trust his intuition. But something instinctively alarmed me.
I showed him the idol I had uncovered at the beach. His reaction was one of immediate curiosity and interest. This I could discern in his gestures. He examined it closely, then asked me where I had found the object. I told him—at the beach.
He then remarked that the island was full of ancient artefacts. He did not elaborate upon the history of the idols, nor what they represented. He merely conveyed their meaning. According to him, they were created and worshipped by the original inhabitants of the island, as I had suspected. There were still abundant mysteries on Montserrat that even he was unable to unravel.
In the late afternoon, Butler and Minus accompanied Mr Barwick on an errand, but they did not return. Mr Barwick returned alone. He informed me that the men had perished. When I asked how, he said they were ambushed by two armed men. I was stunned to hear his words—to know that my fellow companions had died. My only consolation was Samantha. She comforted me in my anguish and distress.
Until I knew the fate of the captain and the others who had gone with him, I could not relax or enjoy my time on the island. The evening and the night were unbearable. The worst was yet to come. The night was restless and, in the morning, when I awoke, I could bear no more. I had to find out what had happened to the others—including the men who accompanied the captain.
Without informing Mr Barwick, I took one of the horses. Samantha saw me mount the horse and asked where I was going. I told her I was going to search for the captain and the men. She asked if she could accompany me. I was reluctant at first, but I had no time to waste on explanations.
We left the sugar estate and headed towards the road that led to Plymouth. I did not know the way, nor did Samantha. We became lost, and the only road accessible to us led to a nearby cavern. Something compelled me to enter, and we both did. The cavern was infested with bats and riddled with tunnels I did not know existed. I chose one for us to pass through, holding my pistol firmly.
At the end of the tunnel, what we discovered was utterly shocking and disturbing in nature. It led to a dungeon lined with countless rows of putrid bones and skulls amassed. More revelatory still was a tall, grey pagan shrine of a monstrous god I could barely comprehend.
It had large, oval eyes veiled in a red film, blackened skin, long protruding horns, and sprawling tentacles. It resembled the idols we had found on the beach. The most disconcerting sight was the decapitated heads of all the crewmen of my ship, including the captain, lying amidst the bones and skulls. Samantha screamed aloud in horror.
I knew then they had been brutally murdered. I quickly realised that I was the only survivor. The question remained—who had done this? Whoever performed such sadistic rituals was more grotesque than the monstrous god they venerated. Goblets littered the ground, brimming with spilt blood. I could only assume it to be human. A grotesque feast of a demented mind, relishing the sanguine essence.
I did not recognise the god, but its semblance was terrifying and unnameable. What human could be the cause of such an atrocity? From what I surmised, the dungeon was a secret place of torture and despair. Whatever calamity befell the poor souls who were its victims, nothing could compare to their agony. I took Samantha by the hand and led her back into the tunnel, away from that dreaded cavern. We returned to the estate.
Along the way, the images of the decapitated heads of my companions remained vivid in my mind. Mr Barwick awaited us, standing outside as we arrived. He asked where I had gone with his daughter. At once, I disclosed what I had seen in the dungeon of the cavern. I noticed his reaction was indifferent, and he seemed unsurprised by my discovery.
His odd behaviour began to unnerve me. He was not angry that I had taken one of his horses without permission, nor that I had taken his daughter. Little would I know then that he was the disturbed mastermind behind the murders of the crewmen. Unbeknownst to us, while we spoke, a volcano was erupting.
‘I tell you, Mr Barwick—what I saw and found in that bloody cavern was beyond any evil act I have ever witnessed’.
‘I would have preferred that you had not found what you did, Mr Chilcott. Now that you have, I regret to say you must keep this a secret between us’.
‘What are you saying, Mr Barwick? Do you know who killed these men?’
‘If I told you, Mr Chilcott—would it matter?’
‘Of course!’ I ejaculated.
He instructed Samantha to leave us so we might speak privately. She obeyed, and we continued our conversation.
‘Now that we are alone, Mr Chilcott, I shall tell you everything’.
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘You see, Mr Chilcott, what I failed to admit is that I belong to a secret cult that worships the native god of this island’.
‘What are you talking about? Are you bloody insane?’
‘Allow me to explain. I was once grievously ill, and a witch doctor cured me. I owed him my life, and I promised to worship his god’.
‘By killing people and offering skulls to a pagan shrine?’
I drew my pistol from my pocket and pointed it at him.
‘Today it stops here. There shall be no more killing, Mr Barwick. I shall report you to the authorities’.
Samantha had overheard the severity of our conversation. She was dismayed by what her father had dared to utter so candidly. She stepped back in disbelief. She could not comprehend the brashness of his words. Despite this, she pleaded with me to put the pistol down. My heart urged me to acquiesce, yet my mind could not grasp the horror that her wretched father had committed so audaciously, in the name of his pagan god.
As we stood facing each other, the eruption of the volcano could be heard — a deep, guttural roar echoing across the land. Volcanic ash darkened the sky as pyroclastic flows surged down several sides of the mountain, swiftly approaching the estate. Mr Barwick seemed more preoccupied with saving the prestige of his sugar estate than preserving his life.
I seized Samantha by the hand, and together we fled towards the beach, desperate to escape the volcano's wrath. She did not want to leave her father, but I would not let her remain. At the edge of the beach, we found a small boat that had once belonged to Mr Barwick. We managed to unfasten it just in time, moments before the ash and molten lava consumed the shoreline.
We were both horrified by the tremendous spectacle of the eruption and the devastation that followed. With no direction but the open sea before us, we rowed onwards. By then, the volcano had swallowed half the island, smothering it in ash and fire. Mr Barwick’s once-proud sugar estate was obliterated, and his body would later be found charred beneath the hardened lava.
The cavern of the pagan shrine crumbled under the force of nature. The mass of bones, skulls, and decapitated heads—all remnants of the macabre rituals—were lost forever beneath the molten rock. The unthinkable horror that had stained the island of Montserrat met the same tragic fate as its unwilling victims.
The boat rocked precariously as the violent waves seemed to reflect the fury of the volcano. The once calm blue waters had transformed into a dark, tumultuous sea, where the ash-filled sky cast an eerie pallor over the ocean. Samantha sat at the bow, staring at the horizon, her eyes lost in the rising smoke and flames that bled into the sky like a fevered dream. The air was thick with the scent of sulfur and burning earth, a stark reminder of the devastation that had engulfed the island.
I gripped the oars with all the strength I could muster, my mind still reeling from the horrors of the cavern. The image of the decapitated heads haunted me. Their hollow eyes seemed to stare at me through the smoke, their faces frozen in terror. I could still hear Samantha’s scream echoing in my ears, her voice reverberating through the confines of my skull. Her father, the man I had once respected, had done this. The thought churned in my gut like a foul sickness. How had I not seen it sooner?
The rhythm of the oars was broken only by the occasional boom of the volcano as it rumbled once more, the earth shaking beneath our feet. I had no words left for Samantha, no comfort I could offer her. The events of the past few hours had shattered everything—the notion of safety, the meaning of family, and the idea of trust. All of it had crumbled into the ash, much like the island itself.
Suddenly, the boat lurched violently, nearly throwing us both into the water. I scrambled to keep us steady, cursing under my breath as I glanced over my shoulder. A thick plume of smoke had billowed into the air, cutting off our view of the island. The volcanic ash was descending in thick layers, blotting out the sun, darkening the sea and turning the once-vibrant world into a monochrome nightmare. The winds picked up, howling around us, carrying with them the bitter sting of death.
Samantha’s voice cut through the chaos. ‘What if we don’t make it out? What if the sea swallows us too?’
I didn’t have the heart to answer. The truth was, I didn’t know. The sea was vast, and our chances were as uncertain as the future itself. The only thing I could do was keep rowing. I had to keep going—for her, for myself, and for the memory of the men I had failed to save.
At sea, Samantha and I were eventually rescued by a passing ship that spotted our drifting vessel. We would be taken to the Bahamas, where we would be given shelter and food. I was tormented by irrepressible guilt—guilt that I had survived while the others had not.
I did not mourn the death of Mr Barwick. After what he had done to my fellow companions, his fiery end felt like justice served. I am not God to pass judgement upon any man, yet I believe this: there is an evil in mankind more terrifying than any god he blindly worships—an evil that consumes him in depravity.
The ship’s deck was a silent sanctuary compared to the chaos of the island. As we sailed further from Montserrat, the gentle rocking of the boat beneath our feet felt like a lullaby, a rhythmic solace that tried to ease the weight in my chest. The wind was cooler now, the smell of saltwater fresh against the foul stench of smoke and death that had lingered for so long.
Samantha had not spoken much since our rescue, but I noticed the way her eyes lingered on the horizon, as though the sea might somehow offer her the answers she sought. She had become a shell of the woman I once knew—the vivacity in her eyes replaced by a vacant, haunted look. Her once bright spirit had been darkened by the horrors we had lived through, and I couldn’t help but feel responsible.
I stood by the ship’s railing, staring into the abyss of the ocean, feeling as though the vastness of it mirrored the emptiness inside me. The island was gone. The people I had failed to save were gone. I could still see their faces—their terrified eyes, their bloodied bodies—and the ache in my heart grew stronger with every passing minute. I had escaped, but at what cost?
Samantha’s voice broke through my thoughts. ‘Do you think they’re watching us?’ She asked softly, her gaze not meeting mine, but fixed somewhere far beyond the horizon.
‘Who?’ I asked, though I already knew the answer.
‘Everyone,’ she whispered. ‘The ones who didn’t make it. The ones we left behind’. She turned then, her eyes meeting mine, searching for something I could not give. ‘Do you think they’ll forgive us?’
The question struck me with a horrible realisation. I had no answers, only the gnawing guilt that had settled deep within my bones. Could I forgive myself? Could I even ask for forgiveness from the souls of the men who had died in that cursed shrine, or from the men who had perished in the volcanic eruption, their screams swallowed by the earth?
‘I don’t know’, I replied, my voice heavy with the weight of it all. ‘But we can’t change what happened. We can only carry it with us and hope we’re better for it’.
She looked down, as though my words had sunk deep into her heart. ‘I don’t know if I want to be better’, she said, her voice breaking slightly. ‘I don’t know if I can ever be better after all of that’.
I wanted to reach for her, to comfort her, but I felt as though I, too, needed comfort. I was adrift, floating in a sea of unanswered questions, with no anchor to keep me grounded. All I could offer was my silent presence, my shared grief.
The ship sailed on, its sails filled with the wind that carried us further from the island. The deep blue of the ocean stretched out before us, seemingly endless, and yet, in that vastness, I felt smaller than ever. My mind kept returning to Montserrat—to the volcano that had swallowed everything, to the cave that held its grim secrets, and to Mr Barwick, whose arrogance and greed had led us all to ruin.
Samantha and I were the last survivors, and we carried the burden of the island’s fate on our shoulders. Neither of us could look back now; Montserrat was lost, and so were the lives it had claimed. The island’s curse had not ended with its destruction. It lived on in us, and we were bound to carry it for as long as we lived.
As the ship cut through the waves, the sun dipped low in the sky, painting the water with hues of orange and gold. But even the beauty of the scene couldn’t lift the darkness that lingered in my soul.
‘Will we ever find peace?’ Samantha asked, her voice barely audible in the wind.
I didn’t have an answer. I didn’t know if we ever would.
But in that moment, I understood one thing—the island of Montserrat would never truly leave us. It would stay in our minds, etched in our memories, and perhaps, in time, we would come to understand that survival came with its own kind of price.
We had escaped the volcano’s wrath, but the truth would be forever known to us.
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