Natasha’s POV

“The women they take there,” Thomas continued, voice heavy, “they use them as playthings. As sex slaves. The creatures—they’re not just werewolves. Bigger, stronger, and their appetites…” He shook his head. “Most women don’t survive more than a night. Maybe two if they’re unlucky.”

Beside me, Davelina had gone very still. Her fingers dug into my arm.

“That’s barbaric,” someone muttered.

“That’s reality,” Thomas said flatly. “My father said you could hear the screaming from ships that got too close. Women screaming through the night. By morning, silence.”

I wanted to laugh it off, but the words stuck. Because Thomas didn’t look like he was telling a campfire tale. He looked like he was delivering a warning.

Old William nodded slowly. “My grandfather said those creatures weren’t always monsters. Centuries ago—four, maybe five hundred years—they lived peacefully. Some say they even helped ships in distress.”

“What changed?” someone asked.

Thomas stared into the fire. “Hunters. The Church. Maybe both. Someone decided those creatures were abominations that needed wiping out. So they tried.” His jaw tightened. “My father said the hunters went to the island during some kind of eclipse—when the creatures were weakest. They slaughtered women, children, anyone they could find.”

“And the survivors?” William picked up the story. “They say the creatures’ leader went mad that night. Watching his people die, trying to save them, he poured everything he had into protecting them. But the cost was too high. He lost his mind entirely. Became nothing but a killing beast.”

“That mad leader,” Thomas said quietly, “is still their king. Locked away in his fortress like a rabid dog, driven by nothing but bloodlust and…” He glanced at the women. “Other appetites. They say he needs young women to satisfy his urges—needs their blood, their bodies. Without a constant supply, he breaks free and slaughters even his own kind.”

The silence was suffocating.

Young John tried to break the tension, voice stripped of mockery. “Even if such an island exists—which I’m not saying I believe—it can’t be near here, can it? The Atlantic is vast.”

“That’s exactly why I’m warning you all,” Thomas said sharply. “If you ever see a black ship in the fog, turn around immediately. Don’t investigate. Don’t try to help. Don’t even look too long. Just run.”

“But how would we recognize it?”

“You’ll know,” William said grimly. “You’ll know it in your bones. That ship feels wrong. Looks wrong. Moves wrong. And the fog that comes with it—it’s not natural mist. It’s thick as wool and cold as death, and it moves like it’s alive.”

I couldn’t help myself. “Then why hasn’t anyone reported this to the authorities? Why doesn’t the government send the navy?”

Every old sailor turned to look at me. Thomas’s expression was almost pitying.

“Report it to whom, lad?” William said gently. “You think officials in London care about fishermen’s tales? They’d call it superstition. Blame it on storms and pirates.”

“And even if they believed us,” Thomas added, “how would they find it? That island doesn’t show on any map. You’d never find it unless it wanted to be found.”

“But surely someone has escaped—”

“No one comes back, boy.” Thomas’s voice was final. “That’s why they call it the Isle of the Vanished. You go there, you’re gone. Forever.”

When Davelina and I finally left, I saw Thomas standing by the door. He wasn’t looking at the familiar harbor. He was staring west, where the darkness seemed somehow deeper than it should be.

He looked like he was seeing something the rest of us couldn’t. Something black and terrible, waiting in distant fog.

“You were quiet on the walk home,” Davelina said the next morning as we prepared breakfast. Mother had left to visit a sick neighbor, and Father was at the docks.

I shrugged, focusing on cutting bread. “Those stories got to me more than I expected.”

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