Where Souls Die Part 1

Suspense Stories | Feb 22, 2012 | 12 min read
208 Votes, average: 4 out of 5
Suspense Stories

Where Souls Die Part 1

Aaron Simpson
Follow
As it is written on stone, paper or any other tablet: souls of the guilty, damned or merely lost are condemned to suffer the wrath of the one fallen angel.  To suffer through the hellfire for the rest of eternity.  They are devoured by him and are left to suffer in the bowels of evil itself.  The Hell he created and wished to impose upon them.  From which there is no escape and no sanctuary.  The chances of being liberated - if only for a short while - from the torment that persisted not through night and day, but in the perpetual blackness that is the chasm of evil itself - were nonexistent.

Unbeknownst to the very "all-knowing" entity that is God, and to the rest of the inhabitants of every existing plane, Satan vomited forth a concoction of the damned souls in the form of land cursed with perpetual darkness and haunted by the anger of souls that condensed into that piece of earth that lay in the middle of the ocean.  The reason for this desultory discharge of the evil that was once imprisoned is unknown.  It will never be known.  If it was the plan of the King of Darkness, or rather accidental; Hell has now reached the earth and has infused with its reality and laws.
The properties of the island went unknown by God, the land existed only in the realms that possessed what could truly be called "pure evil."  One of those realms is the realm of mortals.  Humans, as they are known, reign supremely in that plane.  But, in their initial ignorance they remained - for a great while - benighted of the unholy land for millennia.

It wasn't until early 1917 that the land remained reticent of humanity's ever-growing eye.  This is the story of man's very first encounter with the land of pure malevolence:

In the midst of The Great War (before America‘s involvement), several merchant sea vessels belonging to the United States were destroyed by German Cruisers.  As well as the merchant ships, the Lusitania, a British-owned ocean liner was destroyed by the Germans.  Over 1,000 deaths were reported, though, some were unconfirmed and assumed to be deceased.
Such was the predicament of Frederick Wilson.  An American passenger aboard the Lusitania found himself drifting away at sea on a life raft as he watched the ocean liner burn and sink to the bottom of the ocean.
Wilson had grown paranoid of attack while on the ship.  Most likely caused by a sort of cabin fever, as witnesses say he behaved fine upon boarding the vessel.  Stress and paranoia drove him to preserving survival materials in case of a sudden attack.  A few flasks of water, rations, tape, some blankets, and an M1911 pistol were stored in a rather large satchel which he kept hidden from every other passenger.
The M1911 was a gift from a friend.  Wilson, always being superstitious, often kept the gun close at hand after a gypsy had told him, "Great danger is waiting for you in places foreign to ever outlet of your imagination."

On the night the Lusitania was destroyed, Wilson grabbed his satchel and procured a lifeboat.  He waited for others to join him, but danger was growing closer in the form of an oil fire on deck not three yards away from where Wilson's boat hung.
He cut the ropes to free himself from the Lusitania and landed in the water with tremendous force.  He was ejected from the boat before it hit.  When the boat landed, it capsized and waded next to the sinking colossus.  Wilson kept a tight grip on the satchel that contained his only chance at life while swimming frantically in the freezing waters.
He reencountered the boat and went underwater to pull one grip of the boat closer to him in order to swing it back to its upright position.  He succeeded, against all odds.  He had enough adrenaline surging through his body to perform amazing feats of strength.

The lifeboat, though filled with water was upright and could support him now.  He climbed on the boat and tilted it by standing on one side to empty out the water.  Most of it went back into the ocean before Wilson lost his balance and plunged into the water again.  The cold stung even worse than it had the first time.  The adrenaline was wearing off and exhaustion was setting in.  Violently shivering he grabbed the side of the boat closest to him and pulled down to continue the job of emptying the freezing water that filled the boat.  The water cascaded onto his face and numbed most of it for a time.  When he was done, little water remained and he climbed back into the boat, almost capsizing it again.  He laid there, in the freezing puddles of water that remained.
Before he abandoned the Lusitania, he had managed to waterproof the satchel by wrapping it in multiple sheets of thick plastic that he kept tightly bound by several lengths of strong rope that he had secured from some crewmates.

The lifeboat had oars secured in it before the destruction began.  One of the oars was lost when the boat capsized and Wilson was left with only one.  His muscles were frozen to a state of infirmity as he paddled with slow, but long strokes.  Against all odds, he managed to escape the suction of water that the Lusitania created as it descended into the ocean.  He watched in amazement and horror as it burned and sank.  Like a gigantic beast had been slain.  Its sheer enormity alone had frightened anyone able to garner a picturesque view of the ship.

Wilson looked around.  No other lifeboats were in sight.  He had paddled too far, and in what direction?  Ireland was nowhere to be seen either.  It was just barely north of the Lusitania.  He was able to see it right before the ship was attacked.  Now, nothing was visible.  Be it the darkness of the night, the sea salt in his eyes, or the dreaded distance he may have paddled in his panicked fury; he was alone.  Surrounded by nothing but what little of the Lusitania that had remained above the surface of the sea, and water.  Dark as the night sky.  The horizon was invisible the colors were the same.

The thought sent a chill through him that sent another shock of freezing pain throughout his body.  His flesh was burning from the ice that encrusted sections of it.  He unwrapped the satchel and took out his blankets.  He stripped naked; the cold night air bit him hard all around.  He quickly dried himself off with the first blanket.  Then he laid it on top of the small puddle of water that remained in the boat.  It was thick enough to keep the water from soaking through to the top.  He took the other two large blankets and wrapped them tightly around his nude body.  The shivering fits dissipated slowly as he laid his full body on one end of the small raft and curled into a ball.  He was dry.  He was warm. Not as warm as he wanted, but safe from the cold until morning.  Hopefully, by then, he would have reached land.  He slowly nodded off to sleep after the Lusitania had sunk completely and all signs of the vessel that attacked the ship had gone away.  He kept alert for other boats for as long as he could before sleep took hold and wouldn't let go.  The swimming, the running, the paddling, emptying the boat of freezing water- it was all too much for a man of no spectacular shape.  Coupled with the extraordinary warmth of the blankets, he couldn't keep his eyes open for longer than an hour after the chaos had ended before drifting to sleep.

.    .    .

When he woke up, the sun had began to rise.  Light was now in the area, and now he had a chance of being spotted, or spotting nearby land.  He shed himself of the two blankets and looked all around.  What was a moment of happiness turned to horror as he saw nothing but sea surrounded him.
Why did I have to sleep!?  Why couldn't I endure it like a man!?  Now, I'm out here, in the middle of the ocean, looking death in the face once more.
Only this time, death saw it fit to torture him with his own mind and desperation long before it took hold.  Before death wasn't far away, it hovered closely by Wilson during the whole ordeal and he knew that if he died, it would be quick.  Quicker than the death he faced now.  But he had the pistol.  The M1911.  He had packed it anyway.  He looked for it in the bag, and there it was.  It was a bittersweet sight.  It was a symbol of his death, but it was a symbol of a quick one.  The sea was long and torturous.  A tedious and grueling death awaited him if it were up to that water.  If it was in control, anyway.  But no, Wilson had the gun and Wilson decided how he would die now.  But it wasn't his time.  Not yet.  That's what Wilson decided.

The gun was unloaded completely.  The magazine was already ejected and was separated from the gun during its time in the satchel.  Seven bullets were fixed in the magazine.  The eighth bullet was wrapped in paper and tape, somewhere else in the satchel.
Several flasks of water were in there.  Large flasks too.  He figured they would last him a couple of weeks if he used them sparingly.  The rations weren't as numerous, but food wasn't as important as water.  He could go without eating for a couple of days and then eat one meal, then wait again.  That occasional meal should be enough to satisfy him after finishing it.

Then he remembered his clothes.  He walked over to them, they were folded up tightly on the other end of the raft.  It wasn't the best course of action if he wished to dry them sooner, but he didn't want to risk losing them overnight, so he kept them a bit more secure from the wind by keeping them in a corner.
His shoes were damp, but not unwise to wear.  He put them on and flattened out the rest of his clothes.  Which retained much of last night's moisture.  He let the rising sun dry them as he looked around for any sign of life.  He thanked God it was May.  The sun's rays were proficient enough to dry his clothes without too much of a wait.
He must have drifted south, he thought.  South and a bit to the west.  The worst possible route in his predicament.  The Americas were where he would end up if he kept on this track, most likely.  South America was a better chance.
He crossed himself informally and prayed to find safety soon.

.    .    .

A week passed.  The sun scorched Wilson as he laid down on the raft, fully dressed now.  It beat down heavily on his flesh and he was left with numerous painful sunburns which now produced blisters on his forearms and on the back of his neck.  The plastic sheets he used to wrap the satchel up were torn to shreds when he attempted to make a tent using the materials he had.  Now, he was exposed to the harsh rays.  His water supply was half empty and he saved his urine in the empty flasks.  He would occasionally strip and dive into the refreshingly cold ocean.  The cold stung him like needles sometimes, but it was a welcome break from the sun's rays after a while.

Whenever he did leave the boat, he kept one hand on it at all times, he wasn't about to risk losing his only vessel and one chance at living… His one chance at dying painlessly.
Now, he didn't feel like it.  The sun sort of weakened him.  He was tremulous, and weak.  He figured he was just starving, so he ate.  Nothing changed.  Ate another meal.  He felt the same.  Something was going on with his body, he didn't know what.  The rations must not have had any nutrients in them.  But that didn't make any sense.  But it didn't matter now though, he exhausted everything to get rid of this lethargic stupor, and nothing worked.
He laid down on the raft, not relaxing or hoping for rescue.  He was laying down with the pistol in his hand.  It was unloaded, but, according to Wilson's plans, it wasn't going to stay that way.
He had food.  He had water.  He had sustenance.  But was he just delaying the inevitable?  Was he going to die no matter what?  Before too long, they weren't so much just questions - they became horrifyingly rhetorical.  He figured it was best to end it sooner rather than hanging on by a thread after using up the water, urine and food.  The level of comfort he could have during his death was diminishing rapidly.  It wasn't comfortable now, but it was only getting worse from here.
He was saving one of the flasks for rescue, or to null the mental strain of attempting suicide.  One of the flasks contained alcohol.  Whiskey.  Very strong.

He drank it all.  In his stupor, he had abandoned plans of suicide.  Instead, he enjoyed himself with his limited resources before he passed out.
When he woke up, he couldn't feel the waves gently rocking his boat anymore.  It was dark, but the moon was nowhere in sight.
His eyelids were heavy and discolored.  His eyes were bloodshot.  He sat up in his boat, holding his breath, and started to observe his surroundings.  He had hit land.  He let out an overjoyed sigh and smiled.  Tears came out of his eyes.  His hangover never got the chance to rear its ugly head.  Joy was blocking it out.
Wilson looked around and saw the beach in which he was standing.  Behind him was a forest clearing.  All of it was rather… void.  It seemed nobody had set foot on this land before.  This was a deserted island.  Wilson had read stories about it, but never thought it would actually happen to him.  But now, he had a better chance at survival.  Now, he might actually be spotted.  This was a stroke of luck.

It was freezing though.  He grabbed his supplies, put it all back in the satchel and put it around his shoulder.  He took two of the blankets and wrapped himself up with them.  The third stayed in the satchel.  He grabbed what little plastic was left and wrapped it around his head.  Covered his ears, nose and forehead.  He put the gun in his waistband and set out to explore the island.

.    .    .

Three days passed.  On the first day, Wilson assembled the supplies to build something that would attract the attention of any passing ships.
On the second day, he entered the woodland and didn't return.
On the third day, he came back out of the woods and sat in the sand on the beach.  He lit a gigantic fire and sat down far enough away to where he wouldn't be harmed by the flames.  He didn't make another sound and didn't stir for the next 13 hours.  A merchant ship caught sight of the wooden landmark Wilson had made on the first day.

The ship didn't approach the land, but three lifeboats approached.  They saw him, approached him cautiously, and tried to get him to speak.  He acknowledged them and went with them stiffly, but it was obvious he wanted to leave.  The six men that came to the island were Hispanic.  They took him to the boat, which took him to Cayenne.  The capital of French Guiana. It stands on the Atlantic Coast as one of the edge cities of South America.
The latitude and longitude of the island was marked.  From the sinking of the Lusitania to the island, Wilson had drifted no less that 2,900 miles.  With all that Wilson revealed after being rescued, it was concluded that there was no possible way someone would have gotten there in a week, just coasting along on the ocean at that distance.  It simply wasn't possible, even if Wilson had paddled his way there.  But he was registered on the Lusitania, that couldn't be debated.  His journey started off the coast of Ireland.  How he got to the island so quickly was never explained.  Only vague theories exist.

The six men that sailed to the island to rescue Wilson revealed that they wanted to leave as soon as they set foot there.  One of the men kept something secret until they got back to Cayenne.
On the way to Cayenne, Wilson was occasionally asked questions from the crewmates.  "What was on that island?"  "How long were you there?"
Wilson was vague, and his answers were senseless.  He claimed that the sun never shined there.  It never rained, even if a storm was obviously approaching.  It was stuck in a perpetual malevolent night that never saw the light of day.

Once the ship had made it to Cayenne, one of the six men revealed what happened when his boat had stricken the land.
According to him, the crucifix necklace that he kept tied around his neck began to burn as he got closer to the island.  Once there, the crucifix became too hot to touch and he was forced to throw it to the ground.  It steamed as if it were on a tray on top of a fire.  Eventually it burst into a quick flame and became nothing but ash that the wind blew away almost immediately.  The lifeboats had landed several yards apart, so this could have happened without the other five men noticing.  The sixth man didn't want to say anything because he didn't want to go back.  He didn't want to find the explanation for the combustion of his crucifix.  He wanted to get back home and never board that ship again.  Two of the other men did the same when they heard the story.  Every person who didn't go to the island and the three remaining men who did set foot there stayed with the ship.  But they never went back to the island.

Wilson was kept in a hospital for a few days due to slight malnourishment.  Once released, he went back to America and lived reclusively for three years.  One day, his mother had come by the house and found him dead on the floor.  He had shot himself in the head with the same pistol he kept with him during his ordeal.
Nothing was left behind to explain his decision.  He had started to write a note, but it was blank aside from the stains of some dried tears.
He left the world silent as he did on the third night on the island.

Tags:

  
Report This Story 
Notice (8): Undefined index: User [APP/View/stories/story.ctp, line 227]
Notice (8): Trying to access array offset on value of type null [APP/View/stories/story.ctp, line 227]

Recommendations

Recommendations

Reviews

Xander Mar 2, 2012

I enjoyed reading it. It was a compelling story, but I was excited to hear of the dark land described so well at the beginning. I would think that the next installment would be the story of another person stumbling onto this island, and I hope that it is

Nicole Feb 24, 2012

I really like your writing style, except for one thing. I felt like some things were over explained. Like all the information about his cloths. Other than that it was a clever story.

Crazy Feb 22, 2012

it seems too stretched... but will wait for the sequel..

Aaron Simpson Feb 23, 2012

I'm sorry. What do you mean by "stretched"?

Geeta Feb 22, 2012

Even this one is nice... when is the next part coming..

Aaron Simpson Feb 23, 2012

I have no idea to be honest. I'm having a bit of writer's block at the moment. And I can'treally decide what the next part should include. Anything you would like to see in the next part, personally?

Download the Short Story Lovers App

Read and write stories anytime, anywhere with the Short Story Lovers app

"Short n Scary Stories"

is a throng of rare and

true horror stories of witches, zombies, monsters and unidentified spirits

around us. Here you can share your paranormal experiences and read world's best haunted stories to thrill your imagination.

BE A SHARER
STORIES
WHAT'S NEW
MORE INFO