《The Mystery of the Chase Crypt》


 1 - Barbados, July 22, 1819

    My name is Christian Jhon, and for the past five days, I have been locked in a crypt¡ªan experience I never imagined I would live through. As a lover of the occult and someone fascinated by the paranormal, I decided to embark on this dark and mysterious adventure. At first, I admit I felt a certain fear, but it was an exhilarating kind of fear, the type of thrill that makes you feel alive and heightens your senses.


    However, as the days pass, that fear has transformed into a deep terror that has taken root in the very core of my being. Being trapped in this confined space underground, surrounded by occupied coffins and corpses, has begun to take a toll on my sanity. The darkness has become overwhelming, and the silence is only broken by the rapid beating of my heart and my increasingly disturbing thoughts.


    As the hours drag on, exhaustion takes hold of me, but I refuse to give in to it. Time stretches endlessly, and my mind, allied with fatigue, begins to play dangerous tricks on me. I wonder what exactly I am afraid of. Is it the fear of death, which feels so close in this crypt? Or is it the fear of losing my sanity in this oppressive confinement?


    In moments of clarity, I question my own sanity for having embarked on this experience. What on earth am I doing here? I ask myself over and over again, without finding a satisfactory answer. Perhaps it was the thirst for the unknown, the search for answers beyond the tangible, that drove me to venture into this labyrinth of shadows.If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    I remember how it all began seven years ago, when I worked forThe New Heraldin London. As a journalist, I was always drawn to inexplicable events, stories of the paranormal that defied logic and reason. That passion led me to explore the darkest corners of the city, seeking answers that challenged human understanding.


    It was during one of my investigations that I came across the legend of this cursed crypt, a place said to be inhabited by supernatural presences and one that dared the brave or foolish to venture inside. Without thinking twice, I decided to take on the challenge and explore this enigmatic dwelling.


    But now, in the midst of darkness and overwhelming silence, I realize the magnitude of my recklessness. Uncertainty and fear envelop me, and all I desire is to find a way out of this gloomy labyrinth. However, the crypt seems to have its own plans for me, and I find myself trapped in a battle between my initial bravery and the terror that has taken over.


    As I continue to fight to maintain my sanity and find an escape, I wonder if I will survive this experience and what terrifying or fascinating revelations await me in the depths of this cursed crypt. Only time will tell if I will emerge from here unscathed, but one thing is certain: this adventure has left an indelible mark on my soul and mind, and I will no longer be the same after having faced the unknown in its most terrifying form.

 2 - London, 1812

    ¡ªHey, Christian Jhon! Have you seen this news?¡ª said Carter Junior, my adventure companion, as he showed me a striking headline: ¡°The Mystery of the Chase Crypt.¡± As I read the article, it struck me as a crude attempt at fraud, designed to sell more newspapers. It wasn¡¯t the first time I¡¯d seen something like this. After all, they could always retract it and apologize later, but by then, sales would already be secured thanks to people eager for sensationalist news.


    ¡ªAnother one of Marcus Mortimer¡¯s antics¡ª I replied, not without a hint of envy. Marcus Mortimer was the star of the newspaper, always presenting strange and mysterious stories from around the world. I envied his position, as I longed to investigate those kinds of mysteries that seemed to lurk everywhere. But my job was limited to trivial notes about the everyday life of the city¡ªstories that few people read. Still, I had to admit that, despite everything, I was very young. At 21, I was already able to support myself, even on my meager salary.


    Carter knew about my fascination with these topics, which is why he showed me the news¡ªperhaps to spur me into action and encourage me to become an independent journalist. However, I didn¡¯t give it much thought and soon forgot about the story entirely. Four years passed, during which I made some progress at the newspaper but always remained in the shadow of Marcus Mortimer. During that time, my passion for writing grew. Little by little, I honed my style and had about twenty stories that only a select group of friends read. They encouraged me to share them with the public, but I didn¡¯t dare take that step.


    Then, another headline from Mortimer about the Crypt Mystery appeared. This time, it caught my attention far more. Fooling people once with a story might be excusable, but doing it twice with the same subject? I felt compelled to read the entire article, searching for any mistakes I could find, but the piece was impeccable and chilling. I had to admit that the damned Marcus Mortimer was excellent at his job and knew exactly how to captivate his readers.


    When I finished reading it, I was stunned but also exhilarated. I wanted to dedicate myself to the occult, to write and make a living from it, but I knew there was no place for that at the newspaper. I decided to leave the paper and use my meager savings to travel across the country, especially to rural towns, where news and urban legends of this kind abounded. I didn¡¯t care if they were true or not. You could say none of them were entirely true, or at least, they contained half-truths that were embellished over time with fantastical touches.Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    It was at that moment that I began to believe in my friends, who praised my writing skills. I wasn¡¯t as good as Edgar Allan Poe would one day become¡ªhe was only seven years old at the time (1816)¡ªbut I considered myself a writer capable of capturing a reader¡¯s attention. After much hesitation, I decided to submit my stories to the newspaper. The New Herald flatly rejected them. At first, they argued that they already had Marcus Mortimer, who, though not a fiction writer, was an expert at crafting excellent articles. They doubted my literary quality and couldn¡¯t believe in a guy who had spent three years writing about trivialities.


    I then decided to try my luck with The London Post, their competitor. A few days later, I received an enthusiastic letter from the editor-in-chief, who said it would be an honor for them to publish my stories in their literary section. Thus began a fruitful period during which my salary tripled compared to what I had earned as a mere reporter.


    Two years later, now with a reputation in the literary world, I was going through old papers when I came across the publications about the Chase Crypt. At that moment, an idea struck me. I told Carter:


    ¡ªI want to investigate this further. We should travel to Barbados, see the place for ourselves, talk to the locals, and, if possible, the owners of the crypt.¡ª


    Carter, excited, offered to accompany me:


    ¡ªA change of climate¡ªleaving behind cold, damp London for tropical Barbados¡ªwould do me good. Money won¡¯t be an issue; I¡¯ve got a considerable allowance, and my father indulges my every whim.¡ª


    On April 26, 1819, we embarked on a direct journey to Barbados. After two months at sea, we arrived at the small island located at the confluence of the Caribbean Sea and the Atlantic Ocean, at the northern edge of South America in the Lesser Antilles.

 3 - Barbados, June 26, 1819

    The sun was at its highest in the Caribbean sky, and its scorching heat was almost unbearable for two young Englishmen who had never left their homeland, accustomed to a much cooler and milder climate. The humidity clung to our clothes and thickened the air, while a swarm of mosquitoes and strange insects buzzed incessantly around us, filling our ears with their constant droning. Our first impression of the island of Barbados was far f


    The ship¡¯s captain, a man hardened by countless journeys across the seas, had recommended a modest boarding house where we could stay during our time on the island. Although its appearance left much to be desired, we had few other options available. We settled in as best we could in the stifling, damp rooms, trying to recover from the exhaustion of the long journey that had brought us here. However, we knew that the ship would remain stranded for at least a month, as it required repairs before setting sail for London again. This left us with a limited amount of time to investigate the strange case of the Chase Vault and obtain the answers we so desperately sought. If we failed, we would be forced to wait additional months until another vesse


    At first, we decided not to visit the Chase family out of respect¡ªand for fear that they would refuse to speak about such a dark and disturbing matter in which they were involved. Instead, we ventured among the locals, eager to uncover any additional details that might shed light on the mystery. However, our inquiries proved fruitless, as most people were reluctant to talk about the subject. The mere mention of the vault was enough to send shivers down their spines and fill their faces with a look of panic. The lack of tangible information left us perplexed, drowning us in a sea of speculation and unfounded theories.


    It was then that the innkeeper, with his wisdom acquired from years of dealing with the locals, offered us an intriguing suggestion. He advised us to speak with Charles McDowall, an old man who tended the Christ Church cemetery. However, he warned us that McDowall was a man of few words and that mere conversation would not be enough to persuade him to share any information. He recommended that we bring two bottles of whisky¡ªa gift that, according to him, could soften the old man¡¯s heart and make him more willing to speak about the enigmatic case of the vault.


    Following his advice, we set out one night toward a solitary house nestled in a remote clearing. Sweat drenched our brows, and mosquito bites irritated our skin as we stepped down from the carriage we had rented to get around the island. To our surprise, three enormous black dogs emerged from the shadows and rushed toward us with ferocity. For a brief moment, we feared for our lives, believing they would tear us apart without mercy. However, a raspy voice echoed in the darkness just in time, halting the beasts and granting us a momentary reprieve.


    ¡ªWhat do you want? Who are you?¡ªthe old man asked.


    ¡ªMr. McDowall? Charles McDowall?¡ªCarter asked, while I kept my eyes on the dogs, their white fangs still bared.


    ¡ªThat¡¯s me! Who are you?¡ªMcDowall replied.


    ¡ªMr. McDowall! My name is Christian John, and this is my good friend, Carter Junior. May we have a word with you?¡ªI said, showing him the bottles of whisky.


    The old man licked his lips at the sight of the liquor. Without hesitation, he ordered the dogs away and invited us into his humble home. A thick stench of dampness and grime filled our nostrils. We sat around a small, worn-out wooden table, barely illuminated by three candles in a rickety candelabra. The old man grabbed one of the bottles and opened it eagerly. It seemed he had been sober all day due to a lack of money for drink, so our arrival with the blessed whisky was almost like a divine apparition to him.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.


    ¡ªMr. McDowall, I am a writer, and I publish my stories in a London newspaper. We traveled for three months expressly to investigate what happened in the Chase Vault. We have been on this island for a week, and practically everyone has denied us information. We do not wish to disturb the family, and I understand that you worked as the cemetery caretaker until recently.


    ¡ªSo, you came all the way from London? Well, well! Who would have thought this Chase madness would travel so far? And what makes you think I can tell you more than what you already know?


    ¡ªYou were dismissed over this matter. At least that¡¯s what we were told. Besides the whisky, I have this to offer you as thanks for any help you can provide¡ª I said, pulling out a handful of gold coins. The old man¡¯s eyes widened, imagining how much liquor he could buy with that sum. Without hesitation, he grabbed the coins, walked over to a shelf where he kept some notebooks, and retrieved one containing detailed burial records. Then he sat down again, poured himself another glass of whisky, and began to speak. With the help of the records, he recounted in detail the strange events that had taken place in the vault.


    ¡ªI have worked in that cemetery for more than thirty years, and I have never witnessed anything as strange as what happened in that damned vault¡ªhe began, flipping through his notebook in search of the Chase family records.


    ¡ªIt all began in 1807, when Mrs. Thomasina Goddard was the first person buried in the vault. A year later, little Maria Anna Chase, just two years old, passed away. In 1812, Dorcas Chase, the older sister of the first, died. Until this point, nothing unusual had happened. But misfortune struck the family once more, and a few months later, Thomas Chase died. It was then that we opened the vault and saw that Maria and Dorcas Chase¡¯s coffins had been displaced from their original positions. Only Thomasina Goddard¡¯s coffin remained undisturbed. Needless to say, the sight filled everyone present with a sense of horror!¡ªHe paused to fill his glass for the third time, gulping down half of it before continuing, now with bloodshot eyes and a slurred tongue.


    ¡ªSoon, there was talk of desecration, despite the fact that the vault¡¯s only entrance had been sealed. They blamed me and my assistants for the disturbance. What reason could I possibly have to disturb the sleep of the dead? I didn¡¯t deny the possibility that intruders had entered the vault, but the entrance was untouched. Lacking evidence, they allowed me to continue as caretaker. We placed the coffins back in their spots and sealed the entrance with a massive marble slab.


    He took another swig from his glass. Carter and I were hanging on to every detail, captivated by the story¡ªdetails that had not appeared in the chronicles written by Marcus Mortimer.


    ¡ªAnd the story doesn¡¯t end there, does it?¡ªI said, sensing there was more to uncover.


    ¡ªNo, it doesn¡¯t! There¡¯s news that has been kept from the press, especially to preserve the island¡¯s reputation¡ª the old man replied.


    What we learned in the following days was beyond anything we had imagined. We spoke with numerous witnesses, including former cemetery workers. We even had the chance to speak with Reverend Thomas Orderson, who had led the inspection of the vault, and Governor Lord Combermere, who had ordered the entrance sealed after the last burial. Everything pointed to a mystery that defied logic.


    But who needed logic in a mystery? That was precisely what readers craved.


    And yet, ten days before our departure for London, fortune¡ªor perhaps misfortune for the Chase family¡ªgranted us the opportunity to witness the mystery firsthand.


    Something I would come to regret.