"The Curse":
My husband Karl and I, with our young son Tim, had sailed to Floreana Island in search of peace. The place felt vast and empty, with only lava rocks and wild donkeys for company. We built our small home from what we could find, planting a garden and raising chickens. At first, it seemed like the fresh start we needed after the troubles back in Germany.
One day, we met the other people already living there. Dr. Friedrich and his companion Dore had come years before us. Friedrich was a tall man with sharp eyes, always talking about his ideas on living strong through hardship. Dore was quieter, walking with a limp from her illness. "Welcome to our little world," Friedrich said when we visited their hut. "But remember, resources are scarce. We share what we must, but each earns his own way." Karl nodded, and we agreed to keep our distances while helping when needed.
Life went on like that for a while. We fished in the bay, gathered water from the spring up the hill, and watched Tim play among the cacti. Then, the boat brought Eloise. She called herself the Baroness, stepping ashore in a bright dress, with two men at her side—Robert, strong and silent, and Rudolf, thin and nervous. "This island is mine now," Eloise announced to us all, her voice loud and commanding. "I will build a grand hotel here, for the rich to come and see paradise." Friedrich laughed at first, but his face turned hard. "You can't claim what isn't yours," he told her. "We came for solitude, not for crowds."
Eloise set up her camp near the spring, naming it her empire. Robert did most of the work, building walls from stones, while Rudolf fetched water and cooked. But soon, we saw how Eloise treated Rudolf. She yelled at him for small things, like burning the bread or spilling a bucket. "You useless fool," she would snap, and Robert would just stand by, smirking. Rudolf's eyes grew hollow, his clothes hanging loose on his frame. One night, he showed up at our door, bruised on his arm. "Please," he whispered to me, "can I stay here just for tonight? Eloise... she and Robert, they don't stop." Karl wanted to send him away, but I couldn't. "Hide in the shed," I said. "But go back before dawn."
The tensions grew. The spring ran low during the dry months, and Eloise took more than her share for her plants. Friedrich confronted her one afternoon. "You're stealing our water," he accused, his finger pointing. Eloise smiled coldly. "Stealing? On my island? If you don't like it, Doctor, leave." Robert stepped forward, his hand on a knife at his belt. Dore pulled Friedrich back, whispering, "Not now." That night, I lay awake, listening to the wind through the rocks, wondering if anyone would hear us scream out here, so far from the world.
Days turned into weeks of uneasy quiet. Eloise paraded around, telling stories of her past adventures, but her eyes watched everyone. Rudolf came to us more often, begging for food. "She's planning something," he confided once, his voice shaking. "Robert says they'll get rid of anyone in their way." I felt a knot in my chest, but what could we do? No police, no neighbors, just us on this rock in the ocean.
Then came the drought. The ground cracked, our garden withered, and the animals grew thin. Fights broke out over every drop of water. Eloise and Robert hoarded what they could, leaving Rudolf to beg. One evening, as the sun dipped low, Eloise came to our hut. "I'm leaving soon," she said, her tone flat. "A yacht is coming for Robert and me. We'll go to better places." Karl asked, "When?" She just smiled. "Soon enough." That night, I heard a sharp cry from their direction, long and piercing, then nothing. In the morning, Eloise and Robert were gone. Their things were scattered, but no sign of them. No boat had come—we would have seen it from the shore.
Rudolf was frantic. "They didn't leave," he told us, his hands trembling. "Something happened. I heard the scream too." Friedrich dismissed it. "Good riddance," he muttered. But Dore looked worried. "What if they're still here, hiding?" We searched the hills, calling their names, but found only empty caves and twisted trees. The island felt smaller, closing in. Every rustle in the brush made me jump, imagining Eloise's face peering out.
Rudolf couldn't stay. He convinced a visiting fisherman, a Norwegian named Lars, to take him to the next island for a ship home. "I have to get away," Rudolf said to me before they left. "This place is cursed by people, not spirits." They set off in a small boat, waving as they rowed into the waves. Months passed with no word. Then, a passing captain brought news: two bodies found on a distant islet, dried like leather under the sun, surrounded by empty water cans. One was Rudolf, the other Lars. How had they ended up there, so off course? Thirst had killed them slow, their faces twisted in agony.
Fear gripped us all. Dore whispered to me one day, "Someone must have sent them the wrong way." Friedrich grew ill soon after, vomiting after eating some preserved meat. "It's poison," he gasped to Dore, clutching his stomach. "She did it... the Wittmer woman." But I had nothing to do with it. He died writhing on his mat, his body convulsing. Dore accused me openly. "You wanted the island for yourselves," she said, her eyes wild. Karl defended me. "It was bad food, nothing more." But doubt lingered in the air, thick as the dust.
Dore left on the next boat, never looking back. Karl, Tim, and I stayed, but the island changed. Every shadow hid a secret, every quiet moment echoed with that scream. We built higher walls around our home, locked the door at night. Out here, alone, people turn into something darker. I still wonder if Eloise and Robert are buried somewhere close, or if they slipped away to watch us suffer. The fear never leaves—it lives in the rocks, in the silence between us.
"The Smuttynose":
The quiet of Smuttynose Island always felt like a blanket over everything, especially at night when the waves lapped against the rocks. My husband John and I had come here from Norway years ago, building our small red house with its sunny windows full of plants. We worked hard fishing, and soon our family joined us—my brother Ivan, his wife Anethe with her bright blue eyes and long blonde hair, and my sister Karen, who had arrived heartbroken from a lost love back home. For a time, life moved steady and simple, with the men out on the boat and us women tending the home.
Louis Wagner changed that. He showed up one day, a strong Prussian man with a thick accent, down on his luck. John felt sorry for him and let him stay with us. "Maren," John said to me one evening as we sat by the fire, "he's got no one. We can help him get on his feet." So we fed him, clothed him, even brought him into the fishing work. Louis lived in our house for months, eating at our table, listening to our talks. He seemed grateful, but his eyes sometimes lingered too long, like he was measuring things up. In November 1872, he left to work on another schooner, and I breathed easier without him around.
By March 1873, the days grew longer, but the nights still held a chill. On the fifth, John, Ivan, and Matthew set out early on the Clara Bella to sell fish in Portsmouth and buy bait. They sent word through a neighbor that the winds had shifted—they wouldn't stop back at the island but would return later that evening. Karen was visiting, having left her seamstress job in Boston to stay with us a bit. Anethe and I prepared supper, chopping vegetables and setting the table, while Karen rested in the kitchen where it was warmer.
"Will the men be late?" Anethe asked, her voice soft as she stirred the pot.
"Probably not too much," I replied, trying to sound sure. "John knows the way home even in the dark."
We ate without them, then cleared up. By ten o'clock, with no sign of the boat, we decided to turn in. I made a bed for Karen on the kitchen couch, close to the stove. Anethe and I shared the bedroom, slipping under the quilts. Ringe, my little dog, curled up at the foot of the bed, his ears twitching now and then.
Sleep came slow. The house creaked in the wind, and the sea murmured outside. Then, sometime deep in the night, Ringe barked sharp and sudden. I sat up, listening. Footsteps? No, maybe just the waves. But Ringe growled low, and I whispered to Anethe, "Did you hear that?"
She murmured, half-asleep, "What is it, Maren?"
Before I could answer, a scream ripped through the house—Karen's voice, full of pain and fear. I leaped from the bed, my feet hitting the cold floor. "Karen!" I called, rushing to the door that led to the kitchen. It stuck at first, but I yanked it open. There she was, stumbling toward me, her face pale, blood trickling from her head. "John... John scared me," she gasped, collapsing into my arms.
But it wasn't John. In the dim light from the window, I saw a figure—a man, tall and dark, swinging something heavy. Louis. His face twisted as he raised an axe from our woodpile. Karen moaned on the floor, and I dragged her back into the bedroom, slamming the door and pushing a chair against it. "Anethe, quick—out the window!" I hissed, my hands shaking as I helped her climb over the sill. She dropped outside, barefoot in her nightdress, and I followed, but no—Anethe froze there, whispering, "Maren, where do we go?"
"Hide!" I urged, but the door behind us burst open. Louis stood there, axe in hand, his eyes wild. He lunged past me toward the window. Anethe ran a few steps, slipping on the icy ground. I watched, helpless, as he caught up to her. The axe came down once, twice. Her cries cut short, and she fell still, a dark shape against the pale snow.
I turned back to Karen, who lay weakly on the bed. "We have to run," I whispered, kneeling beside her. "Can you stand?"
She shook her head, her breath ragged. "Too tired... go without me."
The house groaned as Louis moved inside again, his boots thumping. I heard him rummaging, drawers opening and closing—like he was searching for something. Money, maybe. We'd talked once about John keeping cash from fish sales, and Louis had been there, listening. Now he was tearing the place apart. A crash from the kitchen, then silence. Was he coming back?
I couldn't leave Karen, but staying meant death. "I'm sorry," I breathed, wrapping a heavy skirt around myself. I slipped out the window, Ringe following quiet as a shadow. The ground bit cold into my bare feet as I ran toward the cove, expecting to see his boat tied there. But it was empty. He must have hidden it elsewhere. The cellar door loomed nearby—I thought to hide there, but what if he checked? No, better the far rocks, where the waves could cover any noise.
I scrambled over the rough ground, stones scraping my skin, until I reached the edge of the island. There, between two large boulders by the water, I squeezed in, pulling Ringe close. The sea sprayed up, soaking me, but I didn't move. Minutes passed, or hours—I lost track. From the house, another scream echoed, faint and terrible. Karen. He must have found her again. I bit my lip to keep from crying out, imagining the axe falling, her alone in that room.
The night dragged on. Every rustle made me flinch—was that footsteps? Louis searching for me? The island was small, just a speck in the ocean, no one else around for miles. If he found me, no one would hear. Ringe whimpered once, and I hushed him, stroking his fur. "Quiet, boy," I murmured. "Just stay quiet."
Dawn came slow, gray light filtering over the water. I peeked out, seeing no one. My feet were numb, bloodied from the run. Far off, on Appledore Island, I spotted children playing near the shore. I waved my arms, shouting hoarsely until they noticed. They ran for help, and soon a boat came. Jorge Ingerson, our neighbor from Appledore, pulled me aboard, wrapping me in a blanket. "What happened?" he asked, his face shocked.
"Louis," I managed. "He killed them. Karen and Anethe."
Word spread fast. John and the others returned to find the horror—Karen beaten and strangled in the kitchen, Anethe outside with her head split open. Blood everywhere, the house torn apart. Louis had rowed back to Portsmouth that night, blood on his clothes, spending money like he'd found a fortune. But he hadn't—John had the cash with him.
They arrested Louis quick. At the trial in Portland that June, I had to stand and tell it all. The lawyers asked questions, and Louis stared at me, denying everything. "I was in Portsmouth," he claimed, his voice steady. "Fishing with friends."
But the evidence piled up—his bloody shirt, the timing of his boat trip, even a button from his coat found at the house. The jury didn't take long. Guilty. They hanged him in 1875, but that didn't bring back my sister or Anethe.
Even now, years later, I think of that night, the way the island held us all captive. No escape, no help. Just the dark and the waiting.
"Trapped in Paradise":
I had always dreamed of a quiet life away from the crowds, so when my parents decided to move us to this tiny speck in the ocean, I thought it might be an adventure. Pitcairn Island sounded like a hidden gem, with its green hills and endless blue water all around. We arrived by boat after days at sea, the only way to get there since no planes land on that rock. My father had taken a job helping with the island's supplies, and my mother hoped the fresh air would be good for us. I was twelve then, excited but nervous about leaving everything behind. The islanders greeted us warmly at the landing, their faces tanned and smiling, offering fruit and handshakes. Little did I know that beneath those smiles hid something dark, something that would turn my new home into a nightmare I couldn't wake from.
The first few weeks felt strange but manageable. There were only about fifty people on the whole island, all related in some way, descendants of old sailors who had mutinied long ago. Everyone knew everyone's business, and there were no secrets—or so I thought. My family settled into a small house near Adamstown, the only village. I made friends with a girl named Lena, who was a year older than me. She showed me around, pointing out the best spots to pick bananas and the paths leading up the cliffs. "Stick close," she said one afternoon as we walked through the thick bushes. "It's easy to get lost here, and no one comes looking right away." Her voice dropped low, like she was sharing a warning. I laughed it off, thinking she was just trying to spook the new kid.
As time passed, I noticed how isolated we really were. No phones worked reliably, and the radio was only for emergencies. Supplies came once every few months by ship, and if you needed to leave, you had to wait for the next one. My parents argued more, frustrated by the slow pace, but they tried to make it work. I started helping at the community hall, where folks gathered for meals and talks. That's where I first met Steve, the mayor. He was in his forties, strong from years of hauling boats and climbing rocks, with a grin that made people trust him. "Welcome to our little paradise," he told me during a dinner, his hand lingering a bit too long on my shoulder. "You'll fit right in." His eyes held mine longer than felt right, but I shrugged it away, blaming my imagination.
Lena and I spent a lot of time together, exploring the island's hidden coves. One day, as we sat by a stream, she confided in me. "You have to be careful with the men here," she whispered, glancing around even though no one was near. "They think they own everything, including us." I asked what she meant, my curiosity piqued. She hesitated, then said, "My cousin, she was only eleven when it started. One of the older guys took her out on a boat, said he was teaching her to fish. But it wasn't fishing." Her words hung in the air, heavy and confusing. "What happened?" I pressed. Lena shook her head. "She had a baby at thirteen. Everyone acts like it's normal, but it's not. And if you say anything, they make you feel like you're the crazy one." I felt a knot form in my gut, but I didn't know what to do with her story. Was it true? Or just island gossip?
Nights on Pitcairn were the worst. The darkness swallowed everything, and the only sounds were the waves crashing far below and the occasional call of birds. I started having trouble sleeping, especially after overhearing my parents talk about rumors. "I heard from one of the women that this has been going on for generations," my mother said quietly one evening. "Girls as young as ten, forced into things they shouldn't be." My father sighed. "We can't believe everything. These people have their ways, rooted in the old times." But his voice lacked conviction. I lay in my bed, pretending to sleep, wondering if Lena's words were connected. The isolation pressed in then, making the island feel like a cage with no key.
Things escalated a few months in. Steve invited me to help with a community project, gathering wood from the inland paths. "It's good for you to learn the land," he said with that same grin. We set out early, just the two of us, which felt odd but I didn't question it— he was the leader, after all. As we walked deeper into the bushes, away from the village, he started talking about the island's history. "Our ancestors took what they wanted," he said casually. "The women from Tahiti, they became part of us. It's in our blood." I nodded politely, but unease grew as the path narrowed. Suddenly, he stopped and turned to me. "You're growing up fast, aren't you?" His tone shifted, softer but insistent. He stepped closer, his hand reaching for my arm. "Don't be scared. This is how we welcome new ones."
Panic surged through me. I pulled away, mumbling something about needing to get back. "What's the rush?" he asked, his smile fading into something colder. "No one's around. And who would you tell? Your parents? They'd just say it's the way things are." I backed up, my mind racing. The trees closed in, the path seeming longer than before. I turned and ran, branches scratching my skin, my breath coming in gasps. When I burst into the village, no one asked why I was out of breath. Lena found me later, sitting alone. "What happened?" she asked gently. I told her, my voice shaking. She nodded sadly. "It started like that for me too, with my uncle. He said it was a game, but it hurt. And when I told my mom, she said to keep quiet, or we'd be shunned."
From then on, fear became my constant companion. I avoided being alone, sticking to my house or with my parents. But the island was too small; eyes followed me everywhere. Whispers spread— not against the men, but questioning why I was acting strange. One night, as I helped clean up after a gathering, another man named Randy approached. He was younger, but his gaze was just as unsettling. "Heard you had a little adventure with Steve," he said lowly, cornering me by the door. "Don't make a fuss. It only makes things worse." I froze, my heart racing. "Please, leave me alone," I whispered. He laughed softly. "You think you can? There's no leaving here without us knowing. The boat comes when we say." His words chilled me— the power they held, the way the community protected its own.
My parents noticed my change. "What's wrong, honey?" my mother asked one evening as we sat eating. I broke down, telling them about Steve and Lena's stories. My father's face hardened. "We have to report this," he said. But how? The radio was controlled by the island council, and the next ship was weeks away. "We'll try to contact someone," my mother promised, hugging me tight. That night, I heard footsteps outside our house. Peeking through the window, I saw shadows moving— men talking in low voices. "She's stirring trouble," one said. It was Dave, another local. "We can't let outsiders know." My blood ran cold. They knew. The isolation that once seemed peaceful now trapped us like prey.
Days blurred into a tense wait. Lena came over secretly. "I've been through it for years," she confessed. "Started when I was seven. Randy would take me to the cliffs, say it was our secret. I cried, but no one helped." Her eyes filled with tears. "We have to stick together." But the pressure built. Steve visited our home, all smiles for my parents. "Heard there might be some misunderstandings," he said smoothly. "Let's clear it up." Alone with me for a moment, he leaned in. "Keep your mouth shut, or your family pays." The threat hung like a blade. I nodded, terrified.
The breaking point came during a storm— wait, no weather. One evening, as the light faded, I slipped out to meet Lena by the stream. We planned to hide evidence, maybe notes for the next ship. But as we whispered, footsteps crunched behind us. Randy emerged from the bushes, his face twisted in anger. "What are you two plotting?" he demanded. Lena stood up. "Leave us alone!" she shouted. He grabbed her arm. "You know better." I screamed, but the sound echoed uselessly. He turned to me. "You're next if you don't learn." We fought, but he was stronger. Lena broke free and ran, yelling for help. I followed, terror fueling my legs.
Back in the village, chaos erupted. My parents confronted the men, demanding answers. "This has to stop," my father said firmly to the group. Steve stepped forward. "It's our way. You came here, you follow." But word had spread somehow— a visitor from the last ship had suspected, and authorities were coming. The island buzzed with tension, men arguing among themselves. "If they talk, we're done," Dave muttered to Randy. I hid in our house, listening as accusations flew.
In the end, outsiders arrived— police from far away, drawn by reports that had trickled out. They interviewed us, uncovering years of hidden pain. Girls like me and Lena shared our stories, trembling but determined. The trials exposed it all: rapes starting young, community silence, the normalization of horror. Six men were convicted, including Steve and Randy, sentenced to time in a makeshift prison on the island itself because of the isolation. Dave admitted some guilt, saying times had changed.
We left Pitcairn soon after, but the fear lingers. That tiny island, so beautiful from afar, hid monsters in plain sight. The waves might wash away footprints, but not the scars. If you're ever tempted by a remote paradise, remember: some secrets thrive in solitude, waiting to pull you under.
"Eighteen Years":
I woke up alone on the beach that morning, the sand cold under my back, and the sea roaring like it wanted to swallow everything. The boat was gone. My people, my family—gone. I called out their names, running along the shore, but only the birds answered with their sharp cries. That was the start of it all, the day I became the only soul on San Nicolas.
At first, I thought they would come back. The storm had been fierce the night before, whipping the waves high, but surely the captain would return for me. I was just a young woman then, strong from years of gathering food and weaving baskets with the others. My name was what the missionaries later called Juana Maria, but back home, it was different, simpler. I climbed the rocky hills to look out over the water, scanning for sails. Nothing. Days passed like that, me waiting, building small fires from driftwood to signal anyone who might pass.
The island wasn't big, maybe a day's walk around, with steep cliffs dropping into the ocean and dry grass covering the ground. Seals barked from the rocks below, and ducks nested in the bushes. I knew how to survive—my mother had taught me to dive for abalone and catch fish with sharpened sticks. But being alone twisted something inside me. The quiet pressed in, broken only by the wind howling through the caves. I started talking to myself just to hear a voice. "Keep going," I'd say out loud. "They'll come soon."
Weeks turned into months. I built a shelter from whale bones that washed up, covering it with sealskins I scraped clean with stones. The work kept my hands busy, but my mind wandered. One day, while searching for water in a hidden spring, I found old bones scattered in the dirt—human bones, picked clean by animals. They must have been from my people, long ago, maybe from a sickness or a fight with outsiders. I buried them deep, whispering words my father had taught me for the dead. But after that, I couldn't shake the feeling of eyes on me, even though I knew no one was there. The island felt alive in a bad way, like it was waiting for me to slip.
Hunger came next, sharp and mean. The seals were hard to hunt alone, and some days I went without. I ate roots and eggs from bird nests, but my body grew thin. Once, I chased a fox that stole my food, slipping on the rocks and cutting my leg deep. Blood soaked the ground, and I bandaged it with kelp, lying there wondering if infection would take me. "Don't give up," I told myself, my voice cracking. "Fight it." Nights were the worst. I'd huddle in my hut, listening to the waves pound like footsteps getting closer. Shadows moved in the dark, tricks of the light from my dying fire. I dreamed of my brother, left behind with me at first, but he had died early on, attacked by wild dogs while hunting. I found what was left of him near the cliffs, torn and bloody. Burying him broke something in me. After that, I avoided that side of the island, but the memory followed.
Years blurred together. I lost count after the third winter, marking time by the changing birds. Ships passed sometimes, far out on the horizon, their sails like ghosts. I'd run to the beach, waving my arms, screaming until my throat burned. "Help! See me!" But they never turned. Once, a boat came close, men shouting in a language I didn't know. I hid at first, afraid—they looked like the ones who had raided our village before, taking what they wanted. But desperation won. I stepped out, calling to them. They saw me, I think, because one pointed. Then they rowed away, laughing maybe, or scared. I collapsed on the sand, sobbing. Why leave me? What had I done?
The isolation ate at me like salt on a wound. I started seeing shapes in the fog—figures that vanished when I got close. Not spirits, just my mind playing tricks from too much alone. But it scared me deep. One stormy day, I found a cave for shelter, its walls damp and echoing. Inside, I discovered old tools carved by hands like mine, and more bones. A skull stared up, empty eyes accusing. "Who were you?" I whispered, touching it. "Did you wait like this too?" I fled back to my hut, heart racing, vowing never to return. But the cave called to me in dreams, pulling me back.
Food grew scarcer as the island changed. Seals moved to other rocks, birds nested less. I trapped ducks with nets I wove from grass, plucking feathers for clothes. My skirt of cormorant skins kept me warm, but it itched, reminding me of the dead birds. I talked to the animals now, like friends. "Stay away from the dogs," I'd warn a seal pup. "They're hungry too." The wild dogs prowled more, their eyes glowing in the night. Once, a pack circled my hut, snarling low. I gripped my spear, shouting, "Go! Leave me!" They backed off, but I didn't sleep for days, fearing they'd return.
Suspicion grew in me. Were there others hidden on the island? Footprints appeared sometimes, but they were mine, blurred by wind. Still, I checked every bush, every crevice. "Show yourself," I'd mutter. Paranoia made me jump at every rustle. One afternoon, climbing for eggs, the rock crumbled under my hand. I fell, tumbling down the slope, bruising my ribs. Lying there, pain shooting through, I thought, this is it. No one to help, no one to find me. But I dragged myself back, binding my side with strips of skin. "Not yet," I said through gritted teeth. "Not like this."
More years slipped by. My hair turned gray, my skin tough like leather. I sang songs from childhood to fill the emptiness, but my voice sounded strange, unused. "Where are you now?" I'd ask the sea, remembering my sister's laugh, my mother's gentle hands. Memories hurt worse than hunger. Then, one clear day, men came. Not raiders, but hunters from the mainland. I heard their voices first, foreign but real. Fear froze me—I'd forgotten how to trust. Hiding in the bushes, I watched them search the beach, calling out. One found my drying seal blubber. "Someone's here," he said in words I half-understood.
I stepped out, hands raised. "Don't hurt me," I said, my voice weak. They stared, shocked. The leader, a man with kind eyes, approached slow. "We're here to help," he said, offering water. I drank, tears mixing in. They took me to their boat, wrapping me in blankets. As we sailed away, I looked back at the island shrinking small. Eighteen years, they told me later. It felt like forever.
On the mainland, everything overwhelmed—horses stamping, people crowding, food rich and strange. I danced for them, sang my songs, but inside, the island clung to me. Sickness came quick, my body unused to their ways. As I lay dying, I thought of the bones, the caves, the endless wait. "I survived," I whispered to no one. But the fear never left.