Chapter 281

The guards were always careful to avoid looking at the faces of the prisoners, as if their eyes might burn something into their skulls. Maybe it was the way their lips always curled up in twisted smiles, or how the scars on their faces told stories of horrors no one should ever know.

Every time a new batch of inmates arrived at Roidver Island Prison, it felt like the air itself grew heavier, thicker, as if the very island itself was alive—breathing, hungry.

Jacob Porter, fresh off a lengthy sentence, knew the island's reputation well. But nothing prepared him for what awaited inside its crumbling walls.

He wasn't a criminal by nature—at least, that's what he told himself. Some bad choices, some poor timing, and here he was. Most people didn't even know the prison existed, tucked away in the deep ocean like a forgotten relic. Jacob was just another number. Another faceless body.

It was near midnight when the boat finally made its way toward the shore, the engine sputtering with an unsettling, rhythmic chug that seemed to echo through the mist. Jacob tried not to look at the water, not to think about how deep it was or how alone they were. He could already see the flickering light of the prison's watchtower in the distance, the tall structure like a skeletal giant, unmoving but ever-watchful.

When the boat's engine finally died with a rattle, the silence took over. The prison loomed ahead, a jagged mass of concrete and rust, its once proud silhouette broken and crumbling. The door creaked open, and the guards ushered the new arrivals out onto the wet, rocky shore. The cold air cut through Jacob's thin prison uniform, sending a shiver that had nothing to do with the temperature.

"Move," a guard grunted, his face obscured by the shadow of his helmet. The other prisoners followed without question, their footsteps the only sound against the constant, distant crash of the waves.

The prison walls felt alive. The iron gates creaked as they were slammed shut, the sound echoing across the empty courtyard. Inside, the prison was a maze of narrow hallways and towering cells. The lights were dim, and the air was thick with mildew and decay. It smelled like rot—old blood, sweat, and something worse, something that curled in the back of Jacob's throat and refused to leave.

The guards never spoke much, and when they did, it was curt, direct. There were no pleasantries here. There was no warmth, no mercy. Not even for the ones who hadn't done much wrong.

They showed Jacob his cell. It was small, dark, and had the unmistakable stench of years of neglect. The bed was a thin mat on a metal frame. A small window high up on the wall offered a faint glimpse of the fog rolling over the horizon. Through that window, Jacob could see nothing but the void, like the ocean was swallowing everything whole.

The prison wasn't like the others Jacob had been in before. There was something else here, something no one ever spoke about. People disappeared sometimes, even though they weren't supposed to. You'd wake up in the morning, and someone would be gone. No explanation. No reason. Just gone.

Jacob knew better than to ask questions.

On his second night, he heard the first screams. They started low, like the whimper of an animal caught in a trap. Then, the screaming grew louder, more desperate. It didn't take long before it was clear that the sounds were coming from the cell block down the hall. Someone was begging—no, pleading—for mercy. But there was no mercy here.

Jacob pressed his face to the cold concrete wall of his cell, listening as the sounds of someone's suffering rang through the air. He tried to block it out, tried to drown it in his own thoughts, but the screams seeped in, gnawing at him. Then, as suddenly as it started, the screaming stopped.

The silence that followed was deafening.

The next morning, the guards did a headcount. One prisoner was missing.

Jacob learned quickly that those who vanished didn't simply escape. No one left Roidver Island alive. The guards made sure of it. They didn't talk much about the disappearances, but Jacob started noticing things. The way the guards moved when they walked the halls. The way their eyes darted nervously to the corners, the doorways. The way they never looked at the prisoners for too long.

He wasn't sure when it happened, but eventually, he began to feel it—the weight of something moving around him, just out of sight. Something unseen, yet undeniable. Sometimes, in the dead of night, he could hear it—the soft scrape of metal on stone, the faint shuffle of footsteps too light to be human.

But it wasn't the footsteps or the scraping that unsettled him most. It was the eyes. The way other prisoners would glance at him—quick, nervous looks that didn't meet his gaze. They weren't afraid of the guards. They were afraid of something else.

On his fourth day, the screams returned. This time, it wasn't one person. It was a chorus. Dozens of prisoners, all at once, their voices high and shrill, drowning out the world. Jacob clutched the bars of his cell, feeling the walls around him seem to pulse, to breathe. It was as if the prison itself was alive, watching, waiting.

The guards didn't respond right away. They didn't rush to quell the chaos. Instead, they waited. There was no sense of urgency, just a grim understanding that the prisoners knew something terrible was happening and had no way to stop it.

The next morning, another headcount. Another missing prisoner.

But something had changed in Jacob. The fear, the panic, it started to slip away. He began to understand. The prison wasn't just a place for punishment—it was a trap. Roidver Island wasn't holding prisoners. It was feeding on them. The screams, the disappearances—they were all part of the ritual, part of the deal. The prisoners weren't dying from disease, or violence, or neglect. They were being taken.

Taken by what? Jacob wasn't sure. He didn't know if he was even brave enough to find out. But as the days went by, it became harder to ignore. The way the shadows seemed to creep in closer at night. The way the walls groaned under some unseen pressure. And the way the air tasted—thick, foul, like rot.

Jacob tried to warn the others, but it was no use. The men around him had already accepted their fate. They were all dead men walking. Some of them even looked at him with a strange, sad pity, as if they knew that he would never leave the island.

On the seventh night, Jacob couldn't take it any longer. He had to find out what was really going on, even if it meant death.

He waited until the guards made their rounds and slipped out of his cell. The halls were empty, but the sounds of movement were all around him. He could hear it now—the scraping, the shuffling. The prison was awake, alive, and it was hungry.

Jacob made his way to the heart of the prison, the part where the walls were thickest, where the air was heavy with an oppressive silence. The guards never went this far. There was something here that even they feared.

And then he saw it.

The walls weren't just walls. They were covered in something—something black, slick, and crawling. It twisted and writhed, like living veins. He could hear it, feel it, like it was reaching out for him. The air turned foul, and Jacob gagged, backing away. But something pushed him forward. Something pulled him closer.

He didn't want to know, but the prison had already taken hold of him. As he stepped deeper into the chamber, the darkness consumed him. He felt it around him, pushing in, suffocating him. His body trembled, his breath coming short as something cold and wet slithered across his skin.

The last thing he heard was the echo of a voice, distant, hollow, telling him he was too late.