Hispaniola welcomed them not with a bustling harbor, but with a wall of dense jungle that seemed to defy the sea itself. The island's northern coast was wild, rocky, and appeared uninhabited. For days, The Venture sailed slowly along the coastline, while Thomas and Arthur frustratingly tried to match the rough contours of the land with their incomplete maps.
The curse of the Compass of Sorrow began to show its fangs. Every night, the air on the ship grew colder. The crew started to hear faint whispers while on solitary watch, or see fleeting movements out of the corners of their eyes. It culminated on the third night. A young sailor named Finn shrieked in horror from the foredeck, dropping his lantern.
Thomas was the first to arrive there, sword in hand. Finn was trembling violently, his face pale, pointing to an empty space. "There... I saw him, Captain! One of the Spanish soldiers... He was staring at me, his eyes empty..."
There was nothing there. But as Thomas stepped into the spot Finn pointed to, he felt a bone-chilling cold, and the compass in his pouch trembled softly. This was real. The compass was slowly turning his ship into a beacon for restless spirits.
"We need local help," Thomas told Arthur the next morning. "Scouring this entire coast will take months, and I'm not sure the crew's morale can last that long."
Their map showed one small nearby settlement, a logging village named Bois-Caiman. As they anchored in the nearest bay and approached in a longboat, they were met with an atmosphere of suspicion. The village was a mix of rough French civilization and deep African Voodoo roots. The burly loggers stopped their work to stare at them, while strange symbols painted on the doors of the huts seemed to watch their every move.
Thomas, with his usual charm, tried to talk to some of the villagers, but they only shook their heads and mumbled in Creole. Finally, after offering some silver coins, an old man pointed to a slightly larger hut at the edge of the forest, where smoke with a strange aroma billowed from its chimney. The home of "Maman" Cécile, the village elder.
Maman Cécile was an old woman with eyes that seemed to have seen more centuries than her age. She sat in a rocking chair, surrounded by jars of potions and bone charms.
Thomas got straight to the point. He knew a woman like this valued honesty, not deception. He placed the silver compass on a small table between them. "Maman Cécile. I am looking for a lost sanctuary. A monastery built by a Spanish Inquisitor many years ago."
The old woman stared at the compass, her eyes narrowing. She didn't touch it, but Thomas could see a flicker of recognition in her eyes.
"People like you don't look for sanctuaries to pray, boy," she said, her voice raspy like dry leaves. "You are looking for power." She pointed at the compass. "And that thing will lead you to death, not power."
"Death and I have danced many times," Thomas retorted. "I just need to know where the next ballroom is."
Maman Cécile was silent for a long time, as if weighing Thomas's soul. "My people call that place Legliz Zo," she said. "The Church of Bones. It was built by the black-robed ghost hunters of the Order of True Light. They thought their faith could cleanse this land. Instead, their hatred poisoned it. Nothing has grown there for fifty years. We stay away from it. The spirits there are not at rest."
She despised the memory of that Order, which would have considered her beliefs blasphemy. Perhaps that's why she decided to help.
"Follow the coastline towards the sunset from here," she said. "You will find a cliff that nature has carved to resemble a weeping face. On top of that cliff is the path to the Church of Bones. Go, take what you seek. Perhaps your leaving will put the spirits there back to sleep."
As Thomas turned to leave, Maman Cécile called to him. "Boy. Take this." She tossed him a small leather pouch filled with sharp-smelling spices. "Gris-gris. It won't fight ghosts, but it will clear your mind of their whispers."
Armed with the valuable new clue, The Venture set sail again. Just a few hours later, as the sun began to set, the lookout shouted. In front of them, a giant cliff loomed. Over centuries, wind and water had eroded it, creating two large indentations and a series of vertical lines below. From a distance, the cliff looked exactly like a giant face shedding stone tears into the sea.
In the cabin, the Compass of Sorrow trembled so violently it rattled on the wooden table. They had arrived.
Thomas stared at the intimidating cliff. Somewhere up there, a fortress of supernatural knowledge was hidden, full of secrets, weapons, and perhaps, countless ghosts.
"Drop anchor," he commanded. "Arthur, prepare the expedition team. Bring lanterns, ropes, and every silver bullet we have."
He picked up the compass. "It's time for us to see what Inquisitor Lorenzo has hidden in the darkness."
The expedition team landed on a black sand beach in the shadow of the Weeping Cliff. The air here felt wrong. Heavy, cold, and silent. The tropical jungle in front of them should have been full of life, but what greeted them was an unnatural silence. No birds chirped, no insects buzzed. Only the sound of waves breaking on the shore and their own heartbeats.
"This place feels like a cemetery," Riggs growled, resting his wooden leg on a rock.
"It is," Thomas replied. "Let's make sure we don't become permanent residents."
The climb up the cliff was a physical test. The path was steep and slippery, with loose rocks threatening to send them tumbling back into the sea. But when they finally reached the top and stepped into the forest above, the atmosphere changed completely.
The trees here were crooked and stunted, their branches twisted as if in agony. The ground beneath their feet was dry and cracked, and not a single flower or blade of grass grew. This was a land that had been poisoned by something worse than a mere sickness.
As they walked deeper, the ghostly whispers they had faintly heard on the ship now became clear. Sounds of suffering, fanatic prayers in Spanish, and the clang of invisible swords echoed among the dead trees. Some of the younger crewmen began to tremble, their hands gripping charms or sword hilts tightly.
Thomas remembered the pouch of gris-gris given by Maman Cécile. He opened it, and the sharp aroma of dried spices and roots spread in the air. Strangely, the scent seemed to clear his head, pushing the whispers away slightly. "Stay close," he commanded his men. "Focus on the sound of my footsteps."
They arrived at a strange clearing. In the middle of it, a shadowy figure began to form from the cold air. The figure was tall, wearing the robes and armor of an Inquisitor of the Ordo de la Luz Verdadera. Its face was indistinct, but its intent was palpable—a judgment.
The ghost didn't attack. It raised a spectral finger and pointed at Arthur. Arthur flinched, his eyes wide with horror, as if seeing something no one else could. Then the ghost pointed at Riggs, who growled back, his hand gripping his axe. One by one, the ghost "touched" the minds of each team member, forcing them to confront their past fears or sins in a flash of psychic terror.
When the finger pointed at Thomas, he felt a wave of despair try to swallow him—memories of his dead crew, the specter of the Sirens, the fear of failure. But he resisted. I am the captain of this ship, he thought, focusing all his will. Fear is a sea, and I sail upon it.
The wave receded. The Inquisitor ghost seemed surprised by Thomas's resistance, then slowly faded back into nothingness.
The crew was shaken, but no one ran. They had passed the first test.
After walking a few hundred more meters, they finally saw it. In the middle of a completely dead plain, a building stood. It wasn't a grand church, but a small fortress of pale white stone that looked like polished bones. Its windows were narrow like a skull's eye sockets, and the only entrance was a large, thick iron door, now covered in blood-colored rust. This was the Church of Bones.
Above the door, a motto was carved in Spanish: In Luce, Veritas. In Tenebris, Ferrum. (In Light, There is Truth. In Darkness, There is Iron.)
As they approached, Arthur noticed something near the door. A skeleton wearing the remains of the Order's armor lay there, as if trying to crawl out when death overtook it. In its bony grip, there was a small leather-bound notebook.
Thomas took it carefully. The pages were brittle, but the handwriting inside was still legible. He opened to the last page.
Lorenzo has gone mad... his ritual failed... He didn't banish the demons from this place... he bound them into these stones, making this monastery a prison and us its jailers. We are not guardians... we are sacrifices...
Thomas closed the book, a horrifying realization dawning on him. This place was not just a deserted monastery. It was a supernatural prison.
He stared at the towering iron door, then turned to Riggs. "Riggs, open the door. Use a crowbar if you have to."
Riggs and a few of the strongest men stepped forward, crowbars in hand. Thomas looked at the rest of his team, his face serious.
"Ready your weapons," he commanded. "And don't touch the walls."
With one final, echoing heave, the iron door gave way. The metallic shriek resonated across the dead plain, before the door collapsed inward, hitting the stone floor with a sound that seemed to awaken sleeping spirits.
A blast of cold, stale air rushed out from the darkness beyond, carrying the scent of a thousand years of dust, mold, and something worse—the smell of hatred that had settled. The lanterns in their hands flickered wildly as if about to go out.
"Stay alert," Thomas said, his voice low but clear amidst the oppressive silence. "Remember my order. Do not touch the walls."
They stepped inside one by one. The interior was not a church. It was a military barracks combined with a torture chamber. The long main corridor was made of the same white stone, feeling cold and unwelcoming. Along both sides of the walls, there were shallow niches. Inside each niche, a skeleton was chained to the wall, their chins slumped to their chests, as if they died while praying or pleading.
As they walked past the rows of corpses, whispers began to be heard. Not from one direction, but from all directions. From the stones around them.
Free us... He is a liar... Kill your friend and take his power... Your blood looks warm...
The crew began to get restless, their eyes moving wildly. One sailor, a young man named Pip, stumbled and his hand accidentally touched the wall to steady himself. He instantly pulled his hand back with a shriek of pain.
"It feels like ice burn!" he yelled, staring at his reddened palm. "And... it feels like the wall was trying to... suck something out of me!"
"Focus on me!" Thomas commanded, his voice sharp. He took out the gris-gris pouch from Maman Cécile, and the strong herbal scent slightly cleared the air around them. "It's just a trick of the mind. Keep moving!"
They arrived at a crossroads in the middle of the monastery. There, under a stone archway, a guardian stood. It wasn't a ghost. It was a desiccated corpse wearing the rusted armor of the Order, standing stiffly while holding a large two-handed sword. As the light of their lanterns shone on it, two points of sickening green light ignited in its empty eye sockets.
With a low, raspy growl that came from its dried throat, the undead creature raised its sword and charged.
"Form up!" Arthur yelled.
The crew fired their muskets, but the ordinary lead bullets only bounced off the ancient armor. Their swords clanged fruitlessly, unable to pierce the metal that had been reinforced by dark magic. The creature swung its massive sword, forcing them to retreat.
"Silver bullets!" Riggs roared, not wanting to miss the action. He raised his large pistol.
BLAM!
The shot boomed in the narrow corridor. The silver bullet hit the guardian's breastplate. Unlike the regular bullets, it exploded in a flash of silver light upon impact. The dried flesh underneath sizzled and smoked. The creature roared in pain, a sound that shouldn't have been able to come from lungs that had turned to dust.
"It can be hurt!" Thomas shouted. "Attack now!"
Seeing the enemy's weakness, the crew charged again. Those with silver-coated weapons stabbed at the gaps in the armor, while Thomas, with his agility, managed to slip behind the guardian and stab his sword into the back of its knee, bringing it to its knees.
With one last powerful swing, Riggs crushed the guardian's helmet with his axe, extinguishing the green light within forever. The corpse collapsed into a clattering pile of bones and armor.
Their breaths came in ragged gasps in the returning silence. They had won, but the battle had drained them of energy and courage.
Thomas noticed that the guardian wasn't just standing there aimlessly. It was guarding one of the three corridors. This corridor was different. At its end was a thick oak door, not stone or iron.
Above the door, a phrase was carved in Latin. "Hic est, ubi Silentium loquitur." Here, where Silence Speaks.
The Compass of Sorrow, which had been calm in Thomas's pouch, now began to tremble again. Its needle pointed straight at the wooden door. This was the place they were looking for. The Scriptorium. Lorenzo's library.
Thomas stepped forward and placed his hand on the oak door. Strangely, it felt warm to the touch, as if there was life behind it—or something that mimicked life.
He took a deep breath, looking at his crew who looked tense but ready. "Alright," he said. "Let's hear what this silence has to say."
With one strong push, he opened the door.