Off "Is the red light blinking? Okay. We are live."
I adjusted the GoPro strap on my chest, wincing as it pinched my sunburn. The Adriatic Sea was choppy today, grey waves slapping against the hull of the tiny fishing boat with a violence that felt personal.
"What is up, Ghost Gang! It is your boy Jax, coming to you from literally the most illegal place in Europe."
I turned the camera toward the horizon. Through the thick, unnatural fog, a shape was forming. It looked less like an island and more like a smudge of charcoal on a dirty canvas. A crumbling octagon tower poked through the mist, looking like a broken finger pointing at God.
Poveglia.
"That is it, guys," I shouted over the roar of the engine. "The Island of No Return. The Plague Pit. The place where, legend has it, one hundred and sixty thousand people were burned alive to stop the Black Death. And guess who is spending the night?"
I turned the camera back to my face and flashed a winning smile that didn't quite reach my terrified eyes.
"Me. Because I love you guys. And because my rent is due."
I turned to the fisherman, Marco. I had found him in a dive bar in Malamocco and paid him five hundred euros—basically my entire savings—to bring me here. He was a burly guy with a face like leather, but right now, he looked like he was about to cry.
"Marco! Amico! Closer?" I pointed at the rotting wooden dock jutting out from the island.
Marco spat on the floor of the boat. He cut the engine abruptly.
"No," Marco said. His voice was flat. "No closer. You swim."
"Swim? Marco, I have ten thousand dollars worth of camera gear and a very suspicious heavy black case in this bag. I cannot swim."
"Then you jump," Marco said, pointing a calloused finger at the shallow water. "I go. Now."
He wasn't joking. The man was trembling. He refused to look at the island. He kept his eyes fixed on the dashboard of his boat, muttering a prayer under his breath.
"Okay, okay! Chill out."
I grabbed my duffel bag. It was heavy, weighed down by The Negotiator, though I hadn't told Marco I was bringing a weapon. He probably would have thrown me overboard if he knew I was planning to shoot ghosts.
I hoisted the bag over my head and vaulted over the side of the boat. The water was freezing. It hit my waist like a hammer, soaking my jeans instantly.
"Thanks for the ride!" I yelled.
Marco didn't wave. He slammed the throttle forward. The boat roared to life, kicking up a spray of dirty water into my face, and sped away toward Venice as if the devil himself were water-skiing behind it.
I watched him go. The silence rushed back in to fill the space he left.
It wasn't a normal silence. Usually, near the ocean, you hear seagulls, wind, waves. Here, there was nothing. No birds. No bugs. Just the wet slap of water against the shore.
I waded to the beach and dragged myself onto dry land.
"Okay," I panted, checking the camera lens for water droplets. "We have made landfall. Marco abandoned us, but that adds to the drama, right? Smash that like button for abandonment issues."
I stood up and looked around.
The island was overgrown. Vines strangled the trees, and the buildings—the old hospital, the church, the bell tower—were drowning in ivy. It looked like nature was trying to eat the history.
I took a step, and my boot sank into the ground. It felt soft. Powdery.
"Whoa," I said, looking down.
I knelt and scooped up a handful of the soil. It wasn't sand. It was grey, fine, and greasy. It clung to my skin like graphite.
"Do you guys see this?" I held my hand up to the lens. "This is the lore I was telling you about. They say they burned so many bodies here during the plague that the top layer of soil is fifty percent human ash."
I rubbed the grey dust between my fingers. It felt gritty.
"I am literally standing on people. Thousands of them."
A sudden chill ran down my spine, unrelated to the wet jeans. I wiped my hand on my pants, but the grey stain didn't come off. It smeared, turning into a dark streak.
Dong.
I froze.
The sound came from the bell tower. It was a deep, resonant toll that vibrated in my chest.
"Did you hear that?" I whispered, my voice cracking.
I zoomed the camera in on the tower. It stood silent and dark against the dying orange light of the sunset.
"Here is the thing, Ghost Gang," I said, my throat dry. "There is no bell in that tower. They removed it fifty years ago."
Dong.
It rang again. Louder this time. Welcoming me.
The sun dipped below the horizon, and the shadows on Poveglia didn't just lengthen; they stood up.
"Okay," I said, racking the slide of my heavy black case just to hear the mechanical click of the locks. "I think we should find shelter. Before whatever is ringing that bell decides to come down and say hello."