—Hey, Christian Jhon! Have you seen this news?— 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.

—Another one of Marcus Mortimer’s antics— 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—stories 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—perhaps 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.

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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—he was only seven years old at the time (1816)—but 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:

—I 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.—

Carter, excited, offered to accompany me:

—A change of climate—leaving behind cold, damp London for tropical Barbados—would do me good. Money won’t be an issue; I’ve got a considerable allowance, and my father indulges my every whim.—

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.