The sun was at its highest in the Caribbean sky, and its scorching heat was almost unbearable for two young Englishmen who had never left their homeland, accustomed to a much cooler and milder climate. The humidity clung to our clothes and thickened the air, while a swarm of mosquitoes and strange insects buzzed incessantly around us, filling our ears with their constant droning. Our first impression of the island of Barbados was far f

The ship’s captain, a man hardened by countless journeys across the seas, had recommended a modest boarding house where we could stay during our time on the island. Although its appearance left much to be desired, we had few other options available. We settled in as best we could in the stifling, damp rooms, trying to recover from the exhaustion of the long journey that had brought us here. However, we knew that the ship would remain stranded for at least a month, as it required repairs before setting sail for London again. This left us with a limited amount of time to investigate the strange case of the Chase Vault and obtain the answers we so desperately sought. If we failed, we would be forced to wait additional months until another vesse

At first, we decided not to visit the Chase family out of respect—and for fear that they would refuse to speak about such a dark and disturbing matter in which they were involved. Instead, we ventured among the locals, eager to uncover any additional details that might shed light on the mystery. However, our inquiries proved fruitless, as most people were reluctant to talk about the subject. The mere mention of the vault was enough to send shivers down their spines and fill their faces with a look of panic. The lack of tangible information left us perplexed, drowning us in a sea of speculation and unfounded theories.

It was then that the innkeeper, with his wisdom acquired from years of dealing with the locals, offered us an intriguing suggestion. He advised us to speak with Charles McDowall, an old man who tended the Christ Church cemetery. However, he warned us that McDowall was a man of few words and that mere conversation would not be enough to persuade him to share any information. He recommended that we bring two bottles of whisky—a gift that, according to him, could soften the old man’s heart and make him more willing to speak about the enigmatic case of the vault.

Following his advice, we set out one night toward a solitary house nestled in a remote clearing. Sweat drenched our brows, and mosquito bites irritated our skin as we stepped down from the carriage we had rented to get around the island. To our surprise, three enormous black dogs emerged from the shadows and rushed toward us with ferocity. For a brief moment, we feared for our lives, believing they would tear us apart without mercy. However, a raspy voice echoed in the darkness just in time, halting the beasts and granting us a momentary reprieve.

—What do you want? Who are you?—the old man asked.

—Mr. McDowall? Charles McDowall?—Carter asked, while I kept my eyes on the dogs, their white fangs still bared.

—That’s me! Who are you?—McDowall replied.

—Mr. McDowall! My name is Christian John, and this is my good friend, Carter Junior. May we have a word with you?—I said, showing him the bottles of whisky.

The old man licked his lips at the sight of the liquor. Without hesitation, he ordered the dogs away and invited us into his humble home. A thick stench of dampness and grime filled our nostrils. We sat around a small, worn-out wooden table, barely illuminated by three candles in a rickety candelabra. The old man grabbed one of the bottles and opened it eagerly. It seemed he had been sober all day due to a lack of money for drink, so our arrival with the blessed whisky was almost like a divine apparition to him.

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—Mr. McDowall, I am a writer, and I publish my stories in a London newspaper. We traveled for three months expressly to investigate what happened in the Chase Vault. We have been on this island for a week, and practically everyone has denied us information. We do not wish to disturb the family, and I understand that you worked as the cemetery caretaker until recently.

—So, you came all the way from London? Well, well! Who would have thought this Chase madness would travel so far? And what makes you think I can tell you more than what you already know?

—You were dismissed over this matter. At least that’s what we were told. Besides the whisky, I have this to offer you as thanks for any help you can provide— I said, pulling out a handful of gold coins. The old man’s eyes widened, imagining how much liquor he could buy with that sum. Without hesitation, he grabbed the coins, walked over to a shelf where he kept some notebooks, and retrieved one containing detailed burial records. Then he sat down again, poured himself another glass of whisky, and began to speak. With the help of the records, he recounted in detail the strange events that had taken place in the vault.

—I have worked in that cemetery for more than thirty years, and I have never witnessed anything as strange as what happened in that damned vault—he began, flipping through his notebook in search of the Chase family records.

—It all began in 1807, when Mrs. Thomasina Goddard was the first person buried in the vault. A year later, little Maria Anna Chase, just two years old, passed away. In 1812, Dorcas Chase, the older sister of the first, died. Until this point, nothing unusual had happened. But misfortune struck the family once more, and a few months later, Thomas Chase died. It was then that we opened the vault and saw that Maria and Dorcas Chase’s coffins had been displaced from their original positions. Only Thomasina Goddard’s coffin remained undisturbed. Needless to say, the sight filled everyone present with a sense of horror!—He paused to fill his glass for the third time, gulping down half of it before continuing, now with bloodshot eyes and a slurred tongue.

—Soon, there was talk of desecration, despite the fact that the vault’s only entrance had been sealed. They blamed me and my assistants for the disturbance. What reason could I possibly have to disturb the sleep of the dead? I didn’t deny the possibility that intruders had entered the vault, but the entrance was untouched. Lacking evidence, they allowed me to continue as caretaker. We placed the coffins back in their spots and sealed the entrance with a massive marble slab.

He took another swig from his glass. Carter and I were hanging on to every detail, captivated by the story—details that had not appeared in the chronicles written by Marcus Mortimer.

—And the story doesn’t end there, does it?—I said, sensing there was more to uncover.

—No, it doesn’t! There’s news that has been kept from the press, especially to preserve the island’s reputation— the old man replied.

What we learned in the following days was beyond anything we had imagined. We spoke with numerous witnesses, including former cemetery workers. We even had the chance to speak with Reverend Thomas Orderson, who had led the inspection of the vault, and Governor Lord Combermere, who had ordered the entrance sealed after the last burial. Everything pointed to a mystery that defied logic.

But who needed logic in a mystery? That was precisely what readers craved.

And yet, ten days before our departure for London, fortune—or perhaps misfortune for the Chase family—granted us the opportunity to witness the mystery firsthand.

Something I would come to regret.