The rescue boat docked beside the broken ship. The air was thick with smoke, fear, and blood.
The sea lapped gently against the ruined hull, but the silence it carried was heavy—like it knew the horrors that had unfolded here.
"What the hell happened here?" one rescuer whispered, stepping onto the ruined deck.
His boots crunched over broken glass and debris. The silence was suffocating. No birds, no waves crashing—only the dull hum of engines and the creak of dying metal.
Bodies. Shattered glass. Deep claw marks along the walls. The ship looked like it had been torn apart by a monster.
Some of the bodies were barely recognizable. Blood had soaked into the wooden planks. Metal was twisted and bent, as if something inhuman had ripped through it without mercy.
Some survivors had gathered near the ship's edge, exhausted and injured. Their eyes were wide, hollow. Shock had taken over.
They didn't speak. One woman clutched a child who stared blankly at the floor. Another man sat with his hand on a bleeding leg, rocking back and forth, whispering to himself. The fear wasn't fresh—it was carved deep into them.
The girl came running from the lighthouse. Her knees scraped. Her eyes wild. She pointed toward the tower.
"In there—equipment—notes—experiments. They knew about her!"
She stumbled as she ran, grabbing one of the rescuers by the arm, her grip desperate. Her voice cracked, but she kept repeating the same words like a chant.
The rescuers followed her inside.
They stepped through the shattered lighthouse door and stared at the chaos. Broken tanks. Leaking vials. A desk full of soaked documents. A torn book lay open—some pages stuck together, others loose.
The air inside smelled of chemicals, rust, and something else—decay. One tank had shattered completely, its fluid now a sticky puddle on the floor. Tools were scattered. Needles. Chains. Fragments of scales.
She grabbed one paper and shoved it into their hands. "They were doing tests. On her. That mermaid. They created her. Or changed her. I don't know. But she's real."
The paper was water-damaged, the ink smeared, but the word "specimen" was still readable. There were sketches—part-human, part-fish. Unnatural.
The rescuers didn't speak for a moment. One of them lifted a damaged underwater camera, pulled from the ship's side during search.
The lens was cracked. Its surface smeared with something that looked like blood and oil.
They checked the memory card.
The footage played for a few seconds.
A pale figure swimming beneath the ship. Glowing eyes. Claws. Fins. The scream—cut off by static.
The room went still. No one breathed. One rescuer dropped the camera.
Silence.
Nobody said it out loud, but they all thought the same thing: It wasn't human.
As the sun slowly began to rise, the girl was led onto the rescue boat, wrapped in a blanket. She sat quietly, staring into the waves.
The sky turned soft orange, casting a glow on the broken ship. But nothing could warm the chill in her bones. She didn't cry. She didn't speak. She just stared.
One of the rescuers turned to her.
"Where's the body?"
He knelt beside her, his tone low, almost afraid of the answer.
She didn't look at him. Her eyes stayed locked on the water.
"Gone," she whispered. "She jumped into the sea. But I never saw her again."
He nodded slowly. "Maybe she's dead."
The girl didn't answer.
Because deep in her heart, she wasn't sure.
And that uncertainty was worse than fear. She could still feel it—those eyes, watching.
The rescue boat pulled away, sailing back toward the shore. Survivors cried. Some prayed. Others just stared, silent.
Nobody looked back.
And far beneath the surface—in the cold, black sea—a faint light shimmered.
Like two glowing eyes.
Still watching.
Still waiting.
________To be continued....