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I was shipwrecked on a deserted Caribbean island after a fierce storm. As I scoured the shore for help, my blood ran cold.
There, half buried in the white sand, was a mysterious galleon with black sails, so well preserved that it looked as if it had just been built.
I climbed aboard with a lump in my throat. There was not a soul on board, but everything was in perfect order: boots of coins, weapons and provisions intact. It was as if the crew had vanished from one moment to the next.
I wandered the spotless deck and empty cabins in terror, until I discovered a macabre find: a locked diary.
The pages recounted a horrible curse that had long ago befallen the ship and its greedy crew.
From then on, I witnessed firsthand the sinister events described in its pages. Spectral noises and Dantesque shadows haunted me every nightfall.
At times, I saw horrifying visions of pirates being consumed by monstrous black shadows.
I managed to escape from that haunted island, but the chilling curses of the ghost galleon never left me.
I serve my sentence by narrating my experience, to warn those who dare to cross paths with this forgotten vessel.