Led by the merciless captain Gorran Vane, the crew numbered over sixty — every one of them a killer, thief, or worse. Their flag was stitched with human skin, their ship's hull darkened by bloodstains that no saltwater could wash away.

The Crimson Wakes weren’t just pirates — they were monsters in the shape of men.The crew had rules. Ruthless ones.

Any village seen from the mast must be raided.

Any man who resisted was slit ear to ear, whether armed or not.

Women were taken — used — then left behind or thrown overboard.

Children were forced to fight for amusement. The winner lived. The rest became meat for the sharks.

People in coastal towns whispered that when you saw red sails, you had already died. The sea would turn silent before their ship came into view, as if the ocean itself feared them.

Even other pirates avoided crossing them.

They were untouchable.

Until they met himHe came aboard one night, rowed from a single canoe — a man cloaked in seaweed and silence, with white eyes and no tongue. Yet he spoke directly to Gorran’s mind.

> “I know where the World’s Greatest Treasure lies.”

He held out a map — thick parchment made of leathered skin, marked with ancient blood ink. In the center was an island with no name. No coordinates. Just a drawing of a black box with teeth.

Gorran Vane, drunk on power and greed, laughed.

“This will make kings kneel.”

The next morning, they set sail east, beyond known waters, into parts of the sea where compasses spun backwards and stars refused to shine.The map led them to madness.

The first week, the water turned thick and green, like rotten bile.

By the second week, three crewmen drowned on dry deck, gasping for air like they were underwater.

On the tenth day, their ship passed a floating mass — a sea made of dead ships, all tangled and creaking, manned by skeletons stuck in loops: some rowing, some laughing, some crying.

Half the crew jumped overboard from fear. None floated back.

Storms came without clouds. Birds followed them — not alive, but bleeding, feathers falling like rain.

By the third week, only ten remained.After a month, they reached it.

A black silhouette in the mist.

No birds. No sound. No wind.

The island reeked of grave dirt and wet bones.

The sand was not sand. It was ashes.

Trees had hands instead of branches.

Whispers echoed, though no mouths moved.

They saw skeletons half-buried in the soil, frozen in crawling positions — some still clutching swords. Others reaching upward like they were begging.

Only five pirates walked onto the island:

Gorran Vane – the captain.

Hookjaw Brenn – his second-in-command.

Lilith "Scar-Crow" – the woman who flayed men alive.

Mud-Eye Tom – navigator, blind in one eye, always muttering prayers.

Black Koa – the silent brute who once ate a child alive for a coin.

At the center of the island stood a stone altar, and stop it, a coffin-sized box.

It was black as night, etched with faces screaming, their eyes wide, their mouths gaping open, carved in impossible detail.

The box had no lock.

They opened it.

Inside, there was no gold.

No jewels.

Just… light.

White, pulsing light — and a pull, like the sea dragging them under.

Gorran screamed.

Lilith's eyes melted as her body turned to dust.

Brenn tried to run but his bones burst out of his skin, dancing in the air.

Tom's mouth stretched open wide enough to split his skull.

Koa dropped to his knees, face rotting in seconds.

Their souls were sucked into the box like ink in water.

Their bodies decayed into the island’s soil.

Then, the box closed itself.

On the inside lid of the box, engraved in gold letters, read the words:

> "The Greatest Treasure in the World… Is Life You No Longer Have."

The Crimson Wakes, who spent their lives stealing, destroying, and defiling, had come to claim more. But in doing so, they learned a cruel truth:

They had already thrown away their greatest treasure — their humanity.

Now, their souls were trapped forever, joining thousands of others — pirate crews from ages past who came chasing the same greed.

The box doesn’t just trap. It feeds.

Their pain becomes the island’s soil. Their screams become the whispers in the trees. Their greed becomes a warning.

Sailors today speak of a cursed map that floats from ship to ship — sometimes found sealed in barrels, sometimes handed over by men who don’t speak.

The map always leads to The Black Maw.

And every few years, another crew vanishes chasing the lie.

If you ever see a map with blood ink and screaming faces...

Burn it.

Because what lies at the end is not gold.

It is everything you lost to become the monster you are.

And once you're in the box...

You never leave.

Thank you for reading. 

💬 Like & comment if the curse reached you. Share this tale with a friend who’d follow the map anyway… 😈

> "This story came from a simple question — what if beauty came at the cost of your life?

The cursed comb gives you confidence, shine, and charm… but with every stroke, it drains a piece of you.

In a world obsessed with looks, I wanted to write about the horror of losing yourself just to feel seen.

Would you keep combing if you looked perfect — but knew death was brushing closer?"

💬 Like & comment if the comb whispered to you too...

🩸 Next curse coming soon.