The dark mark on the iron hatch looked disturbingly like a handprint, as if someone had recently tried to pull themselves inside. Jason’s heart hammered against his ribs. The submarine looked like it had been sitting there for decades, yet the air around it felt strangely “active.”
He knew he should turn back, but the silence of the jungle seemed to push him forward. The heavy metal didn’t smell of salt or decay; instead, a faint scent of ozone and old machinery wafted from the seams.
Taking a deep breath, Jason snapped a series of photos and sent them to the local precinct. The police’s initial reaction was laughter—they thought it was a sophisticated prank—until the high-resolution images appeared on their monitors.
The laughter died instantly. Within the hour, a convoy of official vehicles was tearing down the dirt tracks toward the site. But when the lead officer approached the submarine with his flashlight, he noticed something Jason had missed: the hatch wasn’t locked from the outside. It had been sealed from within.
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