ShipWrecked

by Bellemort2432

When Anya leaves on a cruise with her family, she could have never imagined the twisted turn of events that occur, especially the voices that call to her afterwards. She later writes them off on her concussion, but as the continue to call whenever she is near water, secrets are unraveled, and they may not be good ones. Vampires aren't the only ones with fangs...

1. Preface

Hey guys, so I'm starting this new story titled "Shipwrecked." I will also be continuing "Stolen Fangs" but, now, I have two stories on my docket! It does not have, persay, "vampires", but things very, very much like them. Seriously, if you like "Stolen Fangs" this is definitely worth a shot. I'll be posting the prologue through Chapter Two up tonight, and then (maybe!) another chapter of "Stolen Fangs." Hope you enjoy! Without further ado…

***Ace***

Shipwrecked

Prologue

The poignant taste of salt accompanied by the constant, irregular sound of waves struggling against one another are the first things I become aware of. Second, the sore, clenched feeling of my arms and fingers as I cling onto the long, semi-triangular piece of metal that kept me afloat.

I look around frantically. Where am I? I quickly realize the sight was not a comforting one; a vast, never-ending landscape of blue ripples is all that welcomes me, and as the waves came closer, they push more scraps of white metal around me. I swivel around in a circle again, kicking with my legs. My foot tickles something smooth, something soft. I turn around and see a hand bobbing along with the current. I try to scream, but my vocal cords are sewn shut with the salt water filling my mouth.

A head bobs up and through as a wave passes over the corpse, and I am immediately able to identify who it is: Kayla. My older sister. Her dark brown hair floats around her like a darkened halo as her face is eerily lifted up to face me. She bobs up and down as if she were standing on her two feet, up and down, up and down. It's almost rhythmic to watch, and I get lost in the motion. That is, until she is violently yanked downwards, underneath the surface, her hair blazing a dark trail above her head for the quickest moment before it, too, vanishes from the surface. And then the whispers start. The whispers that call to me.

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