Dont Come Here
They should've listened to the locals.
Jill and Vivian dragged their sunburnt shoulders into Bar Es Murter—some piss-stained pub in Mallorca’s backcountry, all flickering fluorescents and greased tapas. Sweat dripped down their untouched sangria pitchers. The air smelled like salt and decay. That’s where the Europeans found them: three Germans nursing beers, a bone-thin Parisian couple chain-smoking Gauloises, and a grinning Dutch guy named Lars who kept offering shots of hierbas. What’s the worst that happens? Vivian laughed, her teeth bright against her chapped lips. Famous last words.
Someone—maybe Lars, maybe the sharp-eyed German woman named Greta—suggested a secret beach tucked behind jagged cliffs. No tourists. Like heaven, Lars promised. But on the hike down, Jill stumbled over graffiti sprayed across a boulder: DONT COME HERE in angry crimson letters. Vivian snapped a selfie in front of it, smirking. Chill out, Jill. It’s just some local bullshit.
The beach was a sick joke—pebbly sand, water the color of bile. No sunbathers. No boats. Just driftwood and the stench of rotting seaweed. They split up: Lars and Greta hunting seashells, the Parisians bickering by the tide. Vivian stripped to her bikini, wading into the waves. Jill watched her. Then blinked.
When she opened her eyes, Vivian wasn’t floating anymore.
Red slicked the water around her. Something—something—had torn her throat wide.
Dont Come Here.
Panic cracked them open. The Germans screamed. Lars vomited into the surf. Greta muttered prayers in rapid-fire Deutsch. But the worst part? The way they all watched Jill, their faces slick with sweat and suspicion. Someone had packed a knife. Someone had followed Vivian into the water. And now? Now they’re trapped on this cursed stretch of coast, waiting for dusk and whatever else lurks here.
Jill’s hands won’t stop shaking. It’s one of them. The killer’s sipping warm cerveza right now, wiping Vivian’s blood off their hands. And that fucking phrase claws at her brain with every thump of her pulse:
Dont Come Here.
Soon, there won’t be anyone left to warn.
