"Snakes of Snake Island"

To the outside world, it was simply known as *Snake Island*, a remote piece of land off the coast of Brazil where danger slithered through every inch of earth.

All of Leo Costa's life, he had heard stories about golden lancehead vipers dropping from trees and crews disappearing overnight and never being seen again. However, Leo did not believe in ghost stories. He was a herpetologist, a scientist who had spent years studying venomous reptiles. When the Brazilian government approved a rare research expedition to the forbidden island, Leo saw his chance to uncover the truth.

The morning he set out, the sky was steel-gray, and the sea churned with an uneasy restlessness. His small team — Dr. Mariana Silva, a botanist, and Tomás, a local guide — were silent as they approached the island. It looked peaceful from a distance, with its rocky cliffs, white sand glints, and lush green forests. But as they drew closer, the forest seemed to writhe as if alive.

“We shouldn't be here too long,” Tomás muttered, steering the boat around jagged rocks. “The island doesn't like visitors.”

Leo merely laughed. “Superstitions, Tomás. Science will explain it all.”

When they landed, a suffocating heat enveloped them. The island pulsed with life — and death. The ground was a carpet of fallen leaves and vines, perfect camouflage for the creatures that ruled here. Almost immediately, they spotted their first golden lancehead, its scales gleaming like polished brass. With a wagging tongue and tense muscles, it silently observed them. Leo marveled at its beauty. These snakes were unique to Snake Island, found nowhere else in the world. Their venom was five times more potent than any mainland relative — a necessary adaptation for hunting birds in the absence of larger prey.

Leo took notes and samples as they moved deeper into the jungle, and Mariana took pictures of the strange plants. But it wasn’t long before unease crept into their hearts. There were snakes everywhere. Slithering across branches, under rocks, and in the trees. Their overwhelming presence felt more like deliberate intent than accidental. By dusk, the island became a different world. Shadows stretched and the chorus of insects fell silent, replaced by an eerie, hissing stillness.

“We should head back,” Mariana urged, glancing around nervously.

Leo checked his watch and reluctantly agreed. But as they retraced their steps, Tomás suddenly stumbled, clutching his ankle. A lancehead had struck. Its fangs sank deep, and even before Leo could react, Tomás collapsed, his body seizing violently.

Panic set in. Tomás’s screams echoed behind them as Leo grabbed Mariana's hand and dragged her through the tangled undergrowth before abruptly cutting off. Branches tore at their clothes. Every step was a gamble, every vine could hide another viper. Leo’s heart hammered against his ribs. In the distance, the beach glowed under the dying light. Safety was so close.

Mariana cried out, falling to the ground. Her boot was encircled by a snake. She kicked frantically, dislodging it, but not before it nicked her leg. Leo hoisted her up, adrenaline lending him strength, and they stumbled onto the sand, gasping for breath.

Their boat bobbed just offshore, but the tide had pulled it away.

“No,” Leo whispered, realization dawning. The island wasn’t just home to the snakes. It was a trap.

Mariana’s breathing grew shallow. The venom was working fast. Leo screamed for help, but the vast ocean swallowed his voice.

The last thing he saw before night enveloped them was a glint of gold in the trees — hundreds of eyes watching, waiting.

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To this day, the fishermen say that at night, if you drift too close to Ilha da Queimada Grande, you can hear the cries of the lost, carried by the wind — a warning to those foolish enough to set foot on the island where snakes rule and humans are only prey.