The Bunker

I can’t be the only one looking for answers about this place. Aren’t you just a little curious? There are so many questions; who built it, why was it built here, and the thing that nags at me more than all the other questions, what’s being kept behind that reinforced door? I know none of it is any of my business, but I simply must know.

What brought me to this tropical paradise was a well-deserved vacation. My friends and colleagues all suggested I find a laid-back tropical island filled with sunshine and sand and the occasional bikini clad lady, a place where I would be able to kick back and shed all the pressures from work and a congested city life. For a total of two weeks, I was going to be free to be me.

My plans never work out.

When I shared my dreamland destination with a few of my friends they all said, “You picked the wrong island, dude. That place is historically known as a pirate sanctuary, and a Voodoo refuge where practitioners go to refine their art. Great battles between smugglers and the authorities were fought there. It’s so remote, you can only reach it by taking a boat from St. Thomas.”

They made it sound ominous, but that only added to the intrigue. Four weeks later I was on a plane to the Virgin Islands and my great adventure. The heat smacked me in the face as I exited the terminal. This was not the thirty-degree New England weather I was used to. A man dressed in a colorful shirt and shorts stood at the exit holding a sign with my name.

He smiled and in an island accent said, “You ready for your boat ride, man? It’s a bit choppy so I hope you don’t get sick in my boat,” and laughed.

The ride was bumpy, but the fresh sea air stimulated my senses, and I was fine until reaching my destination. I must have looked puzzled because he pointed to a weathered three-story building and told me, “That be the place my man.” I just stared, this is it, my Shangri-la, definitely not what the on-line pictures showed me. As long as the sheets were clean and the toilet flushed I was happy.

Instead of a front desk clerk, I found an envelope with my name on it. Inside was a room key and a hand written set of instructions. Some of the items on the list included: breakfast time, room services, and local places of interest. One particular item I found very odd was whoever wrote this strongly suggested I remain in the hotel after dark for my own safety. The note was attached to what could only be described as a Voodoo Doll. I put the note and the doll in my pocket and headed for my room for a much-deserved nap.

The sun was low in the Western sky when my rumbling stomach rudely woke me. After checking the list of eateries nearby, I grabbed my new friend and headed out for food. Not far from the hotel were a set of concrete stairs leading past a reinforced metal door and over the top of a wall. I would have continued to walk on by, but a faint drawing of the doll in my pocket was etched on the door. This had to be a coincidence, but I needed to investigate.

Try as I might, the door would not budge. Whatever secrets it was protecting, the door would not yield them to me. Exhausted and hungry, I followed the stairs over the wall to a nearby pub for food and refreshments. The natives were friendly, and they filled me in on all the local history, some of which was terrifying. When I told them where I was staying the room became deadly quiet.

“I have a room in the back you can use for the night,” offered the manager. “It’s not safe to walk back there at night.”

The reactions of the patrons gave me chills, but I assured them I’d be fine and left. When I reached the bottom of the concrete stairs I saw that the door barring my entrance was now wide open. Reflexively, I reached for the doll in my pocket, but it was missing. Instead, it stood in the doorway beckoning me to enter.