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Local legends say the cave was once used as a smuggling ground for pirates.
Even now, with the full knowledge of where the cave is, you need perfect timing and a decent understanding of tide charts to get inside it.
Reaching the cave entrance, I nervously glance at the timer I’ve set on my phone. The timer tells me exactly how much time I have left before my path to the cove’s other side is again flooded.
Less than a quarter of an hour now. This is going to be a short exploration.
I’m guessing that if pirates used this cave to smuggle things, without the advent of the smartphone and timers, there would probably have been some trial and error in determining safe windows to enter the cave. And through that trial and error, some pirates may havepassed on in a traumatizing way – potentially a good hotspot to find more faceless.
Am I recklessly endangering myself by wandering into a death cave alone in the middle of nowhere?
Maybe.
But quite frankly, there isn’t much in my life that has any real meaning other than freeing the faceless. So, death caves it is.
I might still be a bit depressed.
Not letting my anxiety paralyze me, I enter inside. It’s dark, and I switch on the flashlight app on my smartphone.
While some fog penetrates the cave, it’s less dense here. I can make out the shells of thousands of snails and other sea life plastered to the still-damp walls.
The cave's opening is massive but rapidly splits into multiple smaller tunnels. I keep moving at a steady pace, choosing one of the paths, taking care to always take the right-hand path when I find a split between two networks of caves.
I expected it to be quiet here, but the echoes of dripping water are amplified. The tunnels are tall enough for a person to walk through and not too narrow. I can barely touch both sides if I extend my arms.
It’s wide enough that my claustrophobia isn’t bothered.
So far, there’s no evidence that people have ever been here. Not that I deluded myself into thinking I could find any kind of treasure. I know die-hard treasure hunters have combed every last crack in these caves.
But still, there’s a thrill in thinking of the long-ago people that may have frequented this place.
As I make my way even deeper into the cave network, I finally see a faint glow ahead.
Bingo.
The glow isn’t still but instead blinks from one location to the next, steadily making its way toward me, continuously reappearing slightly closer.
Quickly, I squish down the fear that wants to come out. I don’t care how often I’ve helped faceless creatures. Their habit of blinking in and out of view, coming closer and closer, always freaks me out.
It only took me a few instances of trial and error to confirm that the faceless feed on fear. Luckily, I’m a quick learner and have yet to take a dive into one of their black hole mouths.
As most trauma survivors can attest to, I’m excellent at compartmentalizing.
Rather than letting my fear stick around, I focus my mental headspace on who I might be dealing with today.
The faceless looks like a man, and he’s wearing some kind of armour, leather by the looks of it. He’s shirtless under the armour, and I can see intricate tattoos clawing over his body.
Are those Celtic knots?
Something like that, at least. Did the Celts ever make their way to these shores? Maybe, but no, that isn’t right. I spot the telltale knotwork hammer on one of the tattoos.
This faceless must be Norse.
Looking back up at the smoothed-out face of the faceless spirit, I’m thoroughly curious. It stands still before me, staring at me with vacant hollow eyes. If it did have eyes, I’m guessing it would look disappointed that I’m not a walking happy meal of fear.
Sorry, bud, no fast food today.
Stepping closer, I start to hear them – the moments the man experienced before his death. He’d been exploring the cave when he noticed the water gathering around him. Panicked, he’d started running, trying to find his way back out again, only to get lost and swallowed by the unforgiving waters.
