In the early years of the nineteenth century, when gas lamps had yet to shine and horse hooves echoed through the island streets, there lived a young man named Manolis. He was striking, bold, with a restless heart. One summer’s day, he and his companion set out to sea in a wooden skiff. The waves were fierce that day, the sky a cruel blue.

Manolis dove into the waters — but fate was merciless. His head struck the jagged rocks. The sea ran crimson, and by nightfall, the island mourned. He was buried in consecrated earth, the grave sealed with solemn prayers.

Yet, ere long, the island fell under a veil of dread.

On a moonlit night, a man swore he saw a figure at the edge of his garden. It was no stranger — it was Manolis, pale and silent. At first Yorgo thought himself mad, but the figure did not vanish. Some even claimed to hear Manolis’ voice, calling softly from the dark.

Then came the slaughter. The cattle and goats were found with their throats torn open, their bodies drained. There were no wolves here, no beasts that could do such a thing. Fear gripped every household. By day, the women crossed themselves, by night, no soul dared step into the woods.

The evening sky was a bruised purple, the sun’s last embers fading behind the hills of Büyükada. was late returning home, the weight of grief for Manolis still heavy on his shoulders, though the days had long passed since his friend’s death, and the rumours after him.

He clutched his market bag tightly, the jingle of coins and the smell of fresh bread mingling with the damp forest air. He cut through the woods, hoping to shave minutes off his journey, eager to reach home before night fully claimed the streets.

But the forest had other plans.

A shadow detached itself from the undergrowth, pale and impossibly still. There — unmistakable — the figure of Manolis stood bathed in the dim moonlight, his eyes reflecting an unnatural glow.