Two

Visions

The island has known me my whole life. As a child I raced along its shores and scavenged oysters hiding underneath its rocks, caught the small fish trapped in its shallow pools at low tide. I would lie down near the shore and while away lazy hours, diving into the waters when the sun grew too hot for my liking.

My father taught me everything. How to catch fish with my bare hands. How to scale trees for coconuts. How to quiet the voices on the island. How to show them you mean no harm.

Except ’Tay hasn’t been strong for a while now.

Occasionally I would see things. Things pretending to be one of the trees by the coast, dangling from branches. Or crouched against the stones by the cave, waiting for nightfall.

The creatures here leave me alone, and I’ve become accustomed to their presence.

But I am no longer the only person on Kisapmata, and I can see signs of the island’s discomfort. Now as I walk along the shore, small makahiya plants litter the soil, opening their leaves as I pass. They snap shut when Goatee or Hawaiian Shirt or the Hollywooders step through.

The island has not had this many trespassers before, and for so little reason.

I say nothing. I only stay close and keep watch. Askal refuses to leave my side. He’s always been protective of me.

Goatee and Hawaiian Shirt give me little to do in the days after our meeting. “We tried looking for you, but nobody knew where you live,” the latter tells me. “People said you were likely on one of the smaller islands, the ones that aren’t even big enough for a village. Wasted ten months searching. Every lead we had of you was a dead end. ‘Why not head to the Godseye,’ Hemslock finally said. ‘Sooner or later we’ll find the kid.’ And he was right, goddamn it. You don’t live in Leyte?”

“I live nearby, with my father.”

“He ever been to this island?”

I nod. “Taught me everything I know about it.”

“You or he give anyone guided tours before us?”

“No.”

“Because of the murders, right? I know they’d locked up access to this place afterward. Lucky for us the mayor decided our intentions were noble. The plan is to put you on camera without any prep, so you can tell us what you know of this place. Steve thinks it’s gonna be more authentic that way, provoke better reactions from the cast if they’re hearing the story for the first time. So he wants us to wait for him to get here for that. Just a heads up—sometimes we’re gonna have to move your words around, to make a bigger impact for the show, right? That’s specified in your contract, but since you’ve already signed it, I’m assuming you know.”

Hawaiian Shirt sighs. “I’m gonna try and look out for you, all right, kid? I’ve worked enough shows to see how easy it is for producers to take advantage of someone for fifteen minutes of fame. We’re gonna be the first people to stay on this island since, what? That plane crash? Whatever happened to that, anyway?”

Goatee shrugs. “Investigators tried to dig up the island till the locals put their foot down and said no. They couldn’t find any bodies, other than that one passenger they found buried here. No evidence of plane debris, either. That’s not stopping Gries, though.”

“Who’s Gries?” I ask.

“You’re gonna meet him soon enough. Used to be a hotshot back in the day. Got some blockbusters under his belt, and I don’t always mean in theaters. Broke up a few unions in his time. Ruthless. Then his wife died, and he lost his edge. This show’s supposed to be his comeback as much as it is Hemslock’s. Who knows? Maybe you’ll get some fame from this too, kid. Get you on the circuit. Anything can happen in Hollywood.”

I look at the cabins they’re building. Pre-fab houses, he called them; they are a riddle of metal containment units joined together to create the trappings of luxury. “I don’t want fame,” I say.

Hawaiian Shirt grins, like he finds the idea hilarious. “That’s what they all say at first. Look, I want the island to throw something at us. That’s what we’re here for. It’ll be much easier to film hauntings than have to create them.”

Slowly, and then very quickly, I watch them gentrify the island. Several generators are on standby to funnel electricity for a secure internet connection. There are water tanks and medical tents. A refrigeration system for food storage. There is even talk of paving part of the island to make walking easier, but the idea was thankfully discarded.

Hawaiian Shirt gives me a quick tour of the pre-fab houses. One for the showrunner/actor, two more for some executive producers who wanted to come with the production. Everyone else has to be satisfied with tents, which are nonetheless far more impressive in size and interior than what the name suggests.

There are more people than I expected. Aside from production there is the safety crew responsible for checking the equipment, a medical team, and a group of scientists keen to explore the Godseye.

A larger bungalow is the mess hall. It is where the crew gather to eat their meals and to plan the rest of the series. There is a large freezer inside the mess hall stocked with food flown from overseas, and the crew has employed several chefs.

But the island is surrounded by fresh seafood, and so I oblige when they ask me for a sampling of the local delicacies. On the days when Askal and I can catch enough fish, their chefs cook them over a makeshift grill. They’re good fish—tilapia, galunggong, bisugo—and it helps endear me to the crew.

I negotiate with other fishermen, and they frequently supply us with other varieties of seafood—curacha, alimasag, and other kinds of crabs on luckier days, but more often squid, green mussels, and mackerel.

The crew offer me an extra tent. I accept but rarely spend nights there. Sick father, I say. Need to look in on him. I live only several minutes away. They are sympathetic.

Askal and I go home and spend time with ’Tay. He sleeps more frequently nowadays, though I know that is normal for his age. I’m not worried about the time I’ll have to spend away from him. My father raised me and Askal after my mother’s death. He’s stubborn enough not to want help from anyone. Runs in the family.

’Tay was delighted when I told him about my new job. The money will be good. The Americans know the risks. It’s not my fault they won’t listen, and it’s not on me to protect them.

While he dozes, and while Askal lies down beside him and does the same, I look at the contract I signed, the one promising me ten thousand dollars if I stay through their filming. It’s more money than I’ve ever expected to have in my hands all at once.

And for a moment, I feel selfish, tempted. There are so many things I could do with this money. Leave the island. Make my own way in the world.

’Tay stirs beside me, and the thought dissipates. Ten thousand dollars can only get you so far. And I’m not going to abandon ’Tay.

But there are far too many people on the island. This will not end well.

“Paano na?” I ask myself quietly, knowing I don’t know the answer to that.

***

“This island is almost perfect,” one of the crew members gushes the next day, when I return. “Add a Panera and I’d be all set. Do you go to school on the mainland, Alon? You speak English so well, and I know there are excellent schools in Leyte for—”

“Harriet,” another woman rebukes sternly, and Panera Lady gasps.

“I didn’t mean that people here can’t speak English well,” she says hastily, unhelpfully. “I know most people here do because of, uhhh, colonialism, right? I wasn’t expecting—I mean—”

“You need to stop constantly sticking your foot in your mouth, you know that?” the woman says, not caring for tact. She takes Panera Lady’s arm and steers her away. She returns later to apologize, though I am mostly amused. Panera Lady isn’t the first to assume that Filipinos don’t understand English, and she’s unlikely to be the last.

The nicer lady’s name is Melissa, and she wears her hair in a style she calls an undercut, bleached pink at the roots but gradually blending to purple at the tips. She’s got a tattoo of something called a roomba on her bicep—a private inside joke, she says, between her and her girlfriend. She’s also a PA—a production assistant—a fancier name, she admits, for a glorified unpaid intern. She’s only older than me by two years, and I like her best out of everyone so far. “But they pay me for being here,” I point out. “And I do a lot less than you.”

She chuckles. “That’s not how it works in Hollywood—or a lot of other places in America. There’re a lot of us desperate for a chance to break into the industry, and they know we won’t complain. They pay us in connections, in introductions to bigger names who can poach us for positions with actual salaries. I live with my folks, so I don’t need to pay rent. I’m lucky. I know people who’d be better at the work than me but can’t afford the job.”

It is a strange thing to say, to afford a job.

Melissa bends down and pets Askal, who likes the attention, his tongue lolling out as she scratches behind his ears. “What’s your deal? The scuttlebutt is that you’re the island whisperer. That you’re one person the island won’t curse.”

“The island won’t harm the people living around the area.”

“But the others don’t come here even so. Why do you?”

I stare in the direction of the cave. “I was five the first time I came here,” I say. “’Tay brought me.”

“’Tay?”

“Tatay.”

“That means dad, right? So this was back when he wasn’t ill?”

I nod. “You don’t think about whether or not you should be afraid of this place when you’ve lived around here your whole life. Respect is key. But most foreigners don’t have that for us.”

Melissa winces. “Well, that’s true enough. Is he doing all right, your dad? Is someone looking after him while you’re here?”

I think again about my contract, the quiet way ’Tay breathes in and out. I want to stay on Kisapmata, but money and ’Tay are not the reasons I do. “He’ll be okay.”

Later, Goatee tells me more about showrunners. They pitch ideas to network executives in America. If the latter likes it, they receive hefty budgets for pre-fab houses and generators among other expenses.

“They’re calling this show The Curse of the Godseye,” he shares, offering me a cup of coffee. Melissa said the food’s free, and the caffeine boosts are unlimited. “Or maybe just Godseye; we’re still deciding. Either should be catchy. Ever watched any ghost hunting shows before? You know—intrepid spirit investigators staying in haunted places and screaming at whatever’s there to scream back?” Goatee doesn’t take coffee. He’s got another bottle of beer on hand, though I’ve already seen him drink four today.

“There have always been ghosts,” I say. “Even when there’s no one around to see.”

“Yeah, but now there’re cameras and CGI to monetize the shit out of them. You’re in luck, kid. Hemslock’s the best screamer in the business. Made ghost reality shows cool again. He had a couple of setbacks the last few years, but they’re throwing big money behind him this time.”

I know little of Hollywood, but I know directors are usually involved and hear no mention of one for this production.

“That’s not uncommon with these types of shows. Hemslock made his name with the solo survivalist format—you know, the ones where you do all your own filming on a handheld camera, pretending you’re the only one there? That’s his brand—him versus the world—so it’s par for the course. Twenty years ago, he would go this solo. But he’s a big name nowadays, so we’re here taking the risks for him first.”

“You’re friends with him?”

“Dunno if friend is the right word. Colleague, drinking partner. Know some of his family. Southern boy. His ma’s big on church. Dad served in ’Nam. Joe—that’s his younger brother—died in a car accident. Some uncles and aunts he likes to talk about—an Aunt Elle who was arrested for fraud and an Uncle Mal who was in the Irish mob or something. He always said he got his bravado from his uncle.”

Goatee looks around at the crew working. “That group’s gonna check the caves, figure out which caverns we can film. Then there are the cameramen for interviews, for following Hemslock, and for whatever B-roll footage we haven’t gotten already. Light and sound guys to make everything watchable. Editors to make sure shit makes sense, figure out if we need more footage. Most are gonna head back to the mainland before filming begins. Hemslock wants as few people around for that as possible.”

Some of the crew members are watching videos of Hemslock on his previous shows in the mess hall when I enter. Hemslock is a large man with a head of yellow hair and pale skin tanned from the sun. In one video, his hair is long and disheveled, and his beard is full, as he screams inside a temple in Cambodia for Khmer Rouge spirits to come and assault him. In another he is clean shaven with a crew cut, sitting in darkness inside a castle while making demands for unseen things to curse him. In one more he is being forced out of a shrine by several irate priests. Hemslock is shouting, accusing the priests of harassment.

“Kinda ironic,” says one of the show’s editors, a dark-skinned man who wears a wide-brimmed straw hat. “Considering all that shit that went down with him after this aired.”

“He doesn’t respect sacred places,” I say from behind them.

The two crew members jump, their fear melting into relief when they see me.

“Don’t sneak up on us like that!” a redheaded woman gasps.

“Causing outrage in sacred places is what made him popular,” Straw Hat explains. “People eat this up.”

Reuben Hemslock, as it turned out, is not his real name. They tell me that it is Paul Grossman, and that two years ago, eighteen women, including a few ex-girlfriends, stepped forward to accuse him of longstanding abuse. He has since taken a two years’ sabbatical to distance himself from the scandal; this show will mark his return.

“Of course it turns my stomach,” the redhead says. “But this is my paycheck. I’ve got three kids. I’m not going to risk my job for anything. Besides, I’m heading home when they arrive. Hemslock wants a skeleton crew, which is real bullshit because they’re keeping the chefs.”

Goatee takes a much more relaxed stance regarding Hemslock. He’s drinking again, this time from a bottle of Red Horse, a local beer he must have brought from the city. “You get a lot of enemies when you’re famous,” he explains, after a long pull. His eyes are slightly unfocused. His fingers shake with the natural tremors of an unrepentant alcoholic. “That’s what happened to Hemslock. These women want to make money off knowing him. Their tell-all books, talk show slots. But people have shit memories; dangle some new celebrity bait, and they’ll forget the scandals soon enough. They’ll forget this one, too.”

“What are their names?” I ask.

“Beats me. I think one’s an Audrey and maybe there’s a Jill? Main girlfriend is Gail Merkan. D-list actor.”

“Hey, wait,” Straw Hat says. “Weren’t there rumors that Gail Merkan was visiting Cebu or something? Isn’t that the next island—”

“That’s all rumors. Tabloids getting a slow news day, trying to bait us into making a statement.”

“If these women are making accusations for the fame,” I ask, “then why doesn’t anyone remember their names?”

Goatee scowls at me. “Yeah well, he makes money, and that’s what we’re here for. I’ve worked with him on other projects. He’s fine. No idea what those bitches are going on about.”

“You’ll probably like Chase better,” Melissa says cheerfully. “He’s a celebrity, too. Sort of.”

“Chase?”

“Leo Gries’s son. Content creator or social media influencer or whatever. He’s pretty popular.” Melissa types on her phone then, grinning, shows me a video of a good-looking, shirtless boy wearing skimpy shorts and a plastic horse’s head, tap dancing to music. “He got almost twenty million views from this alone and literally put “I Need a Hero” back on the billboard charts. He got some publicity for the horse head, but he’s such a big goofball that it’s hard not to like him.”

I don’t claim to understand the logic behind the video’s popularity, but Askal seems to enjoy it, letting out staccato yips in time to the beat.

I hope Goatee is right, and that many of the crew will leave once shooting starts. There are far too many strangers on this island.

Two weeks before filming officially begins, a team of scientists explores the cave. I sit on a nearby rock and watch as they disappear inside. Askal seats all fifteen pounds of himself on my lap and barks. “They’ll be all right,” I tell him.

The sands feel soft underneath me. The nearby balete sway against some unseen wind. I watch their branches ripen; tiny makahiya leaves unfurl along their length. They are tiny and segmented like small feathers, and while they have no flower heads, the plants on this island can grow several feet long, resembling creeping ivy. I heard some of the scientists ponder taking samples; makahiya don’t normally thrive on balete. Most things don’t.

Makahiya close on its own from external stimuli, like when it’s been touched. There is no one else nearby, but I watch the slender leaves fold in on themselves anyway, one after the other, as if caressed by something unseen.

One of the larger buds opens; something oddly familiar winks at me from within before the bud seals itself up again.

Soon, the scientists return. “It’s breathtaking,” one says excitedly, as they brief the rest of the team on their findings. “We’ve found writing to corroborate both Cortes’s and Key’s journals. We marked off areas inside. Make sure Mr. Hemslock and his team don’t go farther than that. But he’ll love what we’ve found. There may be a few more closed-off caverns in there, but we couldn’t find a way to get in. Incidentally—Gerry, the maps those plane crash investigators provided were completely inaccurate. It’s almost like they explored a different cave system.”

“They seemed reliable,” Hawaiian Shirt says. “Let me double check. They didn’t find anything out of the ordinary when they were inside, either.”

“None of you tell Hemslock,” Goatee says dryly. “He wants to pretend like he’s the first to discover everything.” He takes another gulp of his beer—and then starts in surprise.

The bottle in his hand shatters.

“Jesus Christ, Karl!” The scientist moves away from the broken glass.

Goatee stares at something within the dense patch of trees just several meters from camp, and I see a glimpse of something moving within the copse.

A woman. Long brown hair, pale skin. She stares unblinkingly at him. The rest of her is hidden behind the gnarled lower branches of a tree; only her face is visible.

There is something odd about the way she tilts her head.

“Get me another drink,” Goatee says hoarsely.

“Karl? You, okay?” The scientist persists.

The figure is gone when I look back. Goatee rips his gaze away.

“No,” he says, voice trembling, only slightly slurred from the alcohol. “Does it look like I’ve ever been okay?”

And then he grabs another bottle from his assistant and downs its contents, until every drop is gone.