Trespassers
It isn’t long before there’s another sighting, and the rumors begin. The witnesses, this time, are the redhead with the kids and the Panera Lady.
“We thought someone on the team was injured, so we called out,” Panera Lady says, still shaking like a leaf. “Someone was staggering around like they were drunk. We thought it was Karl. We walked toward it—and then it turned and—and—”
“It had no face!” the assistant editor bursts out. “Like—you’ve seen Texas Chainsaw Massacre, right? Like Leatherface.”
“Exactly! Its face was peeling off, and it was naked—”
Hawaiian Shirt raises his hands. “Well, what do you want me to do about that? Write it up for HR to sanction? Did it attack?”
“No,” Panera Lady falters. “It disappeared. I can’t stay here, Gerry. I want out, I want—”
“Look. Supernatural sightings are great for PR, but there aren’t really any ghosts. People see all kinds of weird crap out in the boondocks. I know you’re both scared, but my hands are tied till Hemslock gets here. Tasha, you’ll be off the island soon, so hold on till then. Don’t let Gries make it hard for you—he’s fired people for less.”
Theirs is not the only report made. The number of sightings grows as the days pass, giving Hawaiian Shirt more reason to worry. Something with tangled, dark hair skulking among the trees. Naked. And yet somehow not naked, either. No face that anyone could remember.
Until they could.
In the space of a day, the accounts shift again. There is a face, and it’s the face of a cameraman’s father, dead for years. It’s the face of a staff writer’s estranged brother, a production coordinator’s best friend, a gaffer’s school bully. The sightings last no longer than a few seconds. All happen within the vicinity of camp.
Frustrated, Hawaiian Shirt cancels filming for the day and sends everyone back to their tents. There are no new reports the next day, but one of the generators stops working, and it takes another half a day to fix. In the afternoon, one of the water tanks produces greenish, bracken-like fluid for an hour before reverting to normal. A check reveals nothing has been tampered with.
Next there’s a scream in the middle of taping. It unnerves the crew, and this time Hawaiian Shirt hears it as well. The safety team does a check. Everyone is accounted for. No one claims responsibility.
“Are there animals on the island?” Hawaiian Shirt asks me, trying his best to act calm though it is clear he’s unnerved.
“Only insects and fish. And Askal.”
Askal barks importantly.
“It was a woman’s scream, wasn’t it? Wasn’t that what you mentioned hearing before? When we first met?”
I nod.
“Equipment breaks down all the time, so that’s to be expected. But some are claiming they’ve seen the ghosts of their grandpa or people who should be dead. What’s that all about? How is that related to the screams?”
“Should I tell you now,” I ask dryly, “or wait for the cameras?”
I am not expecting him to take me up on the offer.
Soon Hawaiian Shirt is hollering at the cameramen, for the light technicians to work their magic, for assistants to pin a mic on me and make sure they can hear every word. Askal dances in and around their legs, excited by the flurry of activity.
“All right,” Hawaiian Shirt says, determined, once everything has been set up. “You can answer now. What’s the deal with all these so-called sightings?”
I try to ignore the camera pointed at my face. “It’s the Diwata’s way of testing people, to see if they’re worthy.”
“Worthy of what?”
“Of being sacrificed. If you’re one of the eight deaths that he’s looking for. The ones who are kind—he won’t harm them. The ones who are not—” I pause. “If you’ve done your research, you would have known this already.”
“Have you ever had sightings like the ones my crew has been experiencing?”
I take a deep breath, not knowing why I am being so honest. “Not my own, no. But I see everyone else’s. I know you’re going to dismiss this as nothing more than superstition, but I’m telling you that the legend is just as real as you and me. And while I may not agree with your reasons for coming here, I don’t want to see any of you harmed, either. Kisapmata is dangerous, and you should start treating it as such.”
Hawaiian Shirt gazes steadily at me for a few more seconds. I can tell that he’s more worried now, but he shakes it off.
“Nice work,” he says. “We got all that, Rich? Do you mind saying everything again but in Tagalog, so we can decide the better version to air later?”
Hawaiian Shirt seems happy to pass off the visions as a form of mass hysteria. The psychologists on the team mandate that those who’ve had an encounter schedule an appointment with them.
Goatee, I notice, never reports his own experiences.
***
The VIPs reach the island two weeks later. The ship that brings them to shore is a bangka larger than mine, large enough for tours but small enough to get close to the shallower shoals. It anchors beside a small wooden pier built for the production. A dozen people climb out; they look around with curiosity, a few with distaste.
The first out is a man in his fifties wearing a suit despite the hot summer day. He glances about with misgivings, shaking off someone’s attempt to guide him to the sand. “This is an Armani,” he snaps. “Wash your damn hands first.”
Reuben Hemslock arrives with eight men dressed in military fatigues and camouflage, all visibly armed. They hover around him like a moving barricade, stopping others from getting too close. Hawaiian Shirt quietly assures the surprised crew that this is normal, because Hemslock has specific stipulations for them in his contract. A flex in Hawaiian Shirt’s jaw also tells me that some other clause has been broken, nonetheless.
“He’s been in a few movies, you know,” Goatee murmurs, words slightly slurred. “Ever seen them? Infinite Space? The Fight at the End of the World? That recent Star Trek movie? He’s done a few popular roles in television, too. Best Served Cold? The Con-In-Laws?”
I shake my head.
“You’re missing out. He’s been nominated for several awards, for Infinite Space especially. He started out with reality documentaries, but it turns out he’s a pretty great actor, too.”
Reuben Hemslock is exactly what his shows depict him as—a six-foot-six-inch-tall behemoth of a man, with a handsome, smiling face. He wears no beard this time, and his sunglasses obscure his eyes. He strides down the wooden planks with an air of self-possession, surveying the shore like he owns the island and has come to collect taxes. The crew members applaud as he walks past—even Hawaiian Shirt and Goatee. Reuben Hemslock bows theatrically, his ponytail curling down one side of his neck.
“Appreciate the welcome. Who’s ready to make an award-winning documentary with me?” he shouts, and more cheers greet his call.
“And who’s this?” the actor soon asks, spotting me. Unlike the others, I do not clap.
“Name’s, uh,” Hawaiian Shirt taps rapidly on his phone to check. “I’ve got the signed contract here—yeah. Alon. Alon Budhi. Our official tour guide for the rest of the season. Dog here’s named Askal—Az for short—but we haven’t bothered asking him to sign.”
“Here’s a tip for you, kid,” Reuben says. “Az is a crappy name for a dog. The other dogs are gonna kick his az if they haven’t already.” He chuckles at his joke. I don’t. “Is this who we’ve been trying to find?”
“Yeah. Fishing nearby, if you can believe that. Knows more about the lore than anyone else and is willing to tell us on camera. We’re waiting for Steve before we get the whole story, but kid’s been inside the cave before. Eighteen years old, but dunno if we’d be all right filming a teen inside the Godseye. Legal tells us it’s all good, but optics-wise it’s dodgy, might get us some pushback.”
“Nah,” Reuben says. “Eighteen’s an adult. If Alon here wants to come into the Godseye with us, then the kid’s got every right to. And how many of these folks would kill for a chance to be on an American show? You agree, Alon?”
“If you say so, sir.”
“See? I’m gonna crash for a bit at my cabin. Partied too much at Austen’s last night. Why didn’t anyone tell me it was gonna take fifteen hours to get to this goddamn island?”
“Reuben,” Hawaiian Shirt says, smile fading from his face. “You promised you’d stop drinking. The press is already on your case for the rehabs, plus all that other news. I don’t think you should be—”
Reuben yawns. “We’ll talk about this later. After dinner. Where’s my trailer?”
Hawaiian Shirt rubs the bridge of his nose after the actor departs, his bodyguards trailing closely after. “You said he was going to clean himself up,” he says to another man, the one wearing the Armani suit. “He’s not taking off those shades because his eyes are bloodshot, right?”
“There’s no paparazzi here to photograph his drinking bouts, Gerry. How bad could it be? Give him a day to wind down, and he’ll be good to go. If you can handle Karl, surely you can handle Hemslock.”
“We can’t afford any more scandals.”
“I’ve been his work partner for years. We fended off those hysterical women months ago. This is nothing.”
“Bodyguards all look ex-mercenary to me. He said he was bringing in four people, not eight. Who does he think is gonna attack him here?”
“He paid them all on his own dime, so why not?” Armani looks back, as another man joins them. “Leo, the cabins for you and your son should be that way.”
“Thank you,” the newcomer says, stretching. Unlike the man in the suit, he wears a casual polo shirt and long khaki pants. His hair is graying, and his face naturally tanned but tired. “This is…a lot less gloomy than I expected.”
At his side is a boy my age with yellow hair and bright green eyes, looking like he dressed for a beach party but caught the wrong boat. He’s carrying a suitcase over his shoulder, oddly enough. He holds his phone in the air, grinning widely at it, and I realize he’s taking a picture of himself.
“Dad, you didn’t tell me this was literally in the middle of nowhere,” he said, finally lowering it to blink at us.
“You said you wanted to take a break from home, Chase, so this is that. I told you this wasn’t going to be a five-star resort.”
The boy turns to look at me and nearly trips. His suitcase falls, and I reach out without thinking—and then grunt when the weight nearly sends me to the ground. The boy grabs it back with a sheepish grin, one hand holding the suitcase like it weighs nothing while the other helps me balance. He’s stronger than he looks. “Sorry,” he says. He takes another look at me, and his eyes widen. “I just, ah—hi! Who are you?”
“This is Alon,” Hawaiian Shirt says. “Our tour guide.”
“A tour guide?” The boy asks, sounding genuinely confused. He stares at me like I’ve grown another arm. “But I can walk around this island in like an hour.”
“Chase, show some respect,” his father says sternly. “It’s very nice to meet you, Alon. This is my son, Chase. My name is Leo Gries. I’m the co-executive producer for this show. It’s been a lovely visit so far. We stayed in Cebu for a couple of nights before coming here to Kisapmata, and I was so very charmed by the people there. I hope we’re compensating you well for this?”
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s been difficult to find anyone local willing to tell us about this island.”
“The island doesn’t look cursed,” Chase says, still in wonder. “Have you seen those waves? U-uh, Alon, right?”
Gries smiles at me, then shoots an exasperated look at his son. “Chase.”
“Sorry, sorry. It’s just—I know you told me about a curse, but I thought you guys were just gonna magic it all up in the studio. You mean, for real this is a cursed island?”
“Your son’s right,” says Armani. “We’ll have to put some darker tones in, maybe a blue filter to set the mood. It doesn’t look haunted if it’s always this sunny.” He shoves his suitcase into my hands. “Here. And get some coffee ready for me.”
“Steve!” Leo Gries grabs the bag and shoves it back at the other man. “Alon isn’t the hired help!”
Armani shrugs. “Well, my cabin’s on the left. That’s where I expect it to be by the time I get there.”
“This is Steve Galant,” Hawaiian Shirt says, with lesser enthusiasm. “Another of the show’s executive producers.”
Armani scrutinizes me. “So you’re the kid Gerry’s been going on about? Your English’s impressive.”
“Steve!” Gries exclaims once again.
Melissa takes the suitcase and shoots me an apologetic look as she lugs it away.
Armani laughs, pats me on the back. “I’m kidding. If Gerry’s right, you’re gonna be the hidden star of this show. Just don’t tell Hemslock I said that. We’re gonna talk shop at dinner. Stay and eat with us. I’d like to pick your brain about this place.”
Leo Gries turns back to me when Armani leaves. “Can you give us an idea why so many of the people living nearby have refused to tell us anything about Kisapmata?”
“At least fifteen people have already died on this island, sir. The people here do not want to be blamed for any more deaths.”
“Fifteen?” Chase breathes. “And it’s not like, drownings or shark attacks? Like people were murdered? Even though no one actually lives here?”
His father sighs. “Yes, Chase. Actual murders took place here. If you’d read the articles I gave you, you would have known that. The murder of the poor woman by that cult is the one we want more information about. We’ve been asking for any related documents from the municipalities for months, but they only shrug and say they can’t find any. Likely destroyed by now, they said.”
“A woman’s murder?” Chase echoes nervously. “Cult?”
“Apparently there was an active cult here a couple of decades ago. They were supposedly killed on the island before they could be arrested, but all we’ve found are rumors and secondhand accounts. No official case reports. I’ve been hoping that we could find someone here willing to talk. Do you know anything about this, Alon?”
I shake my head.
Askal ambles toward Chase, sensing his nervousness. The boy absently reaches down and scratches him behind the ears. “Nice dog,” he says. “Is he yours?”
“Yeah.”
“Some lab mix?”
“Maybe. We don’t pay much attention to pedigrees here.”
Chase smiles, and it transforms his face. The worry in his brow eases and he appears more relaxed. “Heya, Askal. You’re a cute fella, just like—”
He stops and turns red. Askal yips happily and licks at his hands.
Hawaiian Shirt shoves his into his pants pockets and sighs.
“We’ve got more problems,” he says. “Did Cameron tell you the local first responders won’t be coming if we run into any emergencies? That we gotta fly in our own medics? They really hate this island.”
“They don’t hate it,” I say.
“Could have fooled me.”
“They aren’t fearful of the curse. They’re afraid of what all of you might do while you’re here.”
A soft indrawn breath from Leo Gries. “Then why are you helping us? Why aren’t you warning us away like the others?”
“I’ve walked this island many times before. I’ve fished in its waters. I am familiar with the island’s ghosts, and they are familiar with me. My countrymen will be blamed if anything happens to any of you. My presence might help.”
“You are very kind. Thank you.”
“We’re not going to be intimidated by some old wives’ tales,” Hawaiian Shirt says. “We stand to make a lot of money from this show if we get the ratings we’re after—or at least if we make it good enough for the network to give us a bigger push.” He grins at me. “And when we do, we’ll give you a bonus, Alon, and a nice treat for your dog, too. We’ll finish out this season, whatever happens.”
No sooner are the words out of his mouth than we hear a horrific crash.
The sound comes from the direction of the cabins.
I sprint toward the site before the rest of them can react. Crew members flee, screaming.
By the time I arrive, the damage has already been done.
One of the pre-fab cabins is gone, fallen into a sinkhole that has appeared, seemingly out of nowhere—a perfect circle on the ground, a mimicry of one of the many machines that the builders used for construction.
An ancient monstrosity stands at its center. A tree without a trunk. It is, instead, a fortress of webbed roots and slim ivy-like coils climbing up the pre-fab’s foundation to spread its ossified tree branches. They reach up greedily, as if to claw at the sky above with their gnarled fingers.
Crew members gather at the edge of the sinkhole, unable to look away. Someone screams and points toward the thickness of the strange, twisted mass within the dead tree.
Within the cobweb of branches, a body lies huddled; its head is thrown back, and its mummified mouth is twisted open in an endless, soundless scream.