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.

Three

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.”