Armani wrestles to gain a better foothold against the sides of the hole, his hand reaching out to grasp the lifeline I threw his way. “I am going to fire and destroy whoever pushed—”

The corpse tilts toward him. Soundlessly the tree shudders; its thin branches rise, becoming wizened bone-thin fingers on either side of the dead body. It grasps at Armani’s face and forcibly turns his head so that he is gaping, terror stricken, into the yawning mass of its mouth, the hollow void of its eyes.

Screaming, the man lets go of the rope. More tree branches wrap around his face, and Armani disappears under the tangle of brambles as the corpse presses its face against his, and both are lost from view.

I take the rope myself, and grimly lower myself into the sinkhole. The branches are still winding their way around the man like a grotesque cocoon, swiftly wrapping his waist, his legs still kicking uselessly in the air from adrenaline. One hand is still outstretched, grasping wildly for something to hold onto, and I grab at it, my hand latching onto his wrist.

I pull, prepared for a fight.

The branches give way almost instantly, the roots snaking away from Armani as it loosens its hold. I grunt as the sudden dead weight strains my shoulders, and the only reason we both don’t fall into the sinkhole is because new hands grab at me from above, yelling at me not to let go even as they haul me, and then Armani, up over onto safer ground.

It’s Chase. His muscles ripple as he hoists the both of us out. “What the hell?” He rambles, horrified, looking down at the pit. “It moved. I saw it grab him. What the—what the hell—holy—”

“The balete.” I lay on the ground a little longer, trying to catch my breath, waiting for the burning in my upper arms to go away. “The curse.”

“Get a hold of yourself, Steve!” Hemslock is now beside Armani, slapping at his face, getting him to focus on him. The other man responds by rolling his eyes up until only the whites show. He falls unconscious. Someone from the medical team is already with Hemslock, checking Armani’s vitals.

“No injuries that I can find,” she says tersely. “Bring him in and get him warm, he’s as cold as ice.”

A stretcher is brought out, and Armani is laid atop it. While the others carry him away, Hemslock remains, staring at the sinkhole below, at the balete tree that has fallen unnervingly, unfalteringly still.

The corpse does not move. Its eye sockets stare serenely back at us, at nothing and at everything all at once.

Eight

Screams

Armani doesn’t awaken the next day. He suffered a severe shock to his system, the doctor tells us. But his heart is steady, and he has no difficulty breathing. He’ll be up when he’s ready, they tell Hemslock, and not a moment before.

The generators are working again, and the crew’s managed to reestablish communication with the nearest city on the mainland, where other crew members are awaiting word. The executive producers have returned to their respective screens and urge Hemslock and Gries to bring the unconscious man to the nearest hospital.