“The Diwata knows me. But outsiders are another matter. You can’t stay here.”

The smile Goatee shoots my way is patronizing. “Kid,” he says, as the sounds of digging outside resume, “we’re just filming a TV show. We have permission.”

“Better drag Melissa here to do some initial shots,” Hawaiian Shirt says happily. “This is gonna look beautiful in our promos.”

“We’ll still need to hook viewers for a second season,” Goatee says. “Maybe something’s haunting the mangroves on the eastern side of the island—a spirit that pulls people underwater. Or maybe a dead woman. Dead women are always hits.”

He laughs. Hawaiian Shirt laughs along with him.

From somewhere within the cave, something mimics their laughter.

They stop, tearing their gazes from the eye above them to into the cavern’s depths. But all I hear now are the faint reverberations of their voices.

“Easy to see why people think this place is haunted,” Goatee says, with a nervous, quieter chuckle. “Makes you start imagining things.” He raises his hand, which trembles slightly, and downs the rest of his beer in one noisy gulp.

They do not linger long. Askal nuzzles at my hand, lets out a soft whimper. “We’re leaving, too,” I assure him. Before I follow the men out, I look back at the tunnel stretching farther into the cave, waiting for a shift in the darkness beyond—but find nothing.

There’s only the altar, which has borne witness to old horrors, blessed with the moon’s quiet, unrelenting light.

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?”