Leo grabs at Hemslock’s collar without warning. “Why are my wife’s things down there?” He shouts, “If this is some sick joke to get ratings, Reuben—”

Several inches shorter than the actor and with far less bulk, the producer is no threat. Hemslock lifts his hands in a gesture of peace.

“Leo,” he says, in a calm, conciliatory tone. “I don’t know why your wife’s possessions are underneath the island. This isn’t a prank. I want to know as much as you do, but that’s not going to happen if you lose your temper. You hear me?”

Still trembling, Leo releases his grip on the man. “They searched here for weeks,” he whispers. “They didn’t find anything. There isn’t a—why would—”

A sudden grating sound from the incoming video gains our attention. The robot tank isn’t moving. Something else appears to be making the noise, but there is nothing else down there.

IT Guy manipulates the controls. The tank spins around, trying to find the source of the noise. “How should I go about this, sir?”

“Keep following the trail of roots as far as you can,” Hemslock orders. “That’s where we’re going to find answers.”

The robot sets off again. Chase is by my side, struggling not to cry. Awkwardly I let him lean against my shoulder for support, though my eyes never leave the monitor.

If there are other plane detritus inside the tunnel, we do not see it. Instead the roots splayed against one side of the wall grow thicker as the robot travels deeper.

“This is promising,” the scientist says, eagerly. “Once we find out the base of this balete tree, we can get a better understanding of how it could thrive underground, far away from any—”

The robot’s flashlight dies abruptly, leaving only its night vision mode. Hemslock curses. “Now what?”

“There shouldn’t be anything wrong with it.” IT Guy fiddles with a few buttons. The drone lurches forward in brief sputters. “I don’t think it’s stuck. Let me restart the system and see if we can—”

He cuts himself off this time when a shadow slips across the upper part of the robot’s screen. The robot raises its camera toward the ceiling.

“There!” Hemslock shouts, pointing. The camera stabilizes, honing in on a dark figure that crawls through the balete’s roots toward us, barely visible in the darkness despite the robot’s night vision. “Get it out of there, Rick,” he urges. “Come on, come on. Get out—”

The robot backpedals noisily, speeding away, but I already know it’s hopeless. The figure’s movements quicken, arms scrabbling, grasping at the roots as it makes for the drone at twice the speed.

The flashlight flickers on.

We catch a glimpse of the thing. Straggly, twig-like hair. A bare body made up of roots rather than skin and bone but still grotesquely human in shape. A face that curves inward—with an expanding mouth, rows of teeth lining its cavities, parts of it flapping up like flesh that has been flayed and distended beyond its jaw to be bigger than even its head should be.