“Get out!” Hemslock roars at them, and they scramble to obey.

Another shout, this time from Goatee. He’s tripped over something and sprawls on the ground.

His fingers find roots. They wrap around Goatee’s wrist, multiplying rapidly until they encircle his whole arm. The drunkard yells in horror.

“Karl!” Hemslock grabs at his friend. We all watch as something emerges from the ground before us, the swarming roots and tiny branches reforming into a shape that resembles the monster in the tunnels, but this time it no longer requires a human-like head to manifest a wide mouth.

For a moment it looks like Goatee can get away. Hemslock has whipped out his knife and is trying his best to cut the gnarls from Goatee. He says something to Goatee, but it’s too low for me to hear. I only see Goatee’s face, panicked and afraid, staring wildly back at his friend.

A shadow moves behind them both. Hemslock freezes and looks up—right into the faceless tree creature.

Goatee screams one last time. And then the sea of writhing tendrils fling Hemslock away and descend upon the other man, forming a massive ball of branches that hide him from view.

Hemslock drives the blade frantically into the grotesque, frothing tree-mouth—and it disperses almost immediately, the tangle of tree limbs unknotting, returning to individual roots and giving way, skittering back into the ground.

But as the vegetation recedes, there is empty space where Goatee had once lain—like he had never been there.

***

“What happened?” Chase gasps as we stumble back outside the cave. Gries is a mess. His shirt is stained with dirt, and there are scratches on his face. Hemslock is doubled over, panting, his hands on his knees. The historian and the researcher who had accompanied us collapse on the ground, their knees giving way as they stare listlessly toward the cave, no longer boasting of their discoveries.

“What happened?” Hawaiian Shirt runs up to us, taking in the scene before him. “Reuben, what’s going on?”

“They’re real,” Hemslock says, raising his head. “They’re real, Gerry. What Key claimed, what Cortes wrote—they’re all fucking real.”

Twelve

Playthrough

“What do you mean we canceled the flight?” Leo Gries yells into the phone. “We didn’t cancel shit! You promised us that helicopter two hours ago.”

He pauses, fuming quietly, as the person on the other end of the line attempts to explain themselves. “I don’t care who screwed up at this point,” he shouts. “There is a person missing from my crew and another still unconscious. We need someone to fly us to the nearest—” He stops. “The line went dead. Dammit.”

“I can’t believe it,” the historian stammers. Most of the crew has clustered themselves inside of the mess hall, unwilling to venture out unless in larger groups.

“This island is honest-to-god cursed,” Melissa says nervously, and there are a few murmurs of agreement. “We can’t work under these conditions, Mr. Gries. We need to get the law involved. Maybe the FBI or something.”