Echoes of the Island

The ocean shimmered under the golden glow of the setting sun, waves lapping gently against the dock as the boat pulled away, leaving the group of tourists alone on the secluded island. The air smelled of salt and ripe fruit, the perfect vision of paradise.

“We really just have this place to ourselves?” Jenna asked, adjusting her sunglasses.

“The brochure said it was a ‘private retreat,’” Mark replied, setting his bag down in the sand. “I guess they weren’t kidding.”

Their host, a local named Elias, had greeted them briefly upon arrival, offering cryptic warnings about respecting the land and its history before vanishing into the jungle.

The first night was perfect—bonfires on the beach, drinks flowing, and laughter filling the humid air. But as the tide receded the following morning, something emerged from the sand.

A stone altar, half-buried, its surface etched with symbols none of them recognized.

“What the hell is this?” Damien muttered, brushing away the loose sand. His fingers traced deep grooves where dark stains marred the stone.

“It looks… ancient,” Hannah whispered.

A gust of wind sent shivers down their spines, though the sun blazed overhead.

Then they heard it.

A distant, echoing chant drifting through the jungle.

That night, their paradise turned into a nightmare.

Jenna awoke first, feeling something watching her, pulling her from sleep. Her heart pounding, she turned toward the window.

The jungle was alive with shadows.

Figures moved between the trees—faceless, elongated, whispering in voices not meant for human ears. When she screamed, the others came running.

“Did you see them?” she gasped, pointing into the darkness.

But there was nothing.

Just the rustling of palm fronds in the wind.

The next morning, they tried the radios. Static.

They ran to the dock. Their boat—gone.

Elias was nowhere to be found, and the realization sunk in: they were trapped.

Mark found the first set of footprints leading from the altar toward the jungle. They weren’t theirs.

And they weren’t human.

One by one, they disappeared.

Damien vanished while gathering firewood. Hannah’s scream echoed across the beach before cutting off abruptly. Every attempt to search ended in them getting lost, the jungle twisting around them like a maze that obeyed its own rules.

Jenna and Mark, the last ones standing, pored over the altar’s symbols, trying to decipher the curse.

“It’s a cycle,” Jenna realized, voice trembling. “The island demands an offering. If we don’t stop it—”

“We’ll be next,” Mark finished.

That night, they made their stand.

Armed with torches, they returned to the altar, chanting the words carved into the stone, offering their own blood to counteract the ritual. The jungle trembled, the ground beneath them splitting as inhuman wails filled the air.

The faceless figures emerged, writhing, desperate to claim them.

But the moment the final words left Jenna’s lips, the island exhaled a long, hollow sigh.

The spirits faded.

The boat returned.

Jenna and Mark didn’t look back as they sailed away, the island shrinking in the distance. Relief washed over them like the ocean breeze.

But as the mainland came into view, Jenna felt it.

A presence.

Mark turned to her, his face pale. “Do you hear that?”

A whisper, faint but growing:

The island never lets go.