The Island That Vanished: My Solo Trip Turned Into a Travel Mystery

Last year, I decided to take a solo trip for the first time. Burned out from my job and tired of the same four walls, I craved silence, nature, and something real. I chose a remote island in Southeast Asia — one that hardly showed up on Google but was whispered about in travel forums as "unspoiled paradise." That phrase hooked me.

The island, which I’ll call Pulau Sunyi (meaning “Silent Island”), was reachable only by local boat. There were no resorts, just a small village, some bungalows for guests, and dense forest inland. I booked for three nights. But I stayed for five — because something kept pulling me in.

The first two days were magical. I snorkeled with sea turtles, ate grilled fish with the locals, and lay under the stars listening to the waves. No phone signal, no emails — just peace. But on the third night, things began to shift.

That evening, I heard drumming in the forest. Not music. Not distant celebration. Slow, repetitive beats like a ritual. I asked the bungalow owner, an elderly man named Toma, but he just smiled and said, “Sometimes, the island calls.”

It sounded like nonsense. Until the morning after — when I woke to find the entire village gone.

No people. No boats. No voices. Even the stray dogs were missing.

I searched everywhere. The beach, the forest edge, the docks. Not a single soul. I thought maybe they went inland for some festival. I waited until evening, still alone.

At night, the drumming returned. Louder this time. Closer.

I packed my bag and tried to leave at sunrise, but the boats were gone. All of them. Even the old canoe tied near my bungalow. I was trapped. No signal. No humans. Only that sound and the creeping dread that I wasn’t really alone.

Then came the final night.

Just before midnight, I saw lights in the forest. Not flashlights. Torches. Dozens of them, moving in rhythm with the drums. I didn’t run. I couldn’t. Something kept me rooted. And then — they stopped. Total silence.

A figure stepped out from the trees. I couldn’t see their face. Just a hand pointing toward the water. I turned… and a boat was there. The same one that brought me.

I didn’t question it. I got in and paddled with shaking arms, eyes fixed forward. As the island faded behind me, I looked back once — and saw nothing but ocean. No forest. No village. No Pulau Sunyi.

The island had vanished.

I was rescued hours later by fishermen who claimed there was never an island in that direction. I showed them photos. They showed me blank images. White screens.

No one believes me. My passport stamp from the nearby town is the only proof I was ever close.

And yet… every year, around the same dates, I hear whispers online again.

“Unspoiled paradise.”

“Pulau Sunyi.”

Still calling travelers in.

Maybe the island isn’t gone.

Maybe it just chooses who gets to return.

So a couple weeks after I got back—still jet-lagged, half convinced I’d imagined the whole thing—I dropped in on this old guy who basically lives and breathes Southeast Asian ghost stories. I mention Pulau Sunyi and, man, his whole vibe changes. Fingers freeze mid-tap on the desk, eyes narrow, like I’d just told him his coffee was haunted. Next thing, he’s digging out this ratty, dust-choked journal and flipping straight to this page with a photo that looks like someone took it with a potato in the ‘70s. Sun-bleached, blurry, but—God, it gave me chills.

He just goes, “That island? People around here call it ‘The Drifting Land.’ Shows up for folks who need it—like, really need it. Lost souls, outcasts, people with nowhere left to go. When it’s done with you, poof. Gone.”

And I just blurt, “How does an entire island just vanish?” Probably sounded like a cartoon character, my voice all wobbly.

He grins, almost sad, snaps the book shut. “Not every place wants to be found. Some spots are just… echoes. Stories.”

Now, honestly, months down the line, I still get these weird dreams. Ocean sounds, drums echoing, then that dead silence that presses on your chest. And yeah, sometimes I wake up sweating, thinking—what if I’d walked into the trees instead of getting on that boat? Would I even be here, writing this? Or would I just… still be there, part of the legend now?

Whenever I’m near the sea these days, I catch myself staring at the horizon. Not running away, just… hoping. For a shape in the mist, a flicker of something impossible. Maybe a boat, maybe a sign that I could go back.

But nah. Just waves. Always just the waves.