We Were Sent to Study a Remote Island. Something Doesnt Want Me to Leave.

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I stepped off the seaplane onto the weathered wooden dock of Kestrel Island, my boots hitting the planks with a hollow thud. The air felt different here, heavier, somehow saltier than mainland air with something else I couldn't quite place behind me. Terry was already barking orders at the pilot about our equipment. Careful with that case, it's got sensitive instruments.

He called, his voice carrying over the still spinning propellers. The pilot, a gruff guy named Mike who'd barely spoken 10 words the entire 3 hour flight, just nodded and continued unloading. Catherine jumped down beside me, her Auburn ponytail bouncing as she landed. So this is it, she said, taking a deep breath. Three months of isolation on an uninhabited island.

Just what the doctor ordered. Speak for yourself, I said, but I was smiling. This was exactly what I'd wanted, uninterrupted research time away from department politics and grant committees. I shielded my eyes from the late afternoon sun and took in our surroundings. The dock extended about 50 feet from a Pebble Beach that curved around a small Bay.

Dense forest started about 100 yards inland, a mix of evergreens and deciduous trees that covered most of the island, according to our satellite imagery. The research station sat on a small rise about 1/4 mile from the shore, a boxy, practical looking structure with solar panels glinting on its roof. Dallas, stop daydreaming and grab your gear.

Terry called at 58. He was the senior member of our team with more field experience than Catherine and I combined. We've got about two hours of daylight left. I turned back to help unload our equipment. We had enough supplies for three months of botanical research, though the university had scheduled a supply drop at the six week mark.

Our team was small but efficient, Terry with his decades of experience in plant taxonomy, Catherine specializing in biochemical analysis, and me focusing on evolutionary adaptations in isolated ecosystems. As I hefted my personal duffel and a case of lab equipment, something caught my eye on the horizon. I paused, squinting at the distant cliffs that formed the northern edge of the island.

Do you see that? I asked, nodding toward the cliffs. Catherine followed my gaze. See what on the Cliff face it looks like? I trailed off, not quite believing what I was seeing.

About halfway up the sheer rock wall, partially obscured by distance and shadows, was what appeared to be an enormous carved face, easily 30 feet tall, with deep set eyes and a wide, grim mouth. The features seem to emerge from the natural contours of the rock, yet we're too defined to be coincidental. I don't see anything, Catherine said, squinting harder.

It's right there, I insisted, pointing more specifically a huge stone face carved into the Cliff. Terry joined us, dropping a heavy case at his feet. What are you 2 gawking at? We need to get this equipment to the station before dark. Dallas sees something in the cliffs.

Catherine explained. Terry gave the distant northern edge of the island a cursory glance. Probably just pareidolia, your brain finding faces in random patterns. These cliffs are full of weird erosion patterns. Now come on, we've got work to do.

I nodded and picked up my gear, but couldn't resist one more look. The face was still there, watching us from its perch on the Cliff as the angle of the sun shifted slightly. I could have sworn the expression changed, the mouth widening into something between a grimace and a smile. We spent the next hour hauling our equipment up to the research station.

It was a simple but functional building. 4 bedrooms, a combined kitchen and living area, a bathroom with actual plumbing thanks to a rainwater collection system, and a large room converted into a laboratory. Solar panels provided power and a satellite uplink gave us Internet access, though Terry warned it was notoriously unreliable. Home sweet home, Catherine said as we finished bringing in the last of our gear.

She was already claiming one of the bedrooms, tossing her bag onto a narrow bed with a thin mattress. I chose the room farthest from the common area, hoping for at least some semblance of privacy during our stay. The room was small and utilitarian, a bed, a desk, a lamp, and a small dresser.

The previous occupant had left behind a few items, a forgotten pen, a dog eared field guide to Pacific Northwest flora, and a small notebook wedged behind the desk. I pulled out the notebook, curious. Inside were hurried notes from someone named Doctor Marcus Chen, dated about two years ago. The handwriting grew increasingly erratic toward the end.

The final entry, Simply reading it knows time to leave. I frowned and tucked the notebook into my desk drawer. Probably just someone who couldn't handle the isolation. Field research wasn't for everyone. As darkness fell, the building began to settle, creaking and groaning in the cooling air.

I unpacked my clothes and equipment, trying to ignore the sounds, but they seemed oddly rhythmic, almost like breathing. The floorboards would creak in sequence, followed by the walls and then the ceiling, as if something was moving through the structure. I shook my head, just my imagination working overtime after a long day of travel.

When I joined the others for dinner, Terry was already cooking on the propane stove, some kind of pasta with canned sauce. Find everything you need to get settled? He asked, stirring the pot. Yeah, though I found some strange notes from a previous researcher. I said, taking a seat at the small table.

Someone named Doctor Chen, who left rather abruptly from the looks of it. Terry's stirring slowed momentarily. Ah yes, Marcus Chen, brilliant botanist, but not cut out for extended isolation. The universities had trouble keeping researchers here for the full term. Most teams leave early.

Why? Catherine asked, joining us at the table. Terry shrugged. Different reasons. Equipment failures, weather, personal conflicts.

Isolation does strange things to people. As if on cue, the building gave a long, low Creek that seemed to move from one end to the other. Does it always make that noise? I asked. Old buildings talk?

Terry said dismissively. You'll get used to it. We ate dinner mostly in silence, each of us lost in our own thoughts about the work ahead. As we were finishing, Terry leaned back in his chair, his expression turning thoughtful. You know, the indigenous people who once inhabited these islands had interesting beliefs about places like this.

He said, his voice taking on the quality it did when he was about to share something from his vast repository of obscure knowledge. What kind of beliefs? Catherine asked. They believed certain islands were sentient, alive in their own way. They called them the Watching Ones.

According to their legends, these islands chose who could stay and who had to leave. Terry chuckled. They'd leave offerings at special sites to appease the island spirits. What kind of offerings? I asked, feeling a chill despite the warmth of the room.

Small things, mostly food, carved figures, sometimes personal items. They believed the islands could sense intention, that they knew, whether you came as a friend or an exploiter. Terry stood and began clearing the dishes. Just folklore, of course, but interesting how similar beliefs developed across different Pacific cultures. That night I lay in bed listening to the building's strange sounds.

The creeks and groans had a pattern to them now, rising and falling like breath, punctuated by sharp cracks that sounded almost like joints popping. I found notes from at least three other research teams tucked away in drawers and cabinets throughout the station. None had stayed the full term. Despite the unsettling sounds, I fell asleep quickly, exhausted from travel.

The next morning marked the beginning of our research in earnest. We established our baseline protocols and began cataloguing the plant species in the immediate vicinity of the station. The work was productive, surprisingly so. By the end of the first week, I documented over 60 distinct species within 1/2 mile radius, many showing fascinating adaptations I hadn't anticipated.

These results are incredible, I told the others one evening as we compared notes. The genetic diversity in such a limited area is off the charts. Catherine nodded excitedly. The biochemical profiles are unlike anything I've seen. Some of these compounds don't match anything in our databases.

Terry seemed less surprised. Isolated ecosystems often develop unique characteristics, he said, but there was something guarded in his expression. Our second week continued the pattern. Every day we collected more samples, ran more tests and found more anomalies that defied conventional explanation. The plants here weren't just diverse, they were impossible species that shouldn't coexist.

We're growing side by side, and some specimens showed growth rates that violated everything I knew about plant biology. 13 days after our arrival, I woke suddenly in the middle of the night, my heart pounding. I'd been dreaming a vivid, unsettling dream where I stood at the base of the northern cliffs, looking up at the massive stone face.

In the dream, I felt a pulling sensation, as if invisible hands were drawing me toward the Cliff face. The stone eyes had blinked and the mouth had opened, revealing not darkness but a soft, pulsing light. I sat up, rubbing my face. The room felt unusually cold, and the building's creaks seemed louder than before, almost deliberate.

At breakfast, Catherine looked as tired as I felt, dark circles under her eyes. That night? I asked, pouring myself coffee from the pot Terry had already made. She nodded, staring into her mug. Strange dreams.

What about? I asked, feeling a prickle of unease. I was standing at the northern cliffs. She said slowly, looking up at this huge face carved into the rock. It was pulling me somehow, and then its eyes opened and and its mouth revealed a light.

I finished. Catherine looked up sharply. How did you know that I had the same dream? I said. Terry, who had been quietly eating his oatmeal, set down his spoon.

So did I. We looked at each other, an uncomfortable silence falling over the table. It's just a coincidence, Terry finally said. We're all thinking about the same research, sleeping in the same environment. Shared dreams aren't that uncommon among people in close quarters.

But his explanation felt hollow, and none of us believed it. That day, I decided to document some of the anomalies I've been noticing beyond our plant research. The station's water tanks never seemed to empty, despite our daily usage and the limited rainfall we'd had. The small garden plot from previous researchers was yielding vegetables at an impossible rate, tomato plants producing ripe fruit just days after we discovered them.

When we went fishing off the dock, the fish practically jumped into our Nets as if offering themselves. I kept these observations in a separate journal, not sure if I was documenting scientific phenomena or my own growing paranoia. A few days later, I was collecting samples near the northern shore, about a mile from the stone face I'd spotted on our first day.

As I worked my way through a dense patch of unusual ferns, I stumbled upon something that stopped me cold. A small shrine made of stones arranged in a perfect circle. In the center sat a crude figure carved from driftwood, facing directly toward the Cliff face in the distance. I knelt to examine it, careful not to disturb the arrangement.

The stones weren't randomly placed, they formed a pattern that seemed to radiate outward from the central figure. And this wasn't the only one. As I looked around, I spotted at least six more similar stone circles partially hidden among the vegetation, all oriented toward the distant stone face. I took photographs of each arrangement, noting their GPS coordinates in my journal.

These weren't natural formations, and they looked too deliberate to be the work of previous researchers just playing games. When I returned to the station, I found Terry alone in the lab, examining slides under a microscope. Raymond, I said, pulling out my camera. I found something strange near the northern shore. He looked up, his expression neutral.

What kind of strange? I showed him the photographs of the stone circles with their central figures, all facing the Cliff. There were at least seven of them, I said, all arranged the same way, all pointing toward that stone face in the northern cliffs. Terry studied the images for a long moment, his face unreadable.

Then he shrugged a little too casually. Probably just previous researchers playing games, he said, turning back to his microscope. People get bored out here, start making up stories to entertain themselves. These don't look like games, I insisted. They look like shrines, like the offerings you mentioned, the ones the indigenous people would leave for the watching ones.

Terry's shoulders tensed slightly. Dallas, we're scientists. Let's stick to what we can prove, shall we? He wouldn't meet my eyes. I've got work to finish before dinner.

I left the lab, the photograph still displayed on my camera. Terry was lying, or at least not telling the whole truth. He knew something about those stone circles, something he didn't want to share. As I walked back to my room, the building creaked around me, a long, low sound that seemed to follow my movements.

For a moment I could have sworn I heard something like a whisper beneath the creaking. A single word that might have been STAY. I got back to my room and kicked off my boots. Something about those stone circles was bugging me. They weren't random.

Those things had been placed deliberately, all facing the Cliff. And Terry's reaction. Yeah, that wasn't normal either. I pulled out my camera and flipped through the photos again. 7 perfect circles of stones, each with those creepy little driftwood figures.

I've been on plenty of research expeditions and I'd never seen other scientists making weird shrines. That wasn't how bored researchers passed time. I grabbed my journal and made some notes about Terry's reaction. His hands had been shaking. That wasn't like him at all.

The guy was usually steady as a rock and the way he'd cut me off. Definitely hiding something. The sleep didn't come easy that night. I kept thinking about those circles, about Terry's weird behavior, and about that face I'd seen in the Cliff. The building kept making those breathing sounds, too, which didn't help.

The next morning at breakfast, Catherine was sketching something in her notebook. I poured some coffee and sat across from her. What are you working on? I asked. She turned the notebook around.

It was the Cliff face, the same one I'd seen when we arrived, the one with a giant carved face that nobody else could see. You can see it now? I asked, nearly spilling my coffee. See what? She looked confused.

The face in the Cliff, That's what you're drawing, right? She frowned. I'm just sketching the Cliff line for my notes. What face are you talking about? I took another look at her drawing.

It was just the outline of the Cliff, no face at all, but the proportions were exactly right where the eyes should be, where the mouth was. Nothing, I said. Just thought I saw something in your drawing. Catherine went back to sketching, but I noticed she kept glancing up at me. After a few minutes, she closed her notebook.

I'm heading out to collect samples from the northern shore, she said. Want to come? I've got some lab work to finish. I lied. I needed to think.

Over the next few days, I noticed Catherine spending more time looking at the Cliff. She'd stop in the middle of working and stare at it. Sometimes she'd tilt her head like she was trying to see something from a different angle, and she was sketching it constantly. Different times of day, different angles. Her notebook was filling up with drawings.

About a week later, I found her on the beach at sunset, staring at the Cliff and drawing. Getting some good sketches? I asked, walking up beside her. She jumped a little. Dallas didn't hear you coming.

Sorry, didn't mean to startle you. She looked back at the Cliff. Do you ever notice how it changes the Cliff, the face? She said. My stomach dropped.

Sometimes it looks sad, other times I don't know, hungry maybe? I tried to keep my voice steady so you can see it now. She nodded. For about a week I thought I was imagining things at first, but it's definitely there. Terry still says he can't see it.

What changed? Why can you see it now when you couldn't before? Catherine shrugged. Maybe it's letting me see it now. Maybe it's decided I'm worthy.

The way she said it sent chills up my spine. It decided? She smiled, but didn't answer, just went back to her drawing. We fell into a routine after that, collecting samples during the day, analyzing them in the lab, having dinner together. But things were getting weirder.

The supply drop came and went. Some guy in a float plane who barely said 2 words dropped off our stuff and left. He seemed in a hurry to get away from the island. Catherine spent less time in the lab, more time sketching the Cliff face. Terry buried himself in his work analyzing the same samples over and over.

And me, I was keeping track of all the strange things. The water tanks that never emptied, the vegetables that grew too fast, the way the building seemed to breathe at night. One month in, I woke up around 2:00 in the morning needing to use the bathroom. On my way back to bed, I noticed the front door was open.

I went to close it and saw a figure standing at the shoreline. It was Catherine. She was wearing just her pajamas, no shoes, standing ankle deep in the water. The waves were lapping around her feet and she was staring at the Cliff. I ran down to her.

Catherine. She didn't respond. Her eyes were open, but she wasn't blinking. Catherine. I said again, touching her shoulder.

She blinked suddenly looking confused. Dallas, what are we doing out here? You tell me. I found you sleepwalking. She looked around, seeming to realize where she was.

She shivered. Let's get you back inside, I said. You're freezing. As we walked back, she kept looking over her shoulder at the Cliff. It was calling me, she said quietly.

It wants us to stay. What does? The island, She said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. I got her back to her room, made sure she was OK. Have you sleepwalked before?

Not since I was a kid, she said, pulling a blanket around herself. Thanks for finding me. The next morning at breakfast, I asked her how she was feeling. Fine, she said. Why, after last night, I figured you might be tired.

She frowned. What about last night? You were sleepwalking. I found you standing in the water, staring at the Cliff. Catherine shook her head.

I haven't sleepwalked since I was a child. You must have been dreaming, Catherine. I wasn't dreaming. You told me the island was calling you that. It wants us to stay.

Dallas, I think you need more sleep. She said laughing it off, but there was something weird about her laugh, like she wasn't sure if she should be worried about me or herself. Terry walked in then and the conversation ended, but I kept an eye on Catherine after that. That night I heard the front door open again.

I grabbed my flashlight and followed. Catherine wasn't at the shore this time. I swept my light around and caught a glimpse of her heading up the path toward the Cliff face. Terry. I shouted, running back to wake him.

Terry, get up. Catherine's sleepwalking again. We found her halfway up the path to the Cliff. She was barefoot and her feet were bleeding from the sharp rocks. She was walking steadily forward, eyes fixed on the Cliff face.

Catherine. Terry grabbed her arm. Catherine, wake up. It took both of us to get her to stop walking. When she finally came to, she seemed confused and scared.

It's pulling me, she whispered. Can't you feel it? We got her back to the station and cleaned up her feet. Terry and I agreed to set up a watch rotation. One of us would stay awake while the others slept to make sure Catherine didn't wander off again.

But it wasn't just Catherine who was changing. Terry was spending all night in the lab, analyzing the same rock samples over and over. I'd find him muttering to himself, making calculations that didn't seem to go anywhere. And me? I was having trouble focusing on anything but the island's strange behaviors.

My plant samples were showing impossible growth rates. Species that shouldn't be able to coexist were thriving side by side. Nothing made scientific sense anymore. Our radio communications became sporadic, then stopped completely. Terry claimed he'd sent distress signals, but no help arrived.

Did you really send those signals? I asked him one night. Of course I did. He snapped, but he wouldn't meet my eyes. On our 47th night on the island, I woke up to Terry shaking me.

Dallas, wake up. Catherine's gone. I jumped out of bed. What do you mean gone? Who was on watch?

I was, but I just closed my eyes for a minute. When I opened them, she wasn't in her room. We searched the whole research station, then headed outside with flashlights. We called her name, but the only answer was the wind in the trees and the waves on the shore. At the water's edge, we found her boots, Just her boots, placed neatly side by side, pointing toward the Cliff.

Catherine, I shouted, my voice echoing across the water. No response. We need to check the Cliff, I said. Terry nodded. We searched frantically for three days.

We checked the entire island, the Cliff face, the forest, the caves along the shore. Nothing. No sign of Catherine anywhere. It was like she'd simply vanished. On the third night, exhausted and desperate, we sat on the beach near where we'd found her boots.

She couldn't have just disappeared. I said. Terry was staring at the Cliff face. You said you could see a face in the Cliff. What did it look like?

I thought you didn't believe me. Just tell me what it looked like. I described it. The massive carved features, the hollow eyes, the mouth that sometimes seemed to be smiling, sometimes frowning. Terry nodded slowly.

I can see it now too. I couldn't look away from Terry's face the way he said he could see it now too, like he was admitting to something he'd been denying for weeks. How long have you actually been able to see it? I asked. Terry rubbed his eyes under his glasses.

I don't know, maybe a week, maybe longer. I thought if I didn't acknowledge it, it would go away. We sat in silence for a while, just the sound of waves lapping at the shore. Catherine had been gone for three days now. The island felt different without her, emptier somehow, but also more watchful.

We need to leave. I said finally. Something's wrong with this place. Terry nodded, but didn't move. We should try the radio again tomorrow.

I headed back to the station alone. Terry said he wanted to stay on the beach a bit longer, just in case Catherine came back. I didn't argue. The truth was, I couldn't stand to be around him much anymore. Something had changed between us after Catherine disappeared.

Back at the station, I pulled out my journal and made an entry about Terry, finally admitting he could see the face. As I wrote, I realized my own notes were becoming scattered. Some days I'd written detailed observations about plant samples. Other days just a few disjointed sentences about dreams or sounds in the night.

The next morning, I woke up early and went to the communications room. The radio had been acting up for weeks, and Terry kept saying he was sending distress signals. I figured I'd try myself. I froze In the doorway. Terry was hunched over the radio, speaking quietly into the microphone.

The power indicator light was on bright green in the dim room. I understand now. He was saying. Yes, I see what you need. I stepped back, not wanting him to know I was there.

The radio was working, and who the hell was he talking to? When Terry came out for breakfast an hour later, I acted normal, like I hadn't seen anything. Any luck with the radio? I asked casually. Dead as always.

He said, not meeting my eyes. I think the solar panel that powers it might be damaged. I nodded and sipped my coffee. He was lying to my face. Over the next few days, I kept my distance from Terry.

I'd find reasons to be out collecting samples when he was in the lab, or vice versa. At night, I'd lock my bedroom door. I wasn't sure what I was afraid of exactly, but something felt wrong. One afternoon I was cataloguing some Moss samples when I realized I couldn't remember what day it was.

I grabbed my journal and flipped through the recent entries. Tuesday, Wednesday. Thursday. Tuesday. Again.

That couldn't be right. I'd somehow written Tuesday. Twice. I checked the calendar we'd been marking off in the kitchen. According to that, it was Friday, but my watch said it was Thursday.

I couldn't remember marking off Wednesday on the calendar, but there it was. Crossed out time seemed to be slipping, days blending together. I started marking the time in my journal for each entry, but even that got confusing. Sometimes I'd write an entry at 2:00 PM, then another that same day at 1:00 PM.

When I asked Terry about it, he just laughed. Not his usual academic chuckle, but something higher pitched and strange. Time is different here, he said, his eyes slightly unfocused. The island decides how fast it passes. That's not how time works, I said.

But even as I said it, I wasn't so sure anymore. Nothing on this island worked the way it should. I stopped studying the plants after that. What was the point? Every rule of biology and ecology was broken here anyway.

Instead, I started documenting the island itself, the way it seemed to respond to us. I set up small experiments. I'd place a rock on the kitchen table before going to bed, only to find it back on the beach the next morning. I'd leave a half eaten sandwich on the counter and it would vanish overnight without any signs of animals or insects.

One night I left a small pile of berries at the base of one of the stone circles. By morning they were gone. Not scattered like animals had taken them, just gone. No tracks, no evidence of anything approaching. The dreams got worse too.

Every night, I'd see the face in the Cliff. Its features would shift and change, but the mouth always got wider, like it was opening to swallow me. I'd wake up sweating, sometimes standing in the middle of my room with no memory of getting out of bed. I understood Catherine's sleepwalking now. There was a pull toward that Cliff face, like gravity, but stronger.

Some nights I'd have to physically grip my bed frame to keep from walking out the door. I found Terry talking to himself more and more, or maybe not to himself once I heard him in the lab late at night. Yes, I know I'll bring him soon. He's not ready yet. When I asked him about it the next day, he claimed he was just thinking out loud about research protocols.

I pretended to believe him. My journal entries became more erratic. Sometimes I'd write 3 entries in what seemed like one day. Other times I'd realize I hadn't written anything for what the calendar claimed was a week. I started noting the position of the sun, the phase of the moon, anything to anchor myself in real time.

According to my calculations, we should have been on the island for about 12 weeks. The calendar in the kitchen said 15. Terry's log said 17. None of it made sense. The morning everything changed started like any other.

I woke up, checked that I was still in my bed and not sleepwalking, and went to make coffee. That's when I heard it. The distant thump, thump, thump of helicopter blades. I ran outside, not believing my ears, but there it was, a rescue helicopter approaching from the east. I waved my arms wildly, shouting, even though I knew they couldn't hear me.

The helicopter circled once, then began descending toward the beach. I sprinted down the path, my heart pounding. I hadn't realized until that moment how afraid I'd been that we'd never leave this place. The pilot cut the engines. As I approached, a man and a woman in search and rescue gear jumped out, followed by the pilot.

The woman approached me first. Doctor Lloyd? Dallas Lloyd? She asked. I nodded, still catching my breath.

I'm Callie Hubbard, This is Robert Garcia and our pilot, Sammy Harris. Are you OK? Where are the others? Catherine's gone, I said, missing Terry's back at the station. How did you find us?

The pilot, Sammy stepped forward. We've been trying to reach you for months. Got a garbled transmission about what was it? The island not letting you leave Sounded pretty desperate. Months, I repeated.

But we've only been here about 12 weeks. The three rescuers exchanged looks. Doctor Lloyd, Sammy said carefully. You've been on this island for 13 months. Your research permit expired four months ago.

When no one could reach you, they finally authorized a search and rescue. I felt like I'd been punched. 13 months, that was impossible. I would have noticed losing an entire year of my life, wouldn't I? There must be a mistake, I said.

But even as the words left my mouth, I remembered all the lost time, the confused journal entries, the days that didn't add up. Where's Doctor Palmer? Robert asked. We should get you both evacuated as soon as possible. There's a storm system moving in.

I'll take you to him. I said, still trying to process what they told me. We walked back to the station. I called out for Terry as we approached, but got no answer. The main building was empty.

Maybe he's in the lab? I suggested leading them across the compound. As we passed the equipment shed, I heard a crash from inside. I tried the door, but it was blocked from within. Terry.

I called Terry. There are people here to rescue us. We can go home now. Go away. Terry's voice was almost unrecognizable, high and frantic.

You can't make me leave. The island won't allow it. I stepped back, startled by his reaction. Sammy and Robert moved closer to the door. Doctor Palmer?

Sammy called. We need you to come out. We have to evacuate before the storm hits. No, there was another crash, like something heavy being moved. The island chose me.

It showed me its face. I won't abandon it. Robert tried to force the door, but something heavy was barricaded against it. He's lost it, I said quietly to Callie. He's been acting strange for weeks, talking to himself or to the island, I guess.

Through a small window in the shed, I could see Terry moving frantically, piling equipment against the door. His face was contorted, eyes wild, mouth moving constantly as he muttered to himself. The island needs me. He shouted when he saw me watching. It took Catherine because she was worthy.

It'll take you 2 if you stay. But you're leaving, aren't you, traitor? He slammed his first against the window, making me jump back. I'd never seen Terry like this. He'd always been the calm, methodical scientist, even as things got strange.

Now he looked possessed. We may need to force entry, Roberts said, assessing the situation. He's clearly experiencing some kind of psychological distress. I nodded, backing away from the shed. Terry continued to shout from inside, his voice rising and falling as he ranted about the island choosing him, about how we couldn't leave, about how the island would stop us.

I stepped back. As the rescue team approached the shed. Roberts signalled to Cali, and they moved forward cautiously. Terry. Robert called through the door.

We need you to come out. We're here to help. You can't help. Terry screamed back. None of you understand what the island wants.

I hung back while Robert tried reasoning with Terry. The sun was starting to set, casting long shadows across the research station grounds. Sammy the pilot, stood near me, keeping one eye on the helicopter parked on the beach. How long has he been like this? Sammy asked quietly.

It's been building for weeks, I said. Ever since Catherine disappeared. Robert tried the door again, then stepped back, shaking his head. Dr. Palmer?

He called, using Terry's formal title. We need to get you medical attention. Please open the door. The only response was more shuffling inside the shed. I could hear Terry muttering to himself, the words indistinct but the tone frantic.

We might need to force entry. Callie said, eyeing the doors hinges. That's when I heard it, a metallic click from inside the shed. Something about that sound sent a chill through me. Get back.

I yelled just as Terry burst through the door. He stood wild eyed in the doorway, his clothes dishevelled and hair standing on end. But what froze my blood was what he held in his hands, our emergency flare gun loaded and ready, the island chose Catherine. Terry shouted, waving the flare gun. She was worthy.

It wants us all to stay. Robert and Callie immediately backed up, hands raised. Put the weapon down, Doctor Palmer, Robert said, his voice steady despite the situation. Terry's eyes locked with mine. Traitor, he hissed.

I told the island I'd bring you. I promised. He swung the flare gun toward me, then abruptly changed direction, aiming toward the beach, toward the helicopter. No one leaves, he screamed. The island won't let us.

I saw his intention in that split second, the flare gun aimed at the helicopter's fuel tanks. Without thinking, I lunged forward, throwing my full weight into Terry just as he pulled the trigger. The flare shot wild, arcing over the beach and hissing into the water as we crashed to the ground. Terry fought like a man possessed, his strength surprising for his age and build.

We rolled in the dirt, grappling for control. The island chose us. He kept shouting. It took Catherine because she was worthy. I felt something hard press against my side, the station's emergency pistol tucked into Terry's waistband.

I hadn't even known he had it. Terry must have taken it from the lock box in the lab. We struggled for the gun, his fingers clawing at my face, my arms. The rescue team was shouting, trying to get close enough to help, but Terry and I kept rolling, locked in combat. Terry, stop.

I gasped as his elbow caught me in the ribs. This isn't you. The island speaks through me now. He snarled, his face inches from mine, completely transformed from the mentor I'd known. It needs us to stay.

His hand found the pistol first. I saw his fingers close around the grip, watched his eyes widen with terrible purpose. In that moment, Terry wasn't there anymore, just some hollow vessel filled with the island's will. I grabbed his wrist with both hands, twisting with every ounce of strength I had left. We rolled again, the gun between us.

I don't know which one of us pulled the trigger. The gunshot cracked across the water like Thunder. Everything stopped. The struggle, the shouting, even the wind seemed to pause. Terry went still beneath me, his eyes wide with shock.

A dark stain spread across his shirt. Terry. I whispered, scrambling off him. Terry. Robert rushed forward, pressing his hands over the wound.

Callie was already on her radio calling for medical support, but I could tell from their faces it was too late. Terry's eyes found mine suddenly, clear and focused. His hand gripped my arm with surprising strength. It would have brought us back anyway. He whispered, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth.

Then his grip loosened, his gaze fixed on something beyond me, perhaps the Cliff face with its watching eyes. And Terry Palmer was gone. The next hours passed in a blur. The medical team arrived, but could only confirm what we already knew. I answered questions mechanically, explained about Catherine's disappearance, about Terry's gradual deterioration.

I described the stone circles, the face and the Cliff that only some of us could see, the building that seemed to breathe at night. The rescue team exchanged glances as I spoke, the kind of looks reserved for trauma victims who aren't quite connecting with reality. I stopped talking about the island's strange properties after that.

They gave me a blanket, though I wasn't cold. Someone pressed a cup of water into my hands. I watched as they zipped Terry's body into a bag and loaded it onto the helicopter. I wondered if the island would let his body leave, or if the helicopter would mysteriously malfunction before reaching the mainland.

But nothing happened. The rotors spun up, drowning out all other sound, and we lifted away from Kestrel Island without incident. I stared down at the research station growing smaller below us, at the perfect Crescent of beach, at the northern Cliff face with its massive carved features that now seem to be frowning. The mainland brought a different kind of chaos.

Medical examinations, Police interviews, psychological assessments. I sat in sterile rooms answering the same questions over and over. Yes, we'd been on the island for research. No, we didn't expect to be there so long. Yes, Catherine Cook disappeared while sleepwalking.

No, we never found her body. Yes, Terry Palmer had become increasingly unstable. No, I didn't know we had access to weapons. I told them what they needed to hear, the version that made sense in their world. I described Catherine's disappearance as a probable drowning, Terry's breakdown as the result of isolation and guilt.

I mentioned nothing about time distortions, stone circles that rearrange themselves, or a Cliff face that seemed to watch us. Nothing about buildings that breathed or water tanks that never emptied. Two weeks after our rescue, they assigned me to Doctor Kelsey Evans, a psychologist specializing in trauma and stress disorders. Her office was nothing like the island, all clean lines and neutral colors, soft lighting and comfortable chairs.

Dallas, she said during our third session, her voice gentle but firm. I'd like to talk about your perception of time on the island. I shrugged. What about it? You believed you were there for approximately 12 weeks, but records show your team was on Kestrel Island for 13 months.

That's a significant discrepancy. I looked out her office window at the Seattle skyline. Buildings and traffic and people so different from the isolation of the island. I know what the calendar says, I replied. But you don't believe it, she observed.

I documented everything. I kept a journal which shows inconsistencies, she said, consulting her notes. Duplicate entries, missing days, contradictory dates. I didn't answer. There was no point explaining that the island controlled time differently.

The days could repeat or vanish according to its whims. She'd never understand. And the face in the Cliff that you, Catherine, and eventually Terry, reported seeing, she continued. The one that supposedly changed expressions. I know how it sounds, I said.

Doctor Evans leaned forward slightly. Dallas, what you experienced is consistent with shared delusion resulting from isolation and environmental stress. The human mind is remarkably adaptable, but prolonged isolation can create perceptual distortions. Your team's consistent reports about the Cliff face represent a Foley yadu, or in this case a trois, a shared psychosis and Catherine's disappearance.

I asked Terry's breakdown. Tragic consequences of an isolated environment without proper psychological support, she said. The altered time perception, the shared delusions, the attribution of consciousness to inanimate objects like the island itself, these are all documented responses to extreme stress and isolation. She diagnosed me with acute stress disorder, transitioning to post traumatic stress disorder.

She prescribed medications, small pills to help me sleep without dreaming, others to stabilize my thought patterns. She recommended I return to familiar routines, reconnect with colleagues, resume my academic work. I did everything she suggested. I returned to my apartment in Seattle, to my position at the university. I took my medications.

I attended my therapy sessions. I tried to forget Kestrel Island, but the dreams persisted, the stone face calling me back, Catherine's voice whispering beneath the waves, the island's breathing synced with my own. Three months after returning to the mainland, a package arrived at my apartment, Terry's personal effects finally released after the investigation concluded.

I almost didn't open it, almost threw the whole box away, unopened. Inside were the expected items. His Warren Field journal, some personal photographs, his favorite fountain pen. At the bottom, folded between the pages of a botanical reference book, I found a small slip of paper. The handwriting wasn't Terry's.

It was Catherine's, one word written in her precise script. Stay. I stood at my apartment window, staring out toward the distant waters of Puget Sound, beyond which lay the Pacific and, somewhere, Kestrel Island. The paper trembled in my hand. I wondered how long I could resist the islands call.

I couldn't sleep. Catherine's notes sat on my night stand, that single word stay staring up at me. I've been back in Seattle for almost four months. But I wasn't really back, not completely. I got up and went to my desk.

My laptop glowed in the darkness as I opened yet another research tab. This had become my nightly ritual, searching for anything about islands with consciousness. Sentient land masses, places that chose people. Most of it was New Age garbage or fiction, but occasionally I'd find something that resonated with what we'd experienced. Tonight I was looking at ancient Polynesian worship practices.

Their beliefs about islands as living entities weren't just spiritual metaphors. They were literal islands that could think, feel, and want. Islands that called to certain people, islands that kept those they wanted. I scrolled through academic papers until my eyes burned, noting the patterns, offerings left in stone circles, reports of time distortion, people who felt physically pulled towards certain locations.

The similarities to what happened on Kestrel were too specific to be coincidence. My phone showed 317. AMI done this four nights in a row now. Doctor Evans would say it was unhealthy rumination and feeding my delusions. She'd already doubled my meds when I tried showing her my research last week.

I rubbed my eyes and shut the laptop. The darkness felt heavy. I glanced at Catherine's note again. My fingers hovered over my phone. I could call the emergency line, tell them I was having intrusive thoughts again.

That's what they called it when I talked about the island wanting us. Instead, I opened my e-mail and typed a message to the Oceanic Research Institute. Mr. Lloyd, I've pulled the records you requested. The administrator at the ORI looked tired as she placed a thin folder on the table between us.

Her name tag read. Marissa. I'd called in every professional favor I had to get this meeting. This is all you have on Kestrel Island? Research teams?

I asked, opening the folder. There should be at least 5 expeditions before ours. That's everything that was filed officially. As you can see, most of the reports are incomplete. She hesitated.

There's a reason we don't send teams there anymore. I flipped through the pages. She was right. Fragmented data, missing final reports, gaps in communication logs. One team's documentation ended abruptly mid sentence, just like our expedition would have if not for the rescue.

Did any of the teams report unusual phenomena? Time discrepancies, biological anomalies, anything like that? Marissa shifted uncomfortably. I'm not supposed to comment on the content of the files, Please. I said I was there for 13 months.

I need to understand what happened. She glanced at the door, then leaned forward. Every team reported anomalies before communications failed. Plant growth patterns that defied explanation, Equipment malfunctions, time inconsistencies. She lowered her voice further and psychological effects team members becoming fixated on the island.

My heart pounded. What about Doctor Catherine Cook, do you have her personnel file? That would be confidential, Dr. Lloyd. I need to know what she was researching before our expedition, please.

Marissa hesitated, then sighed. Wait here. She returned 10 minutes later with another, thicker file. You never saw this, she said, placing it in front of me. Catherine's academic history was there Degrees, publications, research grants.

I skimmed until I found what I was looking for. Before shifting to climate science, Catherine had specialized in consciousness theories, not just human consciousness. Her dissertation explored the possibility of consciousness emerging in complex systems, including geological formations. Jesus, I whispered. Dr.

Lloyd, Marissa said quietly. The Institute isn't sending any more teams to Kestrel, not after what happened to your expedition. Maybe you should consider why. I closed the file, my hands shaking slightly. Thank you.

One more thing, she said as I stood to leave. The Indigenous people near Kestrel, They won't go within 20 miles of it. They say it's one of the islands that wakes up hungry every few decades. They say it calls to people until it finds the right ones. I'm concerned about your fixation on these conspiracy theories, Dallas.

Doctor Evans adjusted her glasses and she reviewed her notes. We were in our 10th session, sitting in her office with its carefully neutral decor and diffused lighting. They're not conspiracies, I said. I found documented patterns across multiple research teams, time distortions, biological anomalies, psychological effects, all specific to Kestrel Island. And you believe this supports your theory that the island is conscious?

Her tone remained professionally neutral. But I could hear the skepticism. The indigenous populations have believed it for centuries. Catherine was researching consciousness in geological systems before our expedition, Terry said. Dallas.

She interrupted gently. Both your colleagues experienced severe psychological breaks. One disappeared, presumably drowned. And the other died during a violent episode. These aren't reliable sources for your theory.

I sat back frustrated. You think I'm experiencing the same break. I think you went through severe trauma and isolation and your mind is trying to create meaning from random events. It's actually quite common. She made another note.

I'd like to adjust your medication. The current dosage doesn't seem to be addressing your intrusive thoughts. The footprints I found in my apartment were likely your own, made when you were sleepwalking. The sleep study confirmed you have episodes of parasomnia. She wrote something on her prescription pad.

Dallas, you're a scientist. You know how the mind can create connections that aren't there? I took the prescription she handed me, knowing there was no point arguing. Yeah, thanks. As I left her office, I heard her scheduling an emergency follow up for the following week.

She was worried about me. Maybe she should be. That night I dreamed of Catherine. She walked out of the ocean, water streaming from her hair, her skin embedded with tiny shells that glinted in the moonlight. She looked exactly as she had on the island, except for her eyes.

They were darker, deeper somehow. The island misses you, she said, her voice echoing strangely. It's waiting for you to come home. You disappeared, I told her. We searched for days.

She smiled. I didn't disappear. I became part of it. You can't too. Terry died.

Terry was afraid, in the end. You don't need to be afraid. She reached toward me, water dripping from her fingertips. Come back. The island chose you.

I woke with a gasp, my heart hammering. The dream had been so vivid I could smell salt water. I sat up, turning on my bedside lamp. There were wet footprints on my floor. They led from my apartment door to the foot of my bed.

Small and delicate, woman sized. I touched one with my fingertips. The moisture was real and it smelled of the sea. I followed the prints to my door. It was locked from the inside, deadbolt secured, chain in place.

The security camera in the hallway would have caught anyone coming to my apartment, but I knew what I would find before I checked the footage the next morning. Nothing. No visitors, no explanation for the footprints that had already dried into faint salt outlines by dawn. That's when I made my decision. You're sure about this, Doctor Lloyd Kestrel's not exactly a tourist destination.

Captain Reeves looked skeptical as he checked over my paperwork. His fishing vessel, the Northern Light, was scheduled for a run that would take it within 5 miles of Kestrel Island. It had taken some doing to find a boat willing to go even that close. I need to collect some follow up samples for the university.

I lied, adjusting the straps on my backpack. Just a quick stop. I'll be on shore for a day at most. He handed back my ID. We don't dock at Kestrel.

I can get you within sight of it, but you'll need to arrange your own landing. That's fine. I said. I've contacted a local guide who can take me the rest of the way. Another line.

Reeves nodded, though he didn't look convinced. We leave in 20 minutes. Bunk 3 is yours. As I stowed my gear, I checked my phone one last time. I had a missed call from Doctor Evans and three texts asking me to contact her immediately.

I'd skip my last two appointments. I turned the phone off and tucked it into my bag. The northern light pulled away from Seattle's harbor that evening. I stood on deck, watching the city shrink behind us, feeling something loosen in my chest. For the first time since being rescued, I felt like I could breathe properly.

We sailed through the night, and I barely slept. By morning, we were in open water. I spent the day on deck, watching the horizon, feeling the pool growing stronger with each passing hour. You know the locals won't go near that place, Captain Reeve said, joining me at the rail late that afternoon. They say it's cursed.

What do they say exactly? I asked. He lit a cigarette. That it takes people, that sometimes it gives them back changed, and sometimes it keeps them. He studied my face.

You've been there before. You got that look? What look like it's calling you. He flicked ash into the water. Had a passenger like that once.

Paid me to take him close to one of those islands. He jumped ship in the night, tried to swim for it. We never found him. I said nothing and after a while he walked away. That night I stood on deck again.

In the distance, I could just make out the dark shape of Kestrel Island against the horizon. The pull was unmistakable now, a physical sensation like a hook behind my ribs. I waited until the night watch changed, slipped into my wet suit and lowered myself over the side. The water was cold, but I barely felt it.

I began swimming, my stroke steady and sure, my eyes fixed on the distant shore. The journey passed in a blur. I should have tired, should have felt the cold seep into my bones, but instead I felt energized with each stroke that brought me closer to the island. Finally, my feet touched sand. I waded through the shallows, water streaming from my wetsuit, and stepped onto the familiar Pebble Beach.

The research station sat dark and quiet, 1/4 mile inland, exactly as we'd left it, but I wasn't alone. Catherine stood at the edge of the beach where it met the tree line. She looked exactly as she had before disappearing. Not the shell encrusted figure from my dream, but Catherine as I remembered her wearing the same field clothes, her hair pulled back in its practical ponytail.

She smiled when she saw me and raised her hand in greeting. The island knew you'd come back. She called. I stood dripping on the beach, my heart pounding. Part of me screamed that this couldn't be real, that Catherine had disappeared 13 months ago, that I was hallucinating or walking into something I didn't understand.

But a stronger part recognized the truth. I'd been fighting since we were rescued. I belonged here. Catherine extended her hand, still smiling. I hesitated, then stepped forward to take it.