The Cursed Isle of Echoes

The ferry groaned as it docked against the weathered pier, ropes creaking under the strain. A cold wind rolled in from the sea, carrying the thick mist that had been clinging to the island since it first appeared on the horizon. Even though it was just past noon, the sun was barely more than a pale smudge behind the clouds.

Yurei-jima.

The name had come up during the rushed paperwork for the cottage—Ghost Island. It should've raised red flags, but at the time, I was too far gone to care.

I hauled my suitcase down the ferry's ramp, its wheels scraping against the damp wood. The dock stretched forward like an old spine, its boards warped and slick with algae. Beyond it, a crooked path led into the heart of the island, where faint outlines of wooden houses emerged through the swirling mist.

The ferry didn't linger. With a hollow blast of its horn, it pulled away from the dock, leaving behind rippling waves and a silence so complete it pressed against my ears.

I was alone.

Or so I thought.

A cluster of figures stood just beyond the dock, barely visible through the fog. As I approached, their forms sharpened—five or six villagers, all elderly, their faces weathered and pale, eyes watching me with the same expressionless stare. No smiles. No greetings. Just silent observation.

"Good afternoon," I said, my voice awkward in the stillness.

No response. One of the villagers, a hunched old woman with a scarf tied tight around her head, muttered something under her breath, turning away.

The discomfort settled in my gut like a stone. I pulled my suitcase closer, rolling it over the uneven path, and tried not to meet their gazes. The houses here were aged and fragile-looking, some with cracked windows and sagging roofs, others boarded up entirely. Vines crept up the walls, thick with wildflowers and moss, as though nature had been slowly reclaiming the island.

A tall man broke away from the group and approached me with measured steps. His shoulders were broad beneath his worn coat, his hair streaked with gray. His face was angular, his jaw lined with stubble, but it was his eyes—sharp, dark, unwavering—that caught my attention.

"I'm Jiro," he said flatly. "The mayor."

"Haruto," I replied, extending a hand. He didn't take it.

"You bought the old cottage on the cliffs." It wasn't a question.

I nodded.

Jiro studied me in silence before reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out a thin, weathered pamphlet. He handed it over without a word. I glanced at the title scrawled in fading ink:

Rules for Survival

The weight of the paper felt heavier than it should have. I flipped it open. The first rule was in bold:

1. Lock your doors after dusk. No exceptions.

I felt a chill crawl up my spine.

"This… some kind of local tradition?" I asked, forcing a half-smile.

Jiro didn't return it. "It's not a joke. Dusk comes fast here, faster than you'd expect. When it does, you make sure your doors and windows are locked. Tight."

I opened my mouth to ask why, but something in his eyes stopped me. A flicker of something—fear? Resignation? I couldn't tell.

"The ferry comes once a week," Jiro continued. "Next one's in six days. You'll have time to settle in."

I nodded, though my mind was racing. The ferry schedule hadn't been mentioned in the listing.

Before I could ask more, Jiro turned and began walking back toward the cluster of houses, his boots crunching over gravel. The other villagers drifted away into the mist without another word, leaving me alone on the path.

Well, that was… welcoming.

I stuffed the pamphlet into my coat pocket and started toward the cottage. The road sloped upward, winding through overgrown fields and twisted trees, their bare branches clawing at the fog. Birds didn't seem to live here—or if they did, they were eerily silent.

After about fifteen minutes of walking, the path narrowed and opened up to a cliffside clearing. The sea stretched out beyond the edge, gray and endless. Perched at the brink, surrounded by wild grass and mist, was my new home.

If you could call it that.

The cottage was worse than the photo had suggested—its roof sagging in places, windows clouded with dust and grime. The wood siding was splintered and chipped, salt-stained from the ocean breeze. A shutter hung loosely on one hinge, swaying in the wind with a hollow creak.

But what caught my eye first were the flowers.

Hydrangeas.

Dozens of them, maybe hundreds, growing in thick, untamed clusters all around the cottage. Their blossoms were a pale, ghostly blue, the same shade as the scarf my mother used to wear. The same shade as the hydrangeas she'd grown in our tiny backyard garden when I was a kid.

I crouched beside one of the bushes, running my fingers over the delicate petals. For a moment, something warm flickered inside me—a thread connecting me to her, even here.

"Looks like you followed me after all, Mom," I murmured.

The breeze stirred the flowers in response, as if they'd heard me.

I stood and approached the front door, fishing the rusted key from my pocket. It took some effort, but the lock eventually clicked open. I pushed the door inward, the hinges groaning in protest.

The inside was dim and musty. Dust hung in the air, swirling in beams of light that filtered through cracks in the boarded windows. The living room was small—a faded couch, a low wooden table, shelves lined with old books warped from humidity. A stone fireplace sat cold and unused.

It was clear no one had lived here for years.

I explored the rest of the house—a cramped kitchen with rusted appliances, a narrow hallway leading to a single bedroom, and a bathroom with a cracked mirror above the sink. Everything was worn down, forgotten. But it was mine now.

I returned to the living room and sat heavily on the couch, the worn springs groaning beneath me. Pulling the pamphlet from my coat, I read the next few rules:

2. Do not wander the island after dark.3. If you hear knocking, do not answer.4. Do not look out the windows after sunset.

Each line sank deeper into my chest, a creeping unease rising in my gut.

I glanced at the old grandfather clock in the corner. The hands were stuck at 4:17, unmoving. Outside, the mist had thickened, the light already starting to fade.

"Lock your doors after dusk. No exceptions."

Jiro's words echoed in my mind.

I stood and moved to the front door, checking the rusty lock. It still worked—barely. I tested it twice before turning back to the room, feeling the weight of the island pressing in from all sides.

The hydrangeas swayed outside the window, their soft petals catching the last slivers of daylight.

For a moment, I thought I saw something else beyond them. A shape—tall, thin—standing among the flowers.

I blinked, and it was gone.

I locked the door.