The Cursed Isle of Echoes

By the time the sun dipped low behind the ocean, casting the island into a dull, gray haze, I had convinced myself the rules were nothing more than old village folklore—strange traditions meant to keep outsiders in check. Superstition. That had to be it.

I sat at the kitchen table, the pamphlet spread before me, its edges curling from years of handling. The words stared back at me, each rule bolder than the last.

Lock your doors after dusk. No exceptions.

I huffed, leaning back in the rickety chair. "Really selling the ghost island vibe, aren't you?" I muttered to no one.

I had spent most of the afternoon clearing out dust and cobwebs, opening the windows to let in the sharp sea air, though the mist never truly lifted. The hydrangeas outside swayed gently in the breeze, their ghostly blue petals a constant reminder of my mother. It was the only thing that gave the place any warmth.

But now, as the last light drained from the sky, something felt… off.

I stood and went to the front door, locking it more out of obligation than belief. The metal bolt scraped loudly into place. "Happy now, Jiro?" I said aloud, recalling the mayor's warning.

Yet, as soon as the bolt clicked, the darkness outside deepened. It wasn't just the natural dark that followed sunset—it was heavier, thicker, like ink spilling over the island. I went to the window, but even the hydrangeas had vanished into the void beyond the glass.

The stillness pressed in from all sides.

Just my imagination. It's an old house on a creepy island, of course it feels weird.

To distract myself, I heated a cup of instant ramen on the rusty stovetop, the faint hiss of the burner the only sound in the house. I ate in silence, each slurp echoing louder than it should have. The clock above the fireplace, long since broken, still read 4:17, its hands frozen in time.

I should've brought a radio or something.

I washed the bowl in the sink, my thoughts drifting. I remembered how my mother would make real ramen from scratch on cold evenings, her laughter filling the kitchen. She had a way of turning even simple things into moments that mattered.

"Stop," I whispered to myself, shaking the memory away.

Hours passed in that thick silence. I tried reading one of the dusty books I'd found on the shelf—an old collection of Japanese ghost stories—but my eyes kept darting to the windows, to the creeping darkness outside.

And then it happened.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

I froze.

The knocks were soft. Polite. Rhythmic. As if whoever was outside wasn't trying to break in—but waiting to be invited.

A nervous laugh bubbled up in my throat. "Really? Someone's actually doing this?"

But then I heard it.

"Haruto…"

My heart clenched.

The voice was soft, warm—so familiar it hurt. My mother's voice.

"Haruto, it's cold outside… let me in."

It was her. Without a doubt. The exact tone she used when calling me in from the garden as a kid, when I stayed out too long in the autumn air.

I stood there, hands trembling, my legs refusing to move. Part of me wanted to run to the door, throw it open, and fall into her arms. But something wasn't right.

Her voice—it was too perfect. Every word was smooth, without the slight Kansai accent she'd always carried, especially when she was emotional or tired. It was missing the imperfections that made her real.

I swallowed hard, my throat dry.

"Who… who are you?" I managed, my voice cracking.

Silence.

Then, softer—closer—"Haruto, please. It's so cold. Let me in."

The doorknob rattled gently, as if someone was testing it.

I backed away, my heart pounding against my ribs. Every instinct screamed at me to run, but there was nowhere to go. I remembered the pamphlet's words—If you hear knocking, do not answer.

I inched toward the peephole, the old wood creaking beneath my feet. My hands shook as I brought my eye to the tiny glass circle.

At first, I saw nothing but the heavy darkness. Then, as my vision adjusted, a shape emerged—a blurred silhouette, tall and thin, standing just beyond the door. I couldn't make out any features, but it was unmistakably human.

"Haruto…" The voice came again, softer now, but still too smooth, too perfect.

I stepped back from the door, breathing hard.

It's not her. It can't be her.

I stumbled to the fireplace and grabbed a rusted poker from its stand, gripping it tight with sweaty hands. The knocks had stopped, but I could feel something still standing out there, waiting.

Minutes passed. Or maybe it was longer—I lost track of time.

Eventually, I heard soft footsteps retreating down the path, fading into the thick mist.

I didn't move until the first gray light of dawn began to seep through the cracks in the windows, lifting the unnatural darkness.

Only then did I unlock the door and slowly open it.

The hydrangeas swayed gently in the morning breeze, their petals glistening with dew. But at my doorstep, just in front of the threshold, was a small object.

A delicate blue scarf, identical to the one my mother had worn the night of the accident, folded neatly on the ground.

I slammed the door shut and locked it again.