The Cursed Isle of Echoes

The island's mist felt heavier that morning, curling low around my ankles as I followed the narrow stone path toward the far end of Yurei-jima. Kaito's warning echoed in my mind—"This island… it remembers."

I needed answers.

After finding Akira's diary, I couldn't shake the image of him scribbling those final words, blood staining the paper. I had to know more about what had happened to him—about what was happening to me.

That's when I remembered Kaito mentioning someone—"If you really want to know the island's story, talk to Fumiko. She's older than the damn cliffs."

It wasn't exactly a warm recommendation, but I didn't have many options.

Ms. Fumiko's house sat at the edge of the village, perched on a rocky hill that overlooked the sea. It was a crooked, weathered structure, its wooden beams twisted by decades of salt and wind. Wild hydrangeas climbed up the side of the house, their petals dull and wilted.

I hesitated at the front gate, feeling the strange pull of the place, before knocking gently on the worn wooden door.

After a few moments, it creaked open, revealing a small, hunched woman with thin, silver hair pulled back into a tight bun. Her face was deeply lined, her sharp eyes peering at me as if reading my entire life in a glance.

"You're the new boy," she said, her voice surprisingly strong for someone her age.

"Haruto," I offered, bowing slightly.

She sniffed. "I know who you are. The spirits are already following you."

A chill passed through me.

"Come in, then," she muttered, turning away. "You wouldn't be here if you didn't have questions."

I stepped inside, the house filled with the scent of old wood and green tea. Dried herbs hung from the beams, swaying gently in the sea breeze that slipped through the cracked windows.

Fumiko shuffled into a small sitting room and gestured for me to sit at a low table already set with two steaming cups of tea.

We sat in silence for a moment, the only sound the faint creaking of the house.

Finally, she spoke. "You heard someone, didn't you? Someone you lost."

I hesitated but nodded. There was no point in lying. "My mother."

She closed her eyes, exhaling softly. "They always use the ones we can't let go of."

Her words sent a cold knot twisting in my chest.

"Who are they?" I asked. "What are those things?"

Fumiko sipped her tea, her hands steady despite her age. "They weren't always here. The curse came later. It started with a woman."

I leaned in, my pulse quickening.

"She lived here long ago," Fumiko continued. "Her husband was a fisherman. One night, he went out during a storm, despite the warnings. He never came back."

She paused, staring into her tea as if she could still see the story unfolding.

"Grief does strange things to people," she murmured. "that women was desperate. She went down to the cliffs, where the sea meets the rocks, and prayed to the spirits beneath the waves. She begged them to bring her husband back."

I swallowed hard. "And they answered her?"

Fumiko's mouth twisted into something between a frown and a grimace. "In a way. The sea spirits are cruel. They didn't bring her husband back—not as he was. They sent something else."

The air in the room seemed to grow colder.

"Something that looked like him, spoke like him, even remembered their life together. But it wasn't him. It was hollow inside. Empty."

I shivered. The memory of my mother's too-perfect voice echoed in my mind.

"What did she do?" I asked.

"She let him in," Fumiko said softly. "Of course she did. She was too blinded by grief. But as the days passed, she realized what she'd done. The creature grew restless, its mimicry faltering. And then it wasn't just her husband anymore—it was others. Faces from the village, voices that shouldn't exist."

I clenched my hands around the warm cup, trying to keep my breathing steady.

"That's when the curse took hold," Fumiko finished. "The spirits spread through the island, taking forms of the dead, calling to the living."

"Why?" I asked. "Why do they do it?"

Her sharp eyes met mine. "Because they grow stronger the more we acknowledge them. Every time you hear the knock, every time you listen, they feed on that attention. The moment you start believing… that's when they have you."

I thought of Akira's diary—the way his entries had grown more frantic, more desperate. The way he had given in.

"Is there any way to stop them?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

Fumiko hesitated, the weight of decades settling into her shoulders. "Most people just survive as long as they can. Follow the rules. Lock the doors after dusk. Don't answer. Don't speak to them. And never—"

She broke off, her jaw tightening.

"Never what?" I pressed.

Her gaze darkened. "Never leave them offerings. It invites them closer. Makes them stronger."

I remembered Kaito's warning—"Don't leave offerings."

"Have… have people done that before?" I asked.

Fumiko's silence was answer enough.

The room felt heavier now, the air thick with unsaid truths. I sipped my tea, its warmth doing little to ease the cold settling deep in my chest.

"I shouldn't have come here," I muttered, more to myself than to her.

"No," Fumiko agreed, her voice gentler this time. "But you're here now. And the island… it doesn't let go easily."

I stood, bowing politely, though my hands still trembled. "Thank you. For telling me."

"Be careful, Haruto," she said as I reached the door. "The more you think about them, the louder they'll knock."

Her words followed me out into the mist, where the island waited—silent, but listening.